Murder in the Telephone Exchange (9 page)

“Come in,” I called, pulling the sheet over my pink silk pyjamas. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Bates. When I first set eyes on my landlady I had the impression she was too unreal to exist. She was more a product of the imagination; the type of character Dickens would have created and revelled in. She was fairly tall, clad always from head to bunion-swollen feet in respectable black, with a surprisingly enormous bosom pushed high to her chin by old-fashioned corsets. Her face was long and narrow, and there was something wrong with her tear-ducts. She was compelled to wipe her pale blue eyes continually. It gave her the appearance of a mastiff dog, which was rather apt. According to the saga she had told me in serial form over a space of months, she had had a dog's life. This canine career included a drunkard of a husband, who, having deserted her many years previously, turned up frequently demanding money. I often heard Mrs. Bates haranguing him when I was hanging stockings over my window-sill to dry. Her Billingsgate, or perhaps I should say Fitzroy language, to make it more local, must have been totally at variance with the weird religious creed to which she was always trying to convert me.

In addition to the affliction of her eyes, she had had an operation for goitre, which had in some way impaired her windpipe. This caused her to wheeze every few words she spoke. It held Clark fascinated the first time he met her. She carefully inspected all the men whom her young ladies, as she called us, brought to the house, and later issued gloomy warnings as to the general infidelity and unsteadiness of the male sex. Clark had had a
bad start. He was too good-looking to be trusted at all, though I had seen Mrs. Bates relax a little under his infectious smile.

“Good morning, Miss Byrne,” she said, as usual omitting the “s” from my surname and thus rendering it completely insignificant. I could see that I was in for a bad time, and tried to brazen it out.

“Hullo, Mrs. Bates,” I said brightly. “Have you come for your rent? I don't get paid until tomorrow, you know.”

She hated any direct allusion to money, and disliked the word rent. When I did pay my board, she would write out a receipt quickly and hand it to me, so as to forget the disagreeable occurrence immediately. I often wondered what would happen if I didn't see her each fortnight in my honest way.

“There are two letters for you,” she said, putting them on my table and ignoring my question. “The telephone has been ringing all the morning. I said that I wouldn't disturb you, as you were so late last night.”

“Here it comes,” I thought, before saying aloud: “Yes, I was rather late, wasn't I? Sorry if I awoke you.”

Mrs. Bates was one of those people who say that they hear the clock strike every hour. I pondered as to the best way to attack her. I was feeling physically at a disadvantage lying in bed lightly clothed, while she was standing on one of my sheepskin rugs, thickly upholstered. Presently she came to my assistance.

“Here is the morning paper,” she said, handing it to me folded.

“Are you sure that you've finished with it?” I asked, not attempting to open it. “Any special news?”

“You'd better read and see,” she said grimly.

I spread the front page on the bed, hoisting myself to a sitting position. The first thing that struck my eye was a photograph of myself. One in profile taken at the boards some weeks ago for publicity purposes; not this type of publicity, however. I didn't bother to read the caption below, but grinned up at Mrs. Bates.

“Not bad, is it?” I asked, surveying the picture again with my head on one side. “It makes my nose look rather long, don't you think?”

Mrs. Bates wheezed several times in a visible effort to control her indignant curiosity. “Miss Byrne,” she demanded, pointing a trembling finger at the paper, “what is the meaning of all this?”

I leaned back on my pillows again and closed my eyes.

“It means, dear Mrs. Bates, that you are harbouring in your respectable house a suspect of murder.”

Her wheezing was so loud that I opened one eye anxiously. Her pale blue eyes were filling and being emptied in such rapid succession that
unkindly I wanted to laugh. She was as curious as a cat and was trying not to appear so.

“Is that why that man has been ringing all the morning?” she asked.

“What man?”

“Sergeant someone or other from Russell Street. But I told him that you were still asleep.”

I sat up with a jolt and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Mrs. Bates transferred her gaze to my solitary picture.

“What did he want? And why didn't you get me up? Where's my dressing-gown?”

Mrs. Bates got it from a hook, and held it out in front of her face.

“Thanks,” I said, slipping it on and tying the girdle. “All right, Mrs. Bates, I'm modest now. What did Sergeant Matheson want?”

She sniffed audibly. “He said that he'd call back, and he did again and again until I said you'd let him know when you were up.”

I made for the door. “I'd better ring him at once. It may have been important.”

Mrs. Bates moved after me, wiping her eyes again. “Get dressed first, please, Miss Byrne. I can't have one of my young ladies walking down the hall in night attire.”

“Don't talk rot,” I said irritably. “There is no one around at this hour, and what does it matter? We are all females here, worse luck!” I dashed along the hall and slid down the banisters under Mrs. Bates's mortified gaze.

“Russell Street—Russell Street,” I muttered as I ran. “I should know that number. What the devil is it? Do you know the number of the police station?” I called to Mrs. Bates, as she came down the stairs after me.

“I've never had any dealings with the police, so I can't tell you,” she returned virtuously.

“Never mind, Mrs. Bates, dear,” I grinned from the telephone book. “I'll tell you all about it in a minute. Just be patient.”

I dialled quickly, and sat down on the edge of a table. Mrs. Bates passed to close the front door, not because of any draught that might be blowing, but in case anyone should pass and see me in pyjamas.

I got on to Sergeant Matheson without any difficulty; it seemed as if he were waiting for me. He sounded as ill-at-ease as he appeared the previous night, so much so that I was glad television was still considered impracticable.

“What's the matter?” I asked quickly. “Anything new?”

“Only routine stuff, Miss Byrnes. I rang to ask you to be at the Exchange at 2 p.m. this afternoon.”

