Murder in the Telephone Exchange (60 page)

“He may even have planned to kill her earlier, but Miss Compton had made an appointment to meet Mr. Scott in the observation-room for the purpose of showing him the docket. He decided to leave it until such time when Mr. Scott was either in or near the building. Before Compton kept that appointment she made a shrewd move by duplicating the docket and filing it. Whether she knew that her life was in danger or not, I don't know. I cannot help but be thankful that she did duplicate it. In order to make the docket appear as normal as possible, she even filled in the operator's signature, choosing by some extraordinary chance your own number. Perhaps she had it in mind, as she had just been querying a call with you. Then she took the original down to show Mr. Scott. He knew at once the significance it held, but he didn't want the fact that espionage was going on in the Exchange spread around the building. He merely pooh-poohed Miss Compton's suggestions as to its meaning, and told her to forget all about it. She was a little disappointed by his lack of interest, and made no mention of the duplicate she had filed. In fact, it was very lucky that Miss MacIntyre, not realizing the importance, told Inspector Coleman about it.”

“Was that why Mac was killed?” I asked hesitantly.

“One of the reasons. But I think what really signed her death warrant was the fact that she could break Clark's alibi.”

I leaned forward eagerly. “That is what I can't understand. The three of us had cast-iron alibis. How could he murder Compton in the restroom, and yet be in the trunkroom at the same time?”

“Mr. Clarkson had his plans timed down to the last possible minute. The first thing he had to do was to get the door of the restroom unlocked. This was accomplished by placing the key where Miss Compton could find it. He probably put it in her handbag some time during the course of the evening. This acted as a further bait. When she saw the strange key, her first impulse would be to find out if it was the one missing from the restroom door. Having once opened the restroom, the sight of two
buttinskys lying side by side in a conspicuous place would hold her there until such time as Mr. Clarkson could slip out, unobserved by you and Miss MacIntyre. You yourself told us that a busy telephonist has neither the time nor the inclination to watch what others are doing. He was very lucky, of course, as things went according to his plan. First of all, Miss Compton found the key and went to satisfy her curiosity; secondly, the lines were exceptionally busy that night.”

“Did Mac see him leave the room?”

“She didn't actually see, but she heard the noise of the back door opening near her position. At the time she didn't bother to look up, but later when she heard Clarkson say that he had been in the trunkroom the whole night, she began to grow suspicious.”

“So that was why she behaved in such a peculiar fashion. Why didn't she tell the police if she knew Clark had no alibi after all?”

Sergeant Matheson looked at me oddly. “She was in love with him.”

“But a murderer!” I exclaimed. “In her position, I would have told you quickly enough.”

“I am relieved to hear you say that,” he said with a faint smile. “It gives me proof.”

“What proof?” I asked, puzzled. He shook his head, still smiling.

“I still can't understand it,” I went on. “Thinking back, I can remember the telephone ringing on the Senior Traffic Officer's table. It stopped after a while. I presumed that Clark had answered it.”

“He had hoped that one of you would notice that 'phone. That was part of his alibi. After he had killed Miss Compton and taken the docket recording Mr. Atkinson's call from her handbag, he rang the Senior Traffic Officer's number on the restroom 'phone for a few seconds and then hung up. He left both buttinskys hidden in the restroom, and went quickly back to the trunkroom.”

I nodded. “He helped me with the switching. When I saw him at the other end of the boards, I merely thought that he had been too busy before. Clever!”

“But for Miss MacIntyre's ears being too sharp, he would have succeeded in getting away with it. Incidentally, that was another matter that helped us to get on to his tracks. Inspector Coleman observed that the majority of telephonists, Miss MacIntyre included, wear their headset on the left ear. That meant that her uncovered ear was nearer the door.”

“It's a pity he didn't choose the front door,” I remarked. “I doubt if I would have noticed his exit.”

“There was no chance of anyone seeing him on the back stairs. Although, as a matter of fact, someone did. Gloria Patterson mentioned something
about a masked and hooded figure stealing along the corridor, but she had plunged herself so deeply into a maze of mendacious statements that we took no notice. We thought it was only a cover for herself.”

“Masked and hooded!” I snorted.

Sergeant Matheson laughed. “It wasn't an exact description perhaps, but Clarkson probably did make some effort to disguise himself.”

I was inclined to be derisive until the Sergeant interrupted me quietly. “Mr. Clarkson carried a light raincoat over his arm as he was leaving that night. Do you remember it?”

“Certainly. He shared the opinion of many that the wind might change and that it would rain. Nearly everyone arms themselves with a coat of some description when that north wind starts to blow. I have often come to work dressed for the summer. By the time I have finished, it is like the middle of winter.”

Sergeant Matheson spoke in an off-hand manner. “The Weather Bureau issued a warning that we might expect a heat-wave that very morning. No, Miss Byrnes. When Mr. Clarkson decided to bring a raincoat with him, I think he had two other reasons in mind. Firstly, to use as a possible disguise; don't forget that the corridor is very dimly lit at night. The appearance of someone draped in any sort of covering from the head to the knee would present a very sinister picture to a vivid imagination, such as Miss Patterson possesses. The second reason, and probably the primary one, is that Mr. Clarkson needed something in which to carry the bloodstained buttinsky away with him. What could be better than the deep pocket of a waterproof coat?

“What he did, once he got rid of Miss MacIntyre, who went downstairs to ring Russell Street, was to remove both buttinskys from their temporary hiding-place. The one that he had used for the actual murder—that is the one that you saw him holding earlier that evening—he put into his coat pocket. The other he threw out the window, after running the tap over it in the lunch-room opposite, in order to give the impression that we leaped at so readily; namely, that the murderer had endeavoured to wash away the bloodstains before hiding it in the dump-heap. These things would only take a few seconds to accomplish. Again luck was with him, inasmuch as you collapsed. He could hardly have sent the two of you to call the police.”

