Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

wouldn’t deceive a baby.’ I lent only half an ear to her story about Mrs. Bates and the salad she said she was ‘throwing together’ for our lunch. I ran a comb through my hair, and hunted in a drawer for lipstick.

      “By the way,” I cut in. “I have another guest arriving, but not at my invitation. Our cherished friend, Gloria.”

      “Patterson?” repeated Mac in genuine amazement. “What on earth does she want?”

      “I seem to have answered that question before,” I said with difficulty as I was concentrating on my lips. “I suppose she wants to be in on the news. I bet she was wild when she saw my picture in this morning’s paper.”

      It did my heart good to hear Mac’s laugh. “Don’t be too hard on her, Maggie.”

      “She’s a little fool,” I said, shutting all the drawers that I had delved into, “with no brain above clothes and boy-friends.”

      “Both of which are most necessary.”

      “I don’t agree,” I declared firmly. “Look at Mrs. Bates. Not a male around the place, and the same old black garment year in and year out. A worthy example to all.”

      Mac laughed again, and I made a mental vow to pursue this banal conversation to its utmost.

      “Maggie, you do talk the most utter rot. Come and see what she has got for lunch. When I last saw her she was chopping lettuce and singing the most awful songs.”

      “Those are hymns,” I corrected, opening the door, “all based on truth and love. She even loves Gloria.”

      “She must be mad,” said Mac frankly.

      We walked down the hall to the stairs.

      “Is that you, Maggie?” called a voice from the lower hall.

      “Oh, lord!” I said softly, as we went down. “She is here already. Hullo, Gloria, to what do I owe this honour?”

      To my horror, Patterson started to weep. Her round babyish face broke up in typical fashion: mouth awry and tears pouring out of wide open eyes. I threw Mac a resigned look, and tried to speak kindly.

      “What’s the matter? Do you feel sick?”

      She continued to sob, but burst out presently: “Oh, Maggie, I’m so scared.”

      It sounded like an act. I raised one eyebrow at Mac who shook her head gently. As I considered Mac a shrewd judge of Gloria’s emotional performances, I inquired in what I thought was a sympathetic but firm voice: “What are you scared about? And why come and tell me about it?”

      “I thought that you’d be able to help,” she sniffed, lifting her head. “You are always so—so sensible.”

      What a vile epithet! First Mrs. Bates practically informed me that I was like a cow in a paddock, and now I was sensible!

      “You speak as if I wear skirts six inches below the knee. Come on now, what’s the matter?” I asked briskly.

      Gloria looked around her, throwing Mac a rather watery smile. “Do you think,” she whispered, “that we could go some place where we can’t be overheard?”

      “There’s only Mrs. Bates in the kitchen,” I said impatiently.

      Everyone else is at work. But we can go into the lounge-room.”

      I led the way down the hall to the first door on the right.

      “Now,” I said, as we seated ourselves on Mrs. Bates’s fat leather settee. Gloria looked at me earnestly.

      “Will you swear that you won’t tell anyone about what I’m going to say? You too, Gerda?”

      Mac nodded, but I said with caution: “That all depends on what it is.”

      Gloria became very agitated. “Oh, very well,” I agreed, “I swear.”

      Gloria settled herself comfortably. She seemed quite happy now that she had our attention. I thought grimly of all the things that I would do to her if this was just an act.

      “You remember last night,” she began.

      “Will I ever forget,” I declared, closing my eyes.

      “Maggie, please listen. I don’t mean the—the murder, or rather I do, really.”

      “Just what do you mean?” I asked. “Now take a deep breath, and start at the beginning, but don’t take too long. I want my lunch; which reminds me, I hope you realize that the cost of yours is not going on my bill.”

      “Of course I do,” she said indignantly. “Let me tell you that I cancelled an engagement to have lunch at Menzies’ to come and see you.”

      “I have already said that I was honoured. Get on with your story, and see that it’s a good one.”

      “Maggie,” she said, raising one hand solemnly, “I swear that everything I’m going to say is the truth.” I forbore any comment in the hope that she would get to the point more quickly.

      “Last night,” she continued, “Compton abused me for being late back from relief, and said I was to work overtime. Do you remember?” I nodded briefly. “When 10.30 p.m. came, and all the girls on my rota went, I thought that I’d better stay just in case Compton saw me. So, by the time that I left the trunkroom, all the others had gone home. There was not a soul in the cloakroom, and the restroom door was still closed.”

      “Was it locked?” I asked quickly.

      “I didn’t try it. But there was an atmosphere in the cloakroom that I can’t describe. As you know, I am considered psychic, and I felt then that something was going to happen.”

      I heard Mac sigh, but frowned myself. Although I did not wish to couple my brain with Gloria’s, I had to admit to sharing that feeling all night.

      “What time was this?” I inquired.

      “It couldn’t have been much after 10.35 p.m. That was when I signed off.”

      “Yes, I noticed that. Go on.”

      “Did you?” asked Gloria, as if I had done something particularly bright. “Where was I? Oh yes, I was just getting my orchid out of my locker. That beast Compton, though I suppose I mustn’t say that now that she is dead, told me not to wear it at the boards. Then I heard someone coming down the passage. Who do you think it was?” She paused dramatically. Mac and I sighed together. Gloria was that type of person who, when she rang anyone, invariably asked: “Can you guess who is speaking?”

      “Well, who was it?”

      “Sarah Compton!”

      I sat up with a jolt and heard Mac’s quick indrawn breath.

      “Now look here, Gloria,” I said sternly. “You’re not making any of this up, are you?”

      She seemed so frightened that I believed she was in earnest. Sarah, alive at 10.35 p.m.! Mac, Mac, what was worrying you?

      “Continue,” I said, trying to be calm. She looked a little shamefaced.

      “I hid behind the lockers, and she came into the cloakroom.”

      “Why did you hide?” Mac asked. It was the first time she had spoken.

      “I didn’t want her to see me,” Gloria answered defiantly.

      “That,” I remarked, “is obvious. But why didn’t you want her to see you? You’d worked your overtime.”

      She remained silent, looking sullenly down at her hands. “Good Heavens! another mystery,” I thought.

      “All right, we’ll let that pass. What happened next?”

      “I stayed where I was. I thought that I’d slip out later when she had gone. But she didn’t go. She went into the restroom.”