Murder in the Telephone Exchange by June Wright Page A

Mac, as Bill managed the lift dexterously with his one hand. We learned that the police had taken over the room next to the sick-bay to use as a temporary office. It was there that, some years previously, higher officials of the Department had sat mapping out operational instructions. In the opinion of the majority of telephonists, these instructions were all very well in theory, but put into practice with four lines buzzing on your board and a pile of dockets to break, were well-nigh impossible to obey.
    We were informed by a man in uniform outside the cloakroom that lockers and coat-racks had been moved to another room off the corridor. We retraced our steps to the telephonists’ classroom which had been fitted up as a temporary cloakroom. A quantity of telephone sets were neatly laid out in rows on a table. The powers that be must have authorized someone to go through the lockers with a duplicate key and remove them before the police closed up the rooms. A number stamped on each chest piece coincided with the numerical signature with which we signed dockets. But I recognized mine immediately by the small chip in the mouthpiece. Telephonists are very jealous of their sets. They become as attached and accustomed to them as a child to a doll. It is only with extreme reluctance that they are loaned, and any criticism by the borrower as to the quality of the telephone is strongly resented.
    I balanced my cartwheel hat on top of a dummy pedestal telephone and observed casually: “I hope that it won’t change to-night. I didn’t bring a coat.”
    I was slightly apprehensive about the forthcoming interview. There was Gloria’s semi-confidence that had fallen on my unwilling ears that morning. Not that it worried me overmuch. She could stew in her own juice for all I cared. But Mac’s tragic eyes troubled me. There seemed neither rhyme nor reason for her secretive manner. She appeared placid enough now, a small cool figure in a printed crepe dress with her dark hair brushed up from her temples against the heat. Together we went down to the sick-bay passage.
    The solemn-faced Roberts opened the door, and I heard a familiarvoice say: “Here they are now.”
    It was Bertie Scott, the Senior Traffic Officer. Somehow his existence had gone out of my head completely, so that it came as a surprise when I saw him seated with Inspector Coleman and the Sergeant. His appearance was shocking. The gradual disintegration of his face and bearing that we had observed had risen to a climax. He looked an old man.
    â€œI suppose that you would like me to go now, Inspector,” he said, getting up slowly.
    â€œI’d rather that you stayed, Mr. Scott; that is, if your duties are not calling you urgently. There may be a few questions for you to answer in collaboration with these young ladies.”
    Sergeant Matheson placed chairs for Mac and me opposite the wide desk, from behind which the Inspector had half-risen when we entered. Then we all sat down together in a rush as though we were playing musical chairs.
    That little room was almost unbearably hot. The close atmosphere and the nervous anticipation that I was feeling made me perspire in a most unladylike fashion. I wiped the palms of my hands on my handkerchief and cast a covert glance at Mac who was sitting very straight. She still looked calm and cool, but I considered that her fine eyes were more than naturally alert and wary. Beyond Mac’s profile, I could see Bertie. He was clad in his alpaca office coat and was sitting slackly with his hands hanging loosely from his knees.
    The Inspector hunted on his desk until Sergeant Matheson put a single sheet into his hand. His big frame fitted badly into the dark suit which most of our city men seem to wear in all seasons. Only the Sergeant had compromised with the heat. With unreasonable irritation, I saw that he was wearing a thin, fawn-coloured outfit without a waistcoat. In spite of a glaring tie, he