Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

table, that I had bought a month previously at a sale, for my watch. It was 11 a.m. About twelve hours since Mac and I had stumbled into that horrid affair; plenty of time before I need shower and dress before lunch. I had missed breakfast altogether. I kicked off the sheet that I had used through the night as a protection against mosquitoes, and hunted for some fruit. Chewing an apple, I lay back on my pillows to reflect.

      The day was promising to be another scorcher, and mentally I selected the frock I would wear. Then my eyes roamed around the little north room which I had made my home in the city. The green linoleum on the floor belonged of course to Mrs. Bates, my landlady, but the couple of sheep-skin rugs came from my home in Keramgatta. One was at the side of my divan bed, the other in front of a chest of drawers, both pieces of furniture being made in some uninteresting hardwood. My eyes dwelled appreciatively on the folk-weave curtains, striped in green and white, that I had bought and made up myself; presently the bed on which I lay would be disguised with a cover of the same material. The walls had been covered with some hideous wallpaper. This, with Mrs. Bates’ reluctant permission, I had stripped off only to disclose stained plaster. The marks were minimized by tinting the walls a faint pink and a cunning arrangement of furniture. I had put a very bad water-colour of the old homestead into a rather good frame, so that it had a blended effect on the observer. This hung opposite the flattering, pink-tinted mirror that Mac had given me. For this room and three meals a day, I paid a substantial amount from my fortnightly pay envelope. But I was comfortable enough, and my fellow boarders did not worry me.

      Only Mrs. Bates, a follower of some obscure religion, ever pryed into my private affairs. To do her justice, I think that she considered herself responsible for the ignorant country girl whom she had occupying a front room on the first floor of her boarding-house. I had heard her light switch on and the bed creak as I crept past her door the previous night. I fully expected a visit from her to learn why I was so late, so I was not surprised when a tap synchronized with my thoughts.

      “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.”