Free Murder in the Telephone Exchange by June Wright

fingers, and Clark was whistling softly, flicking his cigarette for ash continually. I hauled myself up from the deep chair in several stages.
    â€œStop that noise,” I ordered irritably. “We must go at once, Mac.”
    Clark removed his gaze from his swinging foot and grinned. “You’re very cross, Maggie.”
    â€œI know I am,” I snapped. “Who wouldn’t be with all this murder business keeping me out of bed, and Mac here acting the fool.”
    â€œI’m ready, Maggie,” said Mac, putting an arm through mine. “Don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to put on an act.” Her eyes were clear and candid, as I looked down at her.
    â€œLet’s go home,” I said gruffly, ashamed of my irritation. Clark turned off the lights and we returned to the car in silence, Mac still holding my arm.
    â€œGoodness knows what my landlady will think of me coming in at this hour,” I said, trying to speak lightly.
    â€œYou’ll be the star boarder when she reads the paper in the morning.”
    â€œOf course!” said Mac suddenly. “I can just imagine the headlines. I suppose we’ll sweep the world news from the front page.”
    â€œI bet our glamorous Gloria has her picture waiting for the reporters when she hears all this,” I remarked. “By the way, she was off late. I wonder—”
    â€œShut up,” interrupted Mac wearily.
    â€œSeconded,” said Clark in a firm voice.
    â€œAll right,” I said huffily. “I was only wondering.”
    â€œSit on her, Gerda, for Heaven’s sake! I’ll be glad to say good night to you two women.”
    We all seemed to be behaving like tired, cross children. I forbore any correction regarding the time that I might have made about Clark’s remark. The car sped through sleeping suburbs, passed jangling milk-carts. I stayed silent in my corner until we drew up outside Mac’s boarding-house.
    â€œDon’t get out, John,” she said, as I opened the door. “Good-bye, Maggie, and sleep well. I’ll call around to see you in the morning.”
    â€œCome to lunch,” I suggested, drawing up my knees to let her pass, “but not earlier. I mean to stay in bed until late.”
    â€œVery well, then; about twelve-thirty. Good night, John.” Clark, ignoring her request, held the gate open and patted her shoulder as she passed. He waited there until we heard the click of her key in the door, and then came back to the car.
    â€œCut down the right-of-way,” I advised. “It will be quicker.” I lodged only two streets away from Mac, but there was no cross road, which made the distance quite considerable if one went by the main streets. Clark steered the car carefully down the narrow lane, bumping a little on the uneven paving stones.
    â€œVery exhausted, Margaret?” Clark’s voice was oddly gentle. It gave me a shock hearing my proper name; rarely do people call me that. I remembered suddenly that it was the second time that night that he had done so.
    â€œCompletely and utterly,” I replied. “Do you think it will be bad tomorrow—John?” His name came to my lips with difficulty. I could not share Mac’s ease with it. I continued hurriedly: “Questions again and the like, I mean.”
    â€œIt’ll be pretty grim. Be a big girl and you’ll get through. I’ll try to stick around as much as possible if that is any help.”
    â€œIt will be,” I said gratefully, “but do you think that you’ll be allowed?”
    â€œNo, probably not.” He stopped the car precisely opposite my gate, and leaned over the back of the driver’s seat, chin on his clasped hand, to gaze at me intently.
    I avoided his eyes and said in a desperation of shyness: “What was it that Mac had on her mind?”
    He relaxed and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Heaven alone knows! But what about you?