Murder in the Telephone Exchange. June Wright

were Clark’s!’ I thought, as I slid to the ground and remembered no more.

      * * * * *

      I was in a floundering boat on a rough sea. I could feel the icy water on my face. Then a pair of oars appeared in some mysterious fashion, but I did not seem to be able to manage them. They kept hitting my hands and eluding my grasp. Presently I heard a man’s voice say: “She’ll be O.K. in a minute, sir,” and wondered about whom he was talking. I was quite comfortable now that the sea was smooth. I wanted to stay quiet, but a strong light was shining through my eyelids, forcing them open.

      I knew where I was immediately: in the sick-bay on the eighth floor of the Telephone Exchange building. I had tried that hard bed before.

      ‘That’s funny!’ I thought. But I must have spoken aloud, because the man’s voice said: “What’s funny?”

      I struggled to sit up. “I thought I was in a boat.”

      A strange man stood over me, and another figure was in the background. They swayed a little before my puzzled gaze. I put my head down to my knees automatically. They spoke over my head.

      “We’d better leave her until the last, Sergeant.”

      “Very well, sir. What did they say her name was?”

      I raised my head.

      “M. Byrnes,” I said clearly.

      The first man seemed amused. “What does the M. stand for, Miss Byrnes?”

      “Margaret,” I replied, embarrassed. Ob. was to blame for my slip.

      “How do you think you will stand up to a few questions, Miss Margaret Byrnes?” he asked.

      “It all depends what they are about,” I answered, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

      The two men gazed at me so keenly that I began to feel uncomfortable. I looked at them inquiringly, but they remained silent. Then a wave of horror started to sweep over me, and Mac’s tragic whisper seared my brain.

      “Sarah Compton,” I breathed in answer to my own question.

      “Precisely, Miss Byrnes,” said the second man crisply. “I am Detective-Inspector Coleman from Russell Street Police Headquarters, and this,” indicating his companion, “is Detective-Sergeant Matheson. We are inquiring into the murder of Sarah Compton, late monitor at the Melbourne Trunk Exchange.”

      I gripped the edge of the bed, hard.

      “Murder!” I repeated, still whispering. Something seemed to have gone wrong with my voice-box. Detective-Inspector Coleman nodded in silence. The sick-bay room was so quiet that I could hear the thudding of the dynamo many floors below.

      “Surely, Miss Byrnes,” he went on, “as you saw the body, you realize that Miss Compton has been the victim of foul play?”

      I stared down at my clenched hands.

      “I only looked into the room for a minute—a second,” I replied jerkily. “It—she was a shocking sight, but—murder did not occur to me. It doesn’t seem possible. Those sorts of thing,” and I threw my hands out helplessly, “murders—only happen in mystery novels, not in a Telephone Exchange.”

      “They happen in real life,” said inspector Coleman quietly, “only too frequently.”

      I stared at him, trying to absorb the fact. Sarah Compton—murdered! Someone had killed her; taken from her the most precious thing we own. And Mac and I had found her, lying face down in her own blood. At once I realized what it meant. We would be mixed up in this ghastly business, no matter how repugnant we found it. But would I find it so distasteful after all? It was horrible and frightening finding Compton like that. I was not likely to forget the scene in the restroom in a hurry. But I had never cared much for the woman. I felt no personal grief on top of the horror. The situation might prove exciting and intriguing. I wondered if Mac, who had always been indifferent to Sarah, was thinking the same.

      “Where is Miss Maclntyre?” I asked abruptly.

      “In the next room. I am just going to take her statement. Sergeant Matheson here has a few questions to ask you. I hope that you will give him every assistance.”

      I nodded dumbly and watched him depart. He was a big man, but as light as a cat on his feet; later, I learned that he was an enthusiastic amateur boxer. Sergeant Matheson switched off the bright overhead light, leaving only the shaded one on the table aglow. I supposed that he thought the powerful light would only aggravate my aching head, but it had the effect of making me feet very nervous. It was as if he was setting his stage. When he sat down beside me, notebook in hand, I lost all my fears. He looked shy and ill-at-ease, so much so that I wondered if this was his first important case. It took me a long time to realize that this appearance was only part of his stock-in-trade, and that he was considered one of Russell Street’s most able officers.

      However, just then I thought he was bashful, and to break the ice I remarked lightly: “Why is it all you policemen only have blunt stubs of pencils with which to take your notes?”

      His smile was infectious. It lit up his plain face, and made his eyes twinkle under their sandy brows.

      “You seem to know a great deal about policemen, Miss Byrnes,” he remarked, writing carefully in his book.

      “Here! I hope you’re not putting that down to be used in evidence against me.”

      His mouth was closed firmly, but his eyes still danced.

      “No, just your name. Margaret Byrnes,” and he repeated it slowly.

      “That’s quite correct,” I said tartly. “Now what is it you want to know?”

      “Your address, please, Miss Byrnes.”

      “15 Lewisham Avenue, Albert Park. I board there. My real home is in the country. You’ve probably never heard of it. Keramgatta.”

      “About twenty miles from the north-east border?” he queried.

      “That is right,” I agreed in vexed surprise.

      “I used to work in that district,” he said apologetically.

      I kept what I thought was a dignified silence.

      “Now, Miss Byrnes—you knew the deceased?” I nodded.

      “What sort of woman would you say she was?”

      “She was a—” I shut my mouth quickly. Sergeant Matheson looked up from his writing.

      “You were saying?” he prompted.

      I thought for a minute. “She was a very difficult woman to work with,” I said lamely.

      He gave me a direct glance. “What were you going to say originally, please, Miss Byrnes?”

      “I don’t think that I’d better tell you,” I parried. “It was something very rude, though rather apt when applied to Sarah Compton.” I was sure that his eyes twinkled again, as he let the matter pass.

      “I believe that you were the first to find the body,” he continued.

      “The second,” I corrected. “Miss Maclntyre saw Compton a few seconds before I did.”

      “Miss Maclntyre is a particular friend of yours, Miss Byrnes?” he asked quickly. I looked at him speculatively.

      “A friend, yes,” I answered, “but not an accomplice.”

      “I did not suggest it, Miss Byrnes,” he said, appearing uncomfortable and ill-at-ease again.

      “No, but you were thinking it,” I retorted, and had the doubtful reward of another infectious grin. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.

      “We seem to be getting nowhere, and taking a long time about it,” he remarked. “Perhaps it would be better if you told me in your own words exactly what happened.”