Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

you know who that person was?”

      “Not the faintest. To be quite candid, I didn’t hear of the accusation until about 10.30 p.m. Even then I didn’t pay much attention to it. The girl Gordon, who was sitting at the next board, told me what everyone was saying. It was then that I noticed Compton was not in the room.”

      Inspector Coleman delved amongst his papers again.

      “When was the locked door first known?”

      I concentrated on the events previous to the murder. It was rather difficult to assimilate them, overshadowed as they were by more major happenings.

      “Miss Patterson,” I said suddenly. “I was relieving her and she came back late. I remember now that Compton rebuked her and said that she was to work overtime.”

      It was then that I saw the trunkroom time-book under the Inspector’s hand, and felt a slight admiration. They had probably checked up on our statements already.

      “G. M. T. Patterson, 10.35 p.m.!” read the Inspector, and looked up. “Is that the girl?”

      “Yes,” I answered, feeling maliciously pleased. They were on to Gloria’s trail now. How like her to have three initials!

      “She was the last telephonist to be off before you two,” stated the Inspector, keeping his finger on her name. “What time will Miss Patterson be on duty this evening.”

      “3.30 p.m. this afternoon,” I replied promptly, almost exultant. This new fact which had come to their notice would probably take their attention from Mac and me. I was a little tired of being number one suspect. They appeared to have disregarded our admirable alibis. Perhaps they were considered a little too water-tight to be wholesome.

      The Inspector glanced at his watch. “That is very soon.”

      “Can we go and find her?” I asked hopefully. “She may have arrived already.”

      He threw me a cold glance, and my heart sank.

      “That will not be necessary. We have not finished with you yet. Roberts!” he yelled. The solemn-faced policeman put his head round the door. “Find G. M. T. Patterson—she’s a telephonist due on duty at 3.30 p.m.—and tell Mr. Scott that we will not require him for a while.”

      Roberts withdrew his head without having said a word. If he hadn’t spoken to me the previous night I would have had doubts of his ability to do so.

      Inspector Coleman turned his attention once more to his desk. He was in truth the most untidy man that I had ever seen. I often said to John afterwards that it was a miracle that he ever solved the case. I came to realize that the more haphazard the Inspector appeared, the closer he had his nose to the right scent. At length he produced a small, grimy piece of paper. This was handed to me without comment. I gave him a surprised look and glanced at the document. Sudden excitement tingled my nerves as I knew at once that it was the mysterious note that had hit me in the lift the night before. I have, like the majority of telephonists, developed a good memory, so I can give you its contents word for word. Printed in block letters, obviously disguised, it ran:

      SARAH COMPTON, UNLESS YOU KEEP YOUR SPYING NOSE OUT OF OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS, YOU’LL GET WHAT HAS BEEN COMING TO YOU FOR A LONG TIME. YOU TRIED TO BREAK UP MY LIFE ONCE, BUT I WON’T LET YOU DO IT AGAIN.

      There was no signature of course, but the tone in which the letter was written gave no doubt that Compton would have recognized its author. I re-read that grimy sheet several times, until the Inspector held out his hand impatiently. As I gave it back, I saw Mac looking at me curiously; I had forgotten to tell her of my adventure in the lift. It was her own mysterious behaviour that had made it slip my mind, and this morning there had been Patterson to deal with. I dropped my sodden handkerchief to the ground, and bending near her to retrieve it, breathed: “Later.”

      Again I saw Sergeant Matheson’s keen scrutiny, and smiled gently at him. Much to my annoyance, he grinned back.

      “Well?” asked the Inspector.

      I replied cautiously: “I should say that it was the letter I told the Sergeant about. The two words I noticed, ‘spying’ and ‘Compton” are there, so that makes it rather conclusive.”

      The Inspector smiled a little. It was amazing how it changed his big, rugged face. “Again we will rely on your judgment. Will you give us your opinion on the matter?”

      “The letter?” I queried, pleased, though rather surprised. It was very flattering for a Russell Street Police Inspector to ask my advice, but I went carefully, fearful of some trap that might lurk behind the Inspector’s expressionless eyes.

      “I haven’t any idea who wrote it, if that’s what you are getting at.” He did not seem disappointed and waited for me to continue. I began to feel helpless, not knowing exactly what to say.

      “Let me see it again,” I requested. After gazing at it closely and turning it over in my hand, I observed: “I should say that it was written by a well-educated person. I mean the grammar and all that sort of thing. The paper itself—the paper,” I repeated slowly with growing excitement and raising my eyes to look at the two men. I saw their faces alight with eagerness. “It is a sheet from an inquiry pad. Look! You can see that a piece has been cut off the side. As a rule there are headings there to facilitate inquiries—number required, calling number, and so on.”

      Inspector Coleman studied it carefully, holding it up to the light. Presently he gave it to the Sergeant, who perused it in his turn.

      “Look, sir,” he said. “There’s a watermark. It should be easy enough to trace.”

      “It is from an inquiry pad,” I assured him with asperity. “I have seen those forms many times in the past few years, haven’t I, Mac?”

      She nodded. Her eyes were candid and bright once more. I told myself: “Mac doesn’t know anything about this, anyway.”

      The Inspector put the paper carefully into an envelope. “Who would have access to these pads?”

      “Anyone and everyone,” I answered, gesturing broadly with one hand. “First of all the printing people who send them to the Stores Department down town, who in their turn send certain supplies up here. A limited amount of stationery arrives at a time, in the hope to make us economize with it.”

      The Inspector observed: “I consider it more likely that it was used by someone here on the spot.”

      “That’s true,” I remarked thoughtfully. “After all, it was someone in the building who threw it down into the lift.”

      “Miss Byrnes, and you, too, Miss MacIntyre, can you tell us of anyone who might, in your opinion, write such a note to the deceased?”

      Mac and I exchanged hopeless glances. But contrary to her former remoteness, Mac seemed eager with suggestions.

      “That’s very difficult to say, Inspector,” she said in the frank manner that became her best. “Miss Compton was a very trying woman, to say the least. Numerous people might have written that letter, which, by the way, I have not yet seen. I am just presuming that it held come sort of spite.”

      Inspector Coleman took it out of its envelope, and passed it to her. Mac’s tiny hands were quite steady as she held it. I felt a surge of relief.

      “Thank you,” she said calmly, placing the note on the desk in front of the Inspector. “I agree with Miss Byrnes who suggested that it was written by a well-educated person, but I think also that it is someone who had known Miss Compton for a long time.”

      “Quite so, Miss MacIntyre. The mention of a previous brush with Miss Compton manifests that, but have you any idea at all—”

      “Not the slightest,” interrupted Mac with a faint smile. “We all had some sort of grudge against Miss Compton, but I know of no one whose life she had once tried to break up. Our differences with her were minor affairs. She tried to stop smoking being