Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

The other does the books. Gentlewomen fallen on hard times, I should say.”

      “It’s charming,” I said, looking around me appreciatively as I stripped off my gloves. The room reminded me of a painting of a Dutch interior. Although the furnishings were only imitations, they were not aggressively so. A black and white squared linoleum covered the floors, while the curtains that hung in the bow-window were of crisply starched muslin. A row of brightly coloured pottery stood on the low sill, filled with different specimens of geranium. Even the hard-wood chairs and tables were unusual in design, with slim twisted legs. Red checked cloths covered the tables set with simple white tea things. There was no raucous radio to spoil the digestion. The atmosphere was quiet and peaceful, while from one corner of the room a canary whistled cheerily. The single waitress, who had approached us as soon as we entered, wore a lavender-blue dress with a snowy lace collar. She was a comparatively middle-aged woman with a sweet, serene face.

      “Tea and—?” Sergeant Matheson looked at me with brows raised.

      “What is there?” I asked practically.

      “Make it the usual,” he said to the waitress. “I promise you will not be disappointed,” he added across the table.

      “They know you here?” I asked, leaning my chin on my hands.

      “Yes, I’m an old customer. That woman who attended us is some sort of cousin to the two old ladies.”

      “She looks terribly nice. May I have a cigarette?”

      He drew out his case and sprung it open. “She is,” he agreed, striking a match. I glanced at him inquiringly over the flame.

      “It sounds like a story. Am I right?”

      He put the match to his own cigarette. Blue smoke made a veil between us. “I don’t think that you’d be interested,” he said, and I felt snubbed.

      The light repast, which arrived with lightning service, was as delightful as the room in which we sat. From the steaming tea-pot I could detect the fragrant odour of a china blend. I was interested to see what “the usual” was; golden balls of butter nestled in gleaming lettuce leaves to be used on crescent-shaped bread rolls. At least they looked like bread, until I took a bite, and discovered that they had more the consistency of a scone. Whichever they were, they were delicious when spread with butter and creamed honey.

      “Nice?” asked Sergeant Matheson with a smile.

      “Very,” I answered politely, trying to revenge the snub. He looked a shade disappointed, and perversely I felt mean.

      The tea-shop was cool and dim, and almost empty of customers. It was past the afternoon tea hour. Soon we had the room to ourselves.

      “Would you like more to eat?” asked the Sergeant, as I poured out a second cup of tea.

      “I don’t think that I’d better. Otherwise I won’t be able to eat the three-course dinner that I left at the Exchange.” He seemed puzzled. I went on to explain: “Sandwiches, cake and fruit served in a brown paper bag. Most palatable!”

      Sergeant Matheson laughed. He seemed so like an ordinary man, and not the representative of the law who had taken my statement the previous night, that I asked coaxingly: “Tell me, how is our murder going? Is the inspector anywhere near solving the mystery, or shouldn’t I ask?”

      “You shouldn’t,” he answered, relighting the half-smoked cigarette that he had butted economically before tea. “He has his own ideas, but there is a lot of spade-work yet to do.”

      “You being the spade,” I pointed out.

      “I suppose so. But after all he is directing the case. He has all the responsibility.”

      “The Inspector seems to be an able man,” I said disinterestedly and the subject was dropped.

      “Do you play golf?” I asked suddenly.

      “No, I’m afraid not. Are you a golfer?”

      “A very humble one. What about tennis?”

      He shook his head. I stared at him in surprise.

      “Don’t you play anything with a bat and ball? Cricket?”

      His mouth was quirking up at the corners. “I am afraid that I don’t play anything with a bat, but I am rather keen on basketball.”

      “I beg your pardon?” I asked faintly. I had always imagined that that was a game relegated to one’s schooldays. I had memories of myself, clad in a short tunic, with the knee out of one black stocking, tearing around after a leather ball. The Sergeant looked quite enthusiastic.

      “Best game in the world,” he declared. “Fast and interesting. I used to play for the University team.”

      “Are there actually teams?” I asked, awed.

      “Certainly,” he replied, looking puzzled again. “You’re not thinking that I play that tame pat-ball as kids do at school? You were, I can tell. Just let me take you to see the real thing, and you’ll soon make up your mind as to whether it’s a good game or not.

      “Thanks, I’d love to,” I lied politely. I couldn’t see myself going out with a policeman, let alone to a basketball match.

      “You haven’t been quite frank with Inspector Coleman, have you, Miss Byrnes?” he asked abruptly. I wondered whether he had hoped to catch me unawares.

      “Why do you ask that?” I parried, pulling on my gloves.

      “You know who wrote that last letter. Are you protecting someone?”

      I avoided his eyes, and answered lightly: “Yes and no. Is all this out of office hours, or will you use it in evidence against me?”

      “I’ll use your confidence with discretion, and to the best advantage,” he said gravely.

      I hesitated, playing with the clasp of my handbag. “Did the Inspector choose that letter as a sample of the latest of its kind, or does he think that it has some bearing on the case’?” I was trying to steer a straight course. When I heard him laughing, I looked up suspiciously.

      “You are to be congratulated, Miss Byrnes, on your shrewdness. Although he has not said anything definite to me, I think that he considers that it has not the slightest connection with the crime. A sample, as you observed, for there must have been a dozen others like it written about the same matter. I might add that they all showed distinct unoriginality. The letters could have been written by one person.”

      “If it has no significance, why are you so anxious to find out who wrote it?”

      The Sergeant looked a little sheepish. “The Inspector told me to.”

      I felt indignation rising up inside me. “So that’s the meaning of this tête-à-tête,” I declared scornfully. “You brought me here so that we could get all confidential and matey, and you could weed information out of me. Well, you’re wrong, Sergeant whatever your name is. It’s nearly ten years now since I came to town, and that is the lowest trick that has been played on me.” I leaned forward, and said softly: “If you had been a shade more patient, and not given your game away, I would have told you what I know; but now I won’t. That is, not until I have consulted the writer of that letter. Then it depends on that person whether I do or not. So you can go back to your superior officer, and tell him that his little idea did not go over so well.”

      He sat unmoved by my abuse, though his eyes seemed troubled. “Look here, Miss Byrnes,” he said with a frank air. “I admit that it was a cad’s trick, and I’m sorry that I was so clumsy. Apart from my job I really did want to take you to tea.” I snorted, and pushed back my chair to get up.

      “No, wait a minute,” he commanded. “Do you remember what Inspector Coleman said to you this morning? To you and Miss MacIntyre? This is a dangerous business. Whether you disliked Miss Compton or not, it is up to you to help us find that person who battered her to death.”