Murder in the Telephone Exchange Read Online Free PDF Page B

It might have just jammed.”
    â€œI tell you it was locked,” she replied crossly. “If you don’t believe me, go and ask your friend Maclntyre. She was with me.”
    â€œAll right, keep calm,” I said soothingly. “But I’ll take your advice and ask Mac.”
    Mac had been talking to John Clarkson and Compton. I walked down the room with her.
    â€œI’ve just been reporting the mystery of the locked door, Maggie. Did the girl Patterson tell you about it?”
    I nodded. “Our Sarah jumped on her for being five minutes late. Has the key been found?”
    â€œNo. And as far as I can make out there is no duplicate. It will have to stay locked until the morning.”
    â€œI wonder who could have done it, and why,” I said thoughtfully.
    â€œAnyone, I suppose. The key is usually in the door. Did you go back there after your tea?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I didn’t. I went up on to the roof for a cigarette. I met Compton there, so she can vouch for me, which I’m sure she won’t. Bless her kindly heart!”
    Mac adjusted her mouthpiece to the regulation inch from her charming mouth. I remembered how Clark had once said, with mock sentiment, that a telephone set was a privileged thing. “By the way, Maggie, do you know what is wrong with Compton? She’s like a cat on hot bricks tonight.”
    I leaned towards her. “To give you my candid and unprejudiced opinion,” I said softly, “I think that she has gone crackers.”
    Mac looked at me, mildly surprised at my earnestness.
    â€œI’ll tell you why, later. I must get back to the relieving at once, or she’ll jump on me the way she did to young Gloria. So long.”
    I finished the job about five minutes before the rush period. An atmosphere of tension is always felt at this time. To-night, with the oppressive heat, the strain seemed augmented. I felt hot and weary, but my brain was keyed up and alert to take the burden of the next two hours. I will never forget that night. The main Sydney board was given to me to work, and there was a two hours’ delay on the lines. I could not give my whole mind to the operating, as the brush with Compton and the subsequent event of the lift and even the locked restroom door were playing around in my brain in a jumble. Still further back, in the recesses of my subconscious mind, something was trying to thrust itself on to my notice. Making rapid connections was not conducive to recapturing an elusive thought, even if it had registered itself on my brain in the first place. During a respite when I had all my lines covered, I came to the conclusion that it was something peculiar that I had either seen or heard. But when and where, my memory failed me.
    After that, I settled down more peacefully to the business of breaking that pack of dockets, so much so that by the time the last call was put on, I realized with a jerk that I had forgotten all about those odd occurrences that had taken place earlier in the evening. I felt strangely loath to summon them again, and kept telling myself that I was imagining the premonition of disaster I was experiencing. But the whole building and its occupants including myself seemed to be on tip-toe waiting for a climax. There was that solo hand that I had played in the restroom and Dulcie Gordon’s conviction of an eavesdropper on the telephonists’private phone; also her knowledge of the rifled lockers, and presently that unnaturally ajar door after Patterson’s departure; even Mrs. Smith, the cleaner with an ever present familiarity about her that I could never place. Then I considered Bertie, a mass of nerves, and Sarah Compton with that evil look on her face, full of malice and triumph.
    Compton had been dodging around the boards, querying dockets and taking inquiries in her usual fashion all night. That was one of her habits that I deplored most. She would ask you questions when you