“He must have felt rather terrible when you started questioning,” I murmured, forever putting myself in the other fellow's place. “It's a wonder that he stood the strain of pretence for so long. Afterwards, he took us home to his flat for a dose, as he called it.”

The Sergeant's voice was grim. “He had an object in doing so. He
wanted to find out how much you and Miss MacIntyre knew.”

“Mac showed her hand immediately. She never could deceive anyone. At the time I thought she was only worried about her own position in the case. It's a wonder Clark didn't kill her before Saturday.”

“He was planning to, but two things stopped him. He knew Miss MacIntyre's feelings for him, and tried to persuade her to join him in his enterprises. Either he didn't want the risk of another murder on his hands, or he was soft-hearted where she was concerned. Then Dulcie Gordon committed suicide, and he felt more or less safe. You were the main trouble. You insisted that the police decision was incorrect and started the ball rolling again.”

“He wasn't much of an actor either,” I remarked thoughtfully. “I could tell he didn't believe that Gordon was guilty. No wonder that he tried to dissuade me from continuing my inquiries! I never dreamed he was the murderer. Rather I favoured Bertie or Gloria. No, not Gloria; but I thought she knew more than she would admit.”

“Miss Patterson believed that Mrs. Smith had killed Compton,” declared the Sergeant. “That is why she fainted when you told her that the identity of the anonymous letter-writer and the killer was one and the same.”

“I didn't say that exactly,” I protested.

“That is the impression she received,” he replied dryly. “She came to see me yesterday, wanting to know if she could sue you for making such a libellous statement.”

I sat up with a jerk. “I hope you told her to go to hell.”

“No,” he replied, smiling faintly. “I said that she required the services of a solicitor, not a policeman. But you needn't worry. No sane man would accept such a case, especially from such a client as she would be.”

I sank back, muttering darkly about what I'd do to her when I got my hands on her. They were brave words, but when Gloria did come to see me a few days later, I felt that the effort to impress her misdoings on her was more than I could manage. She arrived dressed in baby blue and flashing a deep sapphire on her left hand, which I ignored out of sheer unpleasantness. She remarked with wide-eyed innocence on the nature of the place.

“Poor Maggie! How terrible it must be for you. I mean, realizing where you are.”

“Not at all,” I assured her. “It's just like being at the Exchange again. A veritable home from home. Do you know, Gloria,” I went on confidentially, “that there is even a patient here who reminds me of you. What more could I want?”

“Very funny!” she said on a high note. “I'm sorry I came now.”

“Don't say that, Gloria,” I said reproachfully. “I'm always delighted to
see you. To whom are you waving all the time?” Her left hand fluttered down to her lap.

“I'm engaged,” she said crossly.

“Are you really? Who's the unlucky—I mean, my heartiest congratulations.”

Gloria gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “You should say best wishes,” she corrected. “It's not the thing to congratulate the girl.”

“Sorry. You must excuse my ignorance in such matters. To whom are you engaged?”

“The American I told you about. He comes from Virginia. His people are immensely wealthy. They own tobacco or something,” and she went into a score of details. I listened to them with only half an ear.

“Auntie pleased?” I interrupted presently, watching her closely. She paused open-mouthed in the middle of a description of her proposed trousseau.

“She hasn't met him yet,” she muttered, without looking at me.

There was silence. She began to fiddle with the blue leather handbag on her knee. Once she glanced up as if to speak, but lowered her head as she searched for a powder compact. I gave her no help.

“Maggie,” she burst out suddenly.

“Yes, Gloria?”

“You won't tell anyone, will you?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don't know what I would do if Schuyler found out.”

“Is that his name?” I asked in astonishment. “His people must be rich indeed to be able to afford to call their son that. The poor boy!”

“Oh, Maggie!” Gloria said, between a sob and a laugh. It was the first evidence I had found of a sense of humour in Gloria.

It moved me to say impulsively: “You needn't worry. I'll never tell anyone that you're a—”

“Maggie!” she interrupted, looking deeply shocked.

“Well, aren't you?” I asked reasonably. She bent her head into her hands. I welcomed the appearance of a nurse to put an end to visiting hours. Gloria bade me a tearful farewell, and I shook her hand, hoping that she would be very happy with Schuyler. She seemed satisfied then that I would hold my tongue.

* * * * *

The following day I had another visitor from the Exchange. John Matheson had already got me started on what he said was the true story of the Trunk Exchange murders, and I glanced up, annoyed at being
interrupted, as the nurse entered my room.

“Still at the letter writing?” she asked brightly. “You must have loads of friends.”

“I am a very popular girl,” I assured her.

“You must be;” she returned, giving me a sharp look. “A Mr. Scott has come to see you. He is waiting on the side veranda.”

I went down to meet Bertie, filled with what can only be described as mixed feelings. Here was a man for whom I had had nothing but the highest regard. Then something happened that aroused my dislike, and my opinion of him had dropped to nil. But it had been my own fault. I had confused his business personality with his private life. I considered that as an ordinary man, his code would be as rigid as his behaviour as Senior Traffic Officer of the Telephone Exchange. Then I learned that Bertie was none of the despicable things I had thought about him. Indeed, he had sacrificed the respect of his fellow men for a deeper and more worthy motive. That he had recognized my sudden distrust, I was certain. Therefore it was with some trepidation that I made my way to the side veranda.

He was sitting on the extreme edge of a deck chair. It was remarkable that it did not overbalance as his feet did their perpetual dance-step. Seeing him twist his hat around and around in his hands, I realized with some relief that he was just as nervous. His lips moved slightly, as though he was rehearsing his part in the forthcoming interview.