stared thoughtfully out of the window. I coughed gently to remind him of my presence. His eyes came slowly round to mine. After a moment of frowning silence, he looked down at the papers in his hand. Selecting one, he passed it to me. I received it eagerly, and saw with some surprise that it was dated April 1917. What a magpie Compton must have been to keep a letter all these years! Unless, I thought suddenly, she had been using them to some financial purpose.
The note was quite short and written in an ordinary sloping hand, It began abruptly: I know that you have been trying to set Dan against me. You had better stop, or I will do something desperate. You’re only jealous. Dan trusts me, and nothing you can do will change our plans.
The letter was signed “Irene.” I looked up at the Inspector wonderingly. He handed me another letter in silence. My eyes went to the date immediately, June 1917. It was longer than the last one, but written in the same hand on faded blue notepaper, which must have been quite expensive in its day. The name “Sunny Brae,” engraved on the top right-hand corner in a deeper shade of blue, was the only address.
My dear Sarah.
I want you to thank all the girls for the charming gift, and to tell them how much we appreciated it. The vase looks so well in our drawing-room. You must come out and see it some day. What a pity you could not come to the wedding. We missed you very much. Dan sends his regards. Many thanks to everyone again.
Irene Patterson (nee Smith).
I had seen that type of letter dozens of times in the past years. Girls who had left to be married were always made some presentation. It is the custom at the Exchange for their “thank-you” letters to be pinned to the notice board for all to see. I examined the pale-blue paper closely, but could find no pin mark. Either the letter was shown around the Exchange, or else Sarah had just passed on the thanks by word of mouth. I was inclined to consider that it was the latter. After the first note, written two months before, this one smacked of malicious triumph. Could it be possible that Compton had had a disappointing love affair? Somehow one could never connect such things with her. She seemed to have been born an old maid.
I stretched out a hand for the third note, and was jolted back to the present time. This one, undated and unsigned, was written on a slip from an inquiry pad. But in this instance the headings had not been cut away like the original anonymous letter. It was certainly printed in a disguised hand, but somehow the two letters did not seem to match. I frowned as I read:
WE WARN YOU, SARAH COMPTON, THAT IF YOU SEND THAT MEMORANDUM INTO THE DEPARTMENT, WE WILL MAKE THIS PLACE TOO HOT TO HOLD YOU!
I drew my brows even closer together in an effort at concentration. There was something about that last note that was very familiar.
I looked up. Inspector Coleman was still staring out of the window. The Sergeant had propped himself against the end of the bed, and was whistling softly. They both appeared preoccupied, so I bent my mind to the task of tracing that sense of familiarity to its source. Of one thing I was certain. It had not been written by the same hand as the one thrown into the lift. That had been a more personal note, one that could be related to the first two that I had just read; that is, if Sarah Compton had not gone around trying to break up other people’s lives a dozen times a day. My last thought seemed so feasible that I tarried with it, until I came to the conclusion that as the Inspector himself had gone through a pile of letters, he was not likely to select these three that had no bearing on the case. I would rather have seen the rest of the notes myself to make sure, but I doubted whether the Inspector would have permitted me. In fact, as I said to John later, if a few more crumbs of information had come my way, I would not have found myself where I am now.
But that is neither here nor there. My present job was to assist these two policemen in identifying anonymous mail. It was then, quite suddenly, I remembered. I knew who had written that last letter. But I felt a little dubious about informing the Inspector. As far as I could see, it had no connection whatsoever with the business in hand, and I might only stir up unnecessary unpleasantness. So I resolved to hold my tongue; at least until I had consulted its author.
The Inspector spoke at last. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he asked: “Well, Miss Byrnes? What is your opinion on the letters that I have given you to read?”
“I feel very flattered to think that you are asking for my advice.” I hedged, playing for time while I thought out my reply. As usual, I had underestimated my opponents.
“Keep to the point, please,” said the Inspector coldly. “You were not brought here for the drive, but to assist us.”
“Sorry,” I replied, with what I hoped was a disarming smile, “but until now, you have been treating me as a suspect. It is no wonder that I am not quite sure of my role.”
Inspector Coleman melted. The twinkle returned to his eyes. “We regard you with suspicion, inasmuch as you seem to have an unbreakable alibi.”
“I guessed that. It stands to reason. However, the letters!”
“Yes, Miss Byrnes. Try to be brief and to the point. Time is an important factor in this sort of case.”
‘And me a telephonist,’ I thought, casting him an indignant look. ‘You can’t know much about our game, my man.’
“The first two,” I began briskly, “are most obviously written by the same person. You consider there is a possibility that the person who sent that note down into the lift last night might be connected with them; otherwise, why pick them out? Am I right?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re very shrewd, Miss Byrnes. You are correct in your supposition.”
“Nonsense,” I complimented in my turn. “It is you who are acute. However, I don’t want to dampen your idea, but it is quite on the cards that our late monitor tried to break up many a life.”
“I have taken that into consideration,” he announced calmly. “Of all that rubbish that we went through,” pointing to the bed, “these two seemed best to suit our book.”
“You’re probably right,” I agreed reluctantly. “Judging by the second letter, I should say that this Irene person was a fellow-telephonist of Compton’s. She herself was one originally, you know, before she passed the monitor’s examination. At least, I presume so. She had been a monitor for as long as I can remember, but we all start from scratch. Sorry,” I added, taking a deep breath. “I’m wasting time.”
Inspector Coleman shook his head. “No, go on.”
“There’s the name, of course,” I said slowly. “That gives you something to go on.”
The Inspector perched himself on the edge of the bedside table. It creaked ominously. “This morning,” he remarked, examining one huge hand in a casual manner, “you mentioned a Miss Patterson.”
“Her Christian name is Gloria,” I said quickly. “Patterson is quite a common name. Anyway, she couldn’t have written those letters. She is only in her twenties. You’ll have to look among the monitors and supervisors to find anyone near the fifty mark.”
“An odd coincidence,” observed Inspector Coleman. “Is there anyone else by that name working in the Exchange?”
“There is another girl, but I believe that she spells her name differently from Gloria.” I don’t blame her for wanting to differentiate, I added to myself.
“How old would she be?” asked the Inspector.
“About forty or so. It is hard to say. But she has been at the Exchange for years. You could find out easily enough through the Personnel Branch. They know all our most guarded secrets.” I caught Sergeant Matheson grinning like an ape, and longed to tell him that I was only twenty-five.
“Do you think,” I asked Inspector Coleman, “that Irene Patterson murdered Compton?”
“It is a possibility,” he admitted cautiously, “but don’t bank on it.” I had no intention of doing so. “You must remember,” he went on, “that it is almost