Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

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.

      ‘Damn this thing they call love,’ I said to myself, ‘if it divides such good friends as Mac and I have been.’

      She jumped up quickly, trying to smile. “Don’t be so imaginative, Maggie. I’m tired, that’s all. I