“Is that all?” I said in disgust. “Do you realize that you've got me out of bed?”

He gave an embarrassed murmur.

“My landlady is just as scandalized,” I assured him. “What do you want of me at 2 p.m.?”

“Inspector Coleman wants to ask a few questions.”

“What, more?” I interrupted.

“Can you get hold of Miss MacIntyre. We want her, too.”

“She's coming to lunch with me. We'll arrive together. Is that all you want?”

“Yes, I think so. Er—how are you?”

“Pretty fit, thanks.”

“Did you take those aspirins?”

“They worked like a charm,” I answered mendaciously, not wishing to disillusion him. “Do you mind if I go now? I must get dressed, or Mrs. Bates will be fainting with outraged modesty.” I thought I heard him laugh softly, and wondered if his eyes were twinkling as they had the night before. He was quite a lamb, but of course not in the same street as Clark.

“Very well, Miss Byrnes. We will see you and Miss MacIntyre this afternoon.”

“We'll be there,” I promised, and hung up the receiver. I started up the stairs, but paused halfway to say over the banisters: “By the way, Mrs. Bates, will it be all right for Miss MacIntyre to come to lunch?”

“I suppose so,” answered my landlady in a grudging tone. “Did you find your number?”

“Yes, thank you. Sergeant Matheson wants Mac and me to be at the Exchange at 2 p.m. for further questioning.”

She digested the information in silence and then asked suddenly: “What exactly happened last night?”

“Last night,” I answered softly, “a very inquisitive, prying old woman was found dead with her face bashed in. A very nasty sight! If you want to know more, read the papers again. They always seem to know everything.”

Mrs. Bates looked offended. “I'm not being merely curious, but I have the tone of my house to think of.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Bates, they won't arrest me. I've got a watertight alibi.”

“I wouldn't dream of thinking that you committed such a dreadful crime,” she said indignantly. “You are one of the quietest young ladies that I have ever had.”

“Thank you,” I replied dryly, thinking how uninteresting I must be. “Were there any other 'phone messages?”

“Mr. Clarkson rang,” she said, looking very sour. “I believe that it was he who brought you home at such an unearthly hour.”

“You asked him, I bet,” I accused her, grinning.

“Well, what if I did? If you only knew how I lie awake at night worrying, when you girls are out with young men.”

“Who else rang?” I cut in with impatience.

“Miss Patterson, and it isn't often that I run down one of my own sex, but that girl is an out and out liar.”

“I find her most entertaining. There is no need to tell me what she wanted. I can guess.”

“What did she want?” asked Mrs. Bates immediately.

“Didn't you ask her?” I inquired in mock surprise. “I imagine that she wanted to hear all the gruesome details, much the same as you do.”

Mrs. Bates ignored this. “She says that she is coming to lunch.”

“What!” I shrieked. “Who said she was? I haven't invited her. Well, if she comes, she'll have to pay for herself, for I'm damned if I will. The nerve of the wench! She knows I detest her.”

“Please, Miss Byrne,” said my landlady, looking up at me with earnest eyes. “You must not hate anyone. It should be all love and truth between souls.”

“Not between Gloria's and mine. Anyway, you just called her a liar yourself.”

“Then I did a great wrong. Miss Patterson probably has her good points.”

“Don't talk such rubbish,” I said irritably, continuing on my way. “If Miss MacIntyre comes, send her up to my room.”

I took a hot shower and then a cold one, but they were much of a muchness. The sun had been beating down on the water pipes all the morning. Back in my bedroom I began to tidy things up, clad only in a slip, when Mac walked in. Her face gave me what Mrs. Bates would have termed a “nasty turn.” It was ghastly, so white that it seemed almost blue as though with the cold, which was impossible that hot morning. Her brown eyes, which did not meet mine, were heavily ringed, and there was a line between her delicate brows that I had never noticed before.

“Well!” I said slowly, tucking in the bedclothes. “It doesn't look as though Clark's medicine did you any good.”

“I slept on and off,” she shrugged indifferently. “Want some help?”

“Yes, round the other side, and toss over the bedcover,” I replied, following her lead. Whatever Mac had on her mind, she most obviously did not wish me to know. I felt hurt, of course, but what were friends for if they didn't respect each other's moods?

“Inspector Coleman wants us at the Exchange at 2 p.m.,” I remarked presently, and saw those small hands pause a second in their smoothing of my folk-weave spread.

“Oh?” said Mac casually. “What for, do you know?”

“More questions,” I answered, trying to observe her surreptitiously. She turned aside to dust my chest of drawers.

“What is it like out?” I asked, as Mac for no reason at all inspected an absurd dog that I had won at a charity fair in the city.

“Hot as hell!”

“No stockings,” I decided. “Do you think that I'll pass all the old diehards?”

“I'm not wearing them. Anyway, the only one who objected to bare legs was—”

“Sarah Compton,” I supplied gently. There was silence.

“Mac,” I said pleadingly, but she did not look around. The silver pin-tray that she was dusting fell to the floor.

“Blast! Sorry, Maggie, I've scratched the wood.”

“Doesn't matter,” I replied mechanically, bending with her to retrieve the tray. Our heads bumped.

“Out of my way,” I commanded flippantly. At last her eyes met mine. Kneeling there on the floor I caught hold of her shoulders.

“Mac, you silly, silly fool,” I said, shaking her gently. “What is the matter?” I looked deep into her eyes and thought that I could read fear. But they seemed so full of misery that I wondered if I had been mistaken. She shook her head without speaking.

“All right,” I said, getting up, “if you won't tell me, won't you at least let Clark try to help you. He is a very nice person, Mac.” As I thought back on the previous night, I wondered if it were possible that she was jealous.