Murder in the Telephone Exchange Read Online Free PDF

rather high-pitched voice refined, like those of our local socialites to whose calls she delighted in listening, than speeding up the tempo of her connections. She ought to have been shot for eavesdropping of course; one day she’d be reported and would most deservedly get it in the neck.
    â€œThat’s there, and I was just dialling this out, and that’s been on for two and a half minutes,” she said, pointing at the dockets clipped under the three Adelaide lines she was working.
    I could hear Adelaide saying: “Waiting, Mel., waiting,” rather querulously. I concluded that Patterson must have been super-refined to-night.
    â€œThat’s just grand, Gloria,” I replied gravely, “most lucid. Now, run along, dear, and I’ll have it all nice and straight for you when you return.”
    She gave me a cross look, as I transferred my attention to the patient girl in Adelaide. I knew her rather well.
    â€œThank goodness it’s you, Byrnes,” she declared with a sigh of relief. “Who is that awful mug?”
    â€œOne of our shining lights,” I replied, picking up a docket. “I’ll have L3178 for U7173, not a personal call, here. Give me your country line to Salisbury on number 3. How are you going? Has the weather changed yet?”
    â€œWait for a minute.” She went off with a click of her key to dial out my number. Presently she said: “No! It is still as hot as ever. Perth have had a change; the girl there says that she is wearing a woollen cardigan. Salisbury on three.”
    â€œThanks, Ad.,” I said, dialling my caller quickly. “That means that we won’t get a cool change for at least another three days.”
    â€œStop gassing, Maggie,” nudged the girl next to me. “Ob. is hovering around.”
    Ob. is observation. About two or three monitors of Sarah Compton’s vintage patrol the boards to see amongst other things, that we behaveourselves. Their listening post was situated on the third floor. It is considered a matter of honour to warn your neighbour when she is approaching. Presently a voice said coldly in my ear: “Who are you, Trunks?”
    When I had replied M. Byrnes, the voice went on: “I shall be observing your work for the next quarter of an hour for a time check.” It was very decent of her to let me know. As a rule Ob. doesn’t make her presence known. The first you learn of her presence is a report on the Senior Traffic Officer’s desk with an immense “Please explain” at the foot of it.
    â€œI am only relieving,” I warned her. “I will be off in a few minutes.”
    â€œVery well, then. Thank you, Miss Byrnes. I’ll come back presently,” and the voice departed as quietly as it had come. I could see the telephonists farther down looking startled, and then giving their names. Ob. gets you that way.
    Patterson came back late. She had cribbed an extra five minutes. Compton followed her down to her position, the look of malice on her face reminding me of the lift episode again. Although I didn’t care much for Gloria, I felt sorry for her when Compton had her claws bared as now. What a beast that woman could be! I was becoming more and more convinced that she must be mentally deranged.
    â€œYou’re five minutes late, Miss Patterson,” she said. “You will not be allowed to go until 10.35 p.m. I was timing you.”
    She would be, I thought. Patterson replied: “I couldn’t help it. I had to go to the other building to ring up. The restroom door is locked.”
    Compton looked surprised.
    â€œWho locked it?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Patterson. “And the key is missing. Are you ready, Maggie?”
    I slipped from the chair, explaining how the work stood until Compton moved away.
    â€œI quite agree with you, Gloria,” I said, as she muttered angrily under her breath. “Are you sure the door was locked?