Free Murder in the Telephone Exchange by June Wright Page B

effect on the observer. This hung opposite the flattering, pink-tinted mirror that Mac had given me. For this room and three meals a day, I paid a substantial amount from my fortnightly pay envelope. But I was comfortable enough, and my fellow boarders did not worry me.
    Only Mrs. Bates, a follower of some obscure religion, ever pryed into my private affairs. To do her justice, I think that she considered herself responsible for the ignorant country girl whom she had occupying a front room on the first floor of her boarding-house. I had heard her light switch on and the bed creak as I crept past her door the previous night. I fully expected a visit from her to learn why I was so late, so I was not surprised when a tap synchronized with my thoughts.
    â€œCome in,” I called, pulling the sheet over my pink silk pyjamas. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Bates. When I first set eyes on my landlady I had the impression she was too unreal to exist. She was more a product of the imagination; the type of character Dickens would have created and revelled in. She was fairly tall, clad always from head to bunion-swollen feet in respectable black, with a surprisingly enormous bosom pushed high to her chin by old-fashioned corsets. Her face was long and narrow, and there was something wrong with her tear-ducts. She was compelled to wipe her pale blue eyes continually. It gave her the appearance of a mastiff dog, which was rather apt. According to the saga she had told me in serial form over a space of months, she had had a dog’s life. This canine career included a drunkard of a husband, who, having deserted her many years previously, turned up frequently demanding money. I often heard Mrs. Bates haranguing him when I was hanging stockings over my window-sill to dry. Her Billingsgate, or perhaps I should say Fitzroy language, to make it more local, must have been totally at variance with the weird religious creed to which she was always trying to convert me.
    In addition to the affliction of her eyes, she had had an operation for goitre, which had in some way impaired her windpipe. This caused her to wheeze every few words she spoke. It held Clark fascinated the first time he met her. She carefully inspected all the men whom her young ladies, as she called us, brought to the house, and later issued gloomy warnings as to the general infidelity and unsteadiness of the male sex. Clark had had abad start. He was too good-looking to be trusted at all, though I had seen Mrs. Bates relax a little under his infectious smile.
    â€œGood morning, Miss Byrne,” she said, as usual omitting the “s” from my surname and thus rendering it completely insignificant. I could see that I was in for a bad time, and tried to brazen it out.
    â€œHullo, Mrs. Bates,” I said brightly. “Have you come for your rent? I don’t get paid until tomorrow, you know.”
    She hated any direct allusion to money, and disliked the word rent. When I did pay my board, she would write out a receipt quickly and hand it to me, so as to forget the disagreeable occurrence immediately. I often wondered what would happen if I didn’t see her each fortnight in my honest way.
    â€œThere are two letters for you,” she said, putting them on my table and ignoring my question. “The telephone has been ringing all the morning. I said that I wouldn’t disturb you, as you were so late last night.”
    â€œHere it comes,” I thought, before saying aloud: “Yes, I was rather late, wasn’t I? Sorry if I awoke you.”
    Mrs. Bates was one of those people who say that they hear the clock strike every hour. I pondered as to the best way to attack her. I was feeling physically at a disadvantage lying in bed lightly clothed, while she was standing on one of my sheepskin rugs, thickly upholstered. Presently she came to my assistance.
    â€œHere is the morning paper,” she said, handing it to me folded.
    â€œAre you sure that