Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

I cried, leaning over the driver’s seat. “I’ll get even with you for this, John Clarkson.”

      He put up one hand to pat my check. “Sorry, my sweet. But what else could I do? Besides you in a swoon, as you term it, Gerda was still yelling her head off, trying to explain what had happened.”

      “I was speaking quite clearly,” interrupted Mac, “but you were saying ‘what’ so many times that I thought you couldn’t hear me.”

      We were turning off the highway into South Yarra, as Clark spoke jerkily: “It was rather difficult to grasp the situation.”

      “You were great, John,” said Mac in a soft voice. “As soon as he saw Sarah was—what had happened, he pulled me out of the room and locked the door. By the way, you’ll be interested to know that the key was in the lock on the inside. John carried you into the sick-bay, while I went back to the trunkroom to ring the police. They arrived in less than no time. John had to deal with the situation alone, as I was being violently ill in the washroom.”

      “I’m glad that it affected you in some way, and that I wasn’t the only weak-kneed person.” We had drawn up outside a block of flats, and Clark said as he got out of the car: “I wasn’t so marvellous. I nearly followed Gerda’s example a couple of times. In fact I wish you’d shut up about it until I have that medicine.”

      I had been in Clark’s flat several times, but never by myself. That was one of the many things I liked about him; in spite of his air of a gay Lothario, he was, in the correct meaning of the word, a gentleman. The lounge room where Clark left us was furnished with a taste for which it was hard to give a man credit. A plain mulberry-coloured carpet covered the floor, and the misty chintz that hung in the windows matched the deep lounge chairs where Mac and I had seated ourselves. A rather lovely mahogany escritoire stood in one corner of the room diagonally opposite a low table with slender, curved legs. On the cream-textured walls were two or three charming water-colours depicting Australian bush scenes.

      Clark came back presently with a tray of long, frosted glasses. He put it down on the table by my chair, and took one to Mac.

      “Hold your nose, my pet, and swallow it down.”

      “What is in it?” I asked, peering into the amber depths. It tasted delicious, cold and fragrant.

      “That is a very guarded secret,” said Clark gaily. “Only through many years of careful experiment has this drink been discovered. It’s my own invention,” he added, White Knight fashion.

      Mac fished for the floating lemon ring, and started to suck it.

      “I can taste soda water.”

      “A very minor ingredient. How do you like it, Maggie?

      “It is delightful, but I’m very glad you’re taking us home,” I confessed. “I won’t trust my legs by the time I reach the bottom of this glass.”

      “You’ll be all right. Have a cigarette?”

      “That’ll put a few more minutes on to our stay. How I’ll get to work to-morrow, I don’t know. What say we drop out, Mac?” “Drop out” is another Exchange expression. Its obvious translation is to stay away from work on the excuse of illness.

      “I wouldn’t mind,” Mac agreed, “but what about John? In his responsible position, now that he knows our plans, he will be compelled by his conscience to report us.”

      “You wouldn’t give us away, Clark, would you?”

      “I’d send someone out to your boarding-house to see if you were faking,” he threatened.

      “Dirt mean!” said Mac. “Sarah Compton used to have that job.”

      “And didn’t she love it,” I cut in. “I’ll always remember the day she came to see me, prepared to be very triumphant, and ran into my doctor. It was the one bright moment of my illness.”

      “Hush!” said Mac, looking troubled. “Don’t forget that she is dead, Maggie.”

      “I don’t care,” I said defiantly. “She was an abominable woman; everyone thought so.”

      Clark sat down on the arm of my chair, and swung one leg.

      “All the same, sweetheart, I don’t think you’d better go around saying how much you hated her. People, including the friends we made to-night, might start thinking things.”

      “The police? You mean that they might suspect me of killing her?” I asked scornfully. He nodded through a cloud of cigarette smoke, watching Mac turn an empty glass in her small, nervous hands. “But that’s ridiculous! I told that Sergeant person that I didn’t hate her enough to kill her. Anyway, I’ve got an alibi. We all have for that matter. We were all in the trunkroom two floors away from the murder.”

      Mac got up to collect the glasses.

      “Did Sergeant say when it happened?” she asked over her shoulder.

      “Not exactly,” I said slowly, frowning. “As the night was so warm, they didn’t like to make a definite time. But what does that matter? We were working all the time, and Sarah was actually in the room at least until a quarter to ten. I can prove that with a docket of mine that she queried. You probably saw it, too, Mac. I sent it along to the sortagraph.”

      Mac gave a tiny laugh, though she seemed far from amused. I thought it held a note of embarrassment, perhaps fear.

      “Maggie,” she said gravely, “would you swear that I was in the room all the time until 11 p.m.?”

      I looked at her in complete astonishment. “I didn’t actually see you, but I presume that you were there all the time. Weren’t you?”

      She made a pretence of arranging the flowers in the low bowl on the window ledge. Her head was turned away from us. Clark was very quiet. I glanced at him uneasily and then at Mac’s straight, slim back.

      “What is all this nonsense?” I asked impatiently. “Did you go out of the room or didn’t you? What story have you told the police?”

      Clark got up leisurely and strolled over to her.

      “You are making yourself appear very mysterious, Gerda,” he said lightly. “There is a very simple explanation, which in no way impairs the alibi that Maggie has supplied so blithely.” He turned to me. “I let Gerda shut up the sortagraph at ten to ten, so that she could have a few minutes’ relief before taking over the country boards.”

      “Is that all?” I asked, relaxing in my chair. “Why have you been acting so strangely, Mac?”

      “I saw Sarah,” she said in a low voice.

      “You mean when she was dead?” I asked, feeling a trifle sick. “Before we found her?”

      She turned quickly. “No! Oh no, Maggie. You don’t think that I was pretending up there in the cloakroom?”

      “Hardly,” I lied, for the thought had occurred to me. “What do you mean, you saw Compton? When and where?”

      “Entering the lift just as I came out on relief.”

      “That must have been about eight minutes to ten,” said Clark swiftly. “Did she say anything to you? What floor was she going to?”

      Mac twisted her hands together, and swung around to face us. “I don’t know. She just glared at me. But she must have gone past the fourth floor because I remember glancing at the indicator before I went up the stairs.”

      “I wonder where she was off to?” Clark said thoughtfully. “There is only apparatus below the fourth floor.”

      “Observation,” I cried, inspired. They looked at me blankly for a minute. Then Clark slapped his knee with his hand.

      “Maggie, you’re a marvel!”

      “But observation closes at 9.45 p.m.,” argued Mac.