Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

ring on the line brings a light flashing in a panel on the Melbourne boards. To transfer that line for working is accomplished by merely pressing a button.

      I heard Korrumburra yelling her head off, demanding service, and released the line to let Mac deal with her on the far side of the room. I had both my boards covered, and more lights were flashing in the panel, waiting to be picked up. As a rule, the late monitor gives assistance during this half-hour, and I wondered again, irritably, where Compton had got to. She was never around when you wanted her.

      John Clarkson passed on his way to dismantle the delay-board at the other end of the room.

      “All right?” he asked.

      “Quite,” I retorted. “Absolutely nothing to do.

      He grinned. “I’ll give you a hand in a minute. Where’s that blasted woman?”

      I didn’t have time to conjecture about Compton’s whereabouts. The lasses across Bass Strait were being neglected shamefully. I gave Sydney the go-by, and picked up Launceston. A blistering diatribe greeted me. I listened patiently.

      “Sorry, dear,” I said in a meek voice. “My attention is all yours from now on.”

      That was the only apology I gave during that hectic half-hour. I cut the standard phrases originated by some leisurely Department official in his nice quiet office to the minimum. Once I wondered how Mac was faring over on the country boards behind me. The Senior Traffic Officer’s telephones rang for a while and were silent, so I supposed that Clark was as busy as we were. Book, dial, connect and a swift glance at the clock to complete the docket with my numerical signature. I felt the perspiration trickling down my ribs, and the wire band of my headset was cutting into my skull.

      “Mel., book please.”

      “Your particular person is waiting, Mel.”

      “Mel., take a through call.”

      It came at me from all lines; all those telephonists throughout Australia with the same metallic crisp voice.

      On with those calls.

      “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

      “Three minutes—extending please?”

      “You’re through—go ahead.”

      Mentally I threw up my hands in despair, while coaxing slow callers to start their conversations. The perpetual ‘Hullo’s’ and those bad telephone voices, with their unenunciated consonants and flattened vowels. They all wasted precious seconds of the three minutes that most subscribers declare that they do not get, not realizing their own extravagance.

      Five minutes to eleven! Out of one corner of my eye, I could see Clark grappling with lines with a spare telephone set from Bertie’s table. His face was in profile, but I thought that he looked angry.

      “Sarah will get it in the neck for landing us in this bag,” I thought. “She deserves boiling in oil.”

      Three minutes to eleven, and a couple of the all-night girls came in early. Bless them! May all their children have curly hair! I stayed on for a while helping to straighten things out. It was amazing the difference one or two extra telephonists made. At ten past eleven, I rose wearily from ray chair and stripped off my outfit.

      “And so to bed,” I said. “Sweet dreams, my dears.”

      “I believe you have been locking doors, Byrnes,” remarked the girl Billings with a grin.

      “I am too tired to defend myself,” I answered, “so let it stand that I was the culprit until the morning.”

      “Giving yourself time to think up a good one,” another called after me as I went to sign off. Mac’s neat signature was the last in the book, made at 11.5 p.m., while above hers with many flourishes was that of Gloria Patterson at 10.40 p.m. She must have been afraid that Compton would see her if she had gone with the rest of her rota.

      I found Mac outside on the lift landing, studying the notice-board.

      “I’m down for a late on Sunday,” she said as I joined her. “What a bore!”

      “Did you see my name?” I asked, scanning the list. “I worked last Sunday, but you never know what fast one they’ll pull next.”

      “I’m afraid you’ve got the dog-watch with John. Compton is working late, too.”

      “That’ll be great!” I said bitterly. “Especially if Sarah does the disappearing trick again. I’d like to get my hands on that woman.”

      We had started walking up the stairs together. At the eighth-floor landing, Mac paused to light a cigarette; at this late hour we should be able to dodge a reprimand, so I followed her lead.

      “Having supper with John?” she asked with a sidelong glance that made me wish that I knew more about her late ‘affair’ with him.

      “And you,” I said in a firm voice.

      “I don’t think so. I don’t want to butt in, Maggie.”

      “Shut up!” I said loudly.

      We entered the cloakroom and parted company. Mac’s locker was against the wall, while mine was in the centre aisle facing the restroom door. It was still closed, and no light showed through the glass pane at the top.

      “That blasted door!” I said, tossing my telephone into my locker.

      “What’s that, Maggie?” called Mac.

      “The restroom door! Someone locked it, and everyone seems to think that I did, since I was the late telephonist.”

      I heard Mac laugh softly.

      “Yes, I heard something about that. Perhaps it is not locked but jammed after all. It has happened before to better doors. Try it for yourself and see.”

      “I will,” I said, advancing with my cigarette between my lips so as to have both hands free.

      “Well!” I declared. “What do you know about that!”

      “What?” Mac asked, appearing around the corner of the lockers, lipstick in hand. “What’s the matter?”

      I pointed to the door in amazement.

      “Why, it is not locked after all. I suppose someone must have found the key,” she added, rather obviously.

      “Someone is going to pay for this,” I said, putting my hand around the door to switch on the light. “The idea of accusing me!”

      Mac was amused.

      “I think things look rather black for you, Maggie. After all the door is locked, and you are the last one to be near the restroom.”

      “I wasn’t,” I protested.

      “And then you come off duty, and lo and behold the door opens. Very, very ominous!”

      “Rot! A dozen others could have done it. Oh well, at least we can make up under a decent light.” I returned to my locker to get my handbag. “I look a hag. I say, Mac, I must tell you about our Sarah.”

      “Sarah!” I heard her repeat in a horrified whisper. “Sarah!” I swung round quickly. Mac was standing in the lighted doorway of the cloakroom, swaying slightly. I was beside her in a second. She turned towards me and tried to push me away. Her face was close to mine. I could see the pigment of her pallid skin, and the dilating iris of her eyes. They both spelled terror.

      “Don’t go in, Maggie,” she whispered imploringly. “It’s—it’s horrible.” But I pushed her roughly aside, and went into the restroom.

      I think I almost expected what I saw. It was as if I had dreamed it all before, but the stark reality of the scene froze my blood and parched my throat. Mac was leaning against the wall, panting; her normally pale skin had taken on the bluish appearance of alabaster. We heard someone walking down the corridor outside, whistling