Free Murder in the Telephone Exchange by June Wright Page A

Is there anything worrying you?”
    â€œNo,” I replied slowly, trying to concentrate. “I don’t think so. But I’m tired now. My brain refuses to function. Good night, Clark, and thanks for being the proverbial rock.”
    â€œI’ll take you to your door,” he said, getting out.
    â€œNo, better not. If my landlady sees you, she’ll have a fit.”
    â€œRot,” he replied, taking my arm. Suddenly he swung me round to meet his gaze.
    â€œListen, Maggie,” he said earnestly, searching my face. “Are you sure there is nothing worrying you; something perhaps that I could help you fix?”
    I stood still in his grasp under the hot, hazy stars. His eyes were keen and bright on mine. Presently I said with difficulty: “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I feel as if there should be. There was something on my mind earlier, that I was trying to remember—before the murder, I mean. But I can’t think what it was.”
    He gave me a little shake. “Try now,” he commanded. “Think hard.” I shook my head.
    â€œIt’s no use,” I said wearily. “I’ve tried and tried. I don’t think that it could have registered in the first place.” He let me go and patted my shoulder as he had done to Mac.
    â€œNever mind, my sweet,” he said softly, “just forget everything and have a sound sleep. But remember, Maggie, if there should be anything worrying you now or later, tell me. I would be glad and—honoured to help you.” We had reached the doorstep and I turned to look at him wonderingly. I could not think of any way to express my gratitude, so I just repeated Mac’s phrase: “You’re great, John.”
    He smiled a little before his face became serious again.
    â€œNo, Maggie. It’s just that I—well, perhaps we’d better leave it for tonight. Good night, my dear.”
    Again that night I felt his lips on my cheek. I put out a hand to hold him. But he had gone, striding swiftly down the path to the gate. He did not look back, though I was ready to wave a last good-bye.

CHAPTER II
    John Clarkson’s “medicine” must have done the trick, because I slept very deeply for several hours. I don’t recall having had any vivid dreams as perhaps I should, and awoke, prosaically enough, feeling refreshed and active. The burning sun was seeping through the brown blind at the single window of my bedroom. I stretched out a hand to the bedside table, that I had bought a month previously at a sale, for my watch. It was 11 a.m. About twelve hours since Mac and I had stumbled into that horrid affair; plenty of time before I need shower and dress before lunch. I had missed breakfast altogether. I kicked off the sheet that I had used through the night as a protection against mosquitoes, and hunted for some fruit. Chewing an apple, I lay back on my pillows to reflect.
    The day was promising to be another scorcher, and mentally I selected the frock I would wear. Then my eyes roamed around the little north room which I had made my home in the city. The green linoleum on the floor belonged of course to Mrs. Bates, my landlady, but the couple of sheep-skin rugs came from my home in Keramgatta. One was at the side of my divan bed, the other in front of a chest of drawers, both pieces of furniture being made in some uninteresting hardwood. My eyes dwelled appreciatively on the folk-weave curtains, striped in green and white, thatI had bought and made up myself; presently the bed on which I lay would be disguised with a cover of the same material. The walls had been covered with some hideous wallpaper. This, with Mrs. Bates’ reluctant permission, I had stripped off only to disclose stained plaster. The marks were minimized by tinting the walls a faint pink and a cunning arrangement of furniture. I had put a very bad water-colour of the old homestead into a rather good frame, so that it had a blended