Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

of telephonists tripping up and down those few steps, passes in hand. By night, it is a gaunt, lonely place, situated on a hill away from the heart of the city. As we entered, I saw a summer-helmeted policeman sitting with our usual guard. I supposed that this was to be expected. I nudged Mac significantly as I fumbled for my pass. We walked by a group of Central girls who were talking together in the hall. They stopped to look at us curiously, and I noticed Mac’s chin lift a little. I gave them a brief nod as we went through the swing doors to the new building. The stuffy atmosphere of air-conditioning enveloped us. As we passed a block of apparatus, the continual click of the automatic feelers warned us that it must be after 2 p.m. and that afternoon work had commenced all over the city.

      Bill was on duty, so I entered the lift with but few qualms. He gave us his usual cheery greeting, perhaps a little kindlier than was his wont. I inquired mechanically after his vegetable garden.

      “Do you know where we can locate Inspector Coleman?” asked Mac, as Bill managed the lift dexterously with his one hand. We learned that the police had taken over the room next to the sick-bay to use as a temporary office. It was there that, some years previously, higher officials of the Department had sat mapping out operational instructions. In the opinion of the majority of telephonists, these instructions were all very well in theory, but put into practice with four lines buzzing on your board and a pile of dockets to break, were well-nigh impossible to obey.

      We were informed by a man in uniform outside the cloakroom that lockers and coat-racks had been moved to another room off the corridor. We retraced our steps to the telephonists’ classroom which had been fitted up as a temporary cloakroom. A quantity of telephone sets were neatly laid out in rows on a table. The powers that be must have authorized someone to go through the lockers with a duplicate key and remove them before the police closed up the rooms. A number stamped on each chest piece coincided with the numerical signature with which we signed dockets. But I recognized mine immediately by the small chip in the mouthpiece. Telephonists are very jealous of their sets. They become as attached and accustomed to them as a child to a doll. It is only with extreme reluctance that they are loaned, and any criticism by the borrower as to the quality of the telephone is strongly resented.

      I balanced my cartwheel hat on top of a dummy pedestal telephone and observed casually: “I hope that it won’t change to-night. I didn’t bring a coat.”

      I was slightly apprehensive about the forthcoming interview. There was Gloria’s semi-confidence that had fallen on my unwilling ears that morning. Not that it worried me overmuch. She could stew in her own juice for all I cared. But Mac’s tragic eyes troubled me. There seemed neither rhyme nor reason for her secretive manner. She appeared placid enough now, a small cool figure in a printed crepe dress with her dark hair brushed up from her temples against the heat. Together we went down to the sick-bay passage.

      The solemn-faced Roberts opened the door, and I heard a familiar voice say: “Here they are now.”

      It was Bertie Scott, the Senior Traffic Officer. Somehow his existence had gone out of my head completely, so that it came as a surprise when I saw him seated with Inspector Coleman and the Sergeant. His appearance was shocking. The gradual disintegration of his face and bearing that we had observed had risen to a climax. He looked an old man.

      “I suppose that you would like me to go now, Inspector,” he said, getting up slowly.

      “I’d rather that you stayed, Mr. Scott; that is, if your duties are not calling you urgently. There may be a few questions for you to answer in collaboration with these young ladies.”

      Sergeant Matheson placed chairs for Mac and me opposite the wide desk, from behind which the Inspector had half-risen when we entered. Then we all sat down together in a rush as though we were playing musical chairs.

      That little room was almost unbearably hot. The close atmosphere and the nervous anticipation that I was feeling made me perspire in a most unladylike fashion. I wiped the palms of my hands on my handkerchief and cast a covert glance at Mac who was sitting very straight. She still looked calm and cool, but I considered that her fine eyes were more than naturally alert and wary. Beyond Mac’s profile, I could see Bertie. He was clad in his alpaca office coat and was sitting slackly with his hands hanging loosely from his knees.

      The Inspector hunted on his desk until Sergeant Matheson put a single sheet into his hand. His big frame fitted badly into the dark suit which most of our city men seem to wear in all seasons. Only the Sergeant had compromised with the heat. With unreasonable irritation, I saw that he was wearing a thin, fawn-coloured outfit without a waistcoat. In spite of a glaring tie, he looked all one colour, with his sandy hair and skin. I had had plenty of time for these observations. A long silence had fallen as Inspector Coleman read through his paper, frowning. I sighed and transferred my attention to a solitary fly buzzing about his head. It settled on his broad wet forehead, and he brushed it away with an impatient wave of his hand. At length he raised his eyes, and the three of us—Bertie Scott, Mac and myself—were compelled to run the gauntlet of his keen scrutiny. It took me all my control not to fidget my feet like a guilty schoolgirl. Up to that moment I had a clear enough conscience, but I began to wonder if perhaps there was not some little thing that I was trying to conceal. I think it was then that I realized what a very formidable body the Police Force was. I made a mental vow never to get mixed up with them again.

      “Miss MacIntyre,” he began and I saw Mac’s eyelids flicker. “I understand that it was you who discovered the body. According to your statement you last noticed the deceased about 9.30 p.m. Wednesday night, that is yesterday evening, when she approached the sortagraph position where you were working.”

      “That is so,” said Mac in a low voice. “She put a docket in the file at the side of the sortagraph.”

      “Did she speak to you at all?”

      Mac frowned. “I don’t think so.”

      “Come, Miss MacIntyre, my question required only yes or no.”

      She looked at him directly. “She muttered something. Whether it was meant for my ears or not, I don’t know.”

      “Did you catch what she said?” asked the Inspector. Mac hesitated.

      “I am not sure,” she replied cautiously, “but I thought she said ‘that’ll fix it’ or something similar.”

      “H’m,” said the Inspector, “it may or may not be significant. Was it an unusual phrase for Miss Compton to use?”

      A slight smile crossed Mac’s lips. “I have heard stronger remarks made during the rush time,” she said.

      I coughed suddenly, noticing at the same time Bertie’s hand crossing his mouth for a moment. Mac’s answer could tickle the risible faculties of telephone employees only, although I observed Sergeant Matheson lower his eyes quickly to the papers on the desk. Only the Inspector remained grave.

      “That was the last time that you noticed her in the trunkroom?”

      “Yes,” answered Mac, and I felt almost happy. The form of the Inspector’s question had not necessitated her lying. I looked around the room benevolently, and caught Sergeant Matheson’s keen eye fixed on me. As he leaned over and whispered to his superior, I cursed myself heartily for not keeping a poker face. The Inspector nodded. and turned again to Mac.

      “Have you anything that you wish to add to your statement, Miss MacIntyre?”

      There was another pause, while Mac stared at her hands. Presently the Inspector stirred impatiently.

      “Well, Miss MacIntyre?”

      “I was thinking,” she remarked coolly. “Perhaps it would help if I could see my statement?” She held out one small hand for it.

      “She’s playing for time,” I thought anxiously, as Mac’s eyes travelled down the single sheet to her signature at the bottom. Only her left hand pleating a fold of her floral skirt betrayed her nervousness.

      I said to myself: ‘You’re no good at deceiving people, Mac, my sweet. Why don’t you tell them that you saw Sarah later.