“Hundreds,” I cut in promptly. “Some weak-kneed person is always trying to make a sensation.”
The Inspector looked very interested. “When you say hundreds, Miss Byrnes,” he asked, “just how many do you mean, exactly?”
“Sorry,” I replied, grinning. “Feminine hyperbole! On and off, someone gets the bright idea. I should say about two or three a year; when it was the fashion, it used to be that many a day.”
“Do you know if Miss Compton received any of those letters?”
“Her mail was the largest. She must have quite a collection, if she kept them all.”
“She probably did,” remarked the Inspector surprisingly. “It sounds entirely in keeping with her character. If she has,” and here he tapped the envelope in front of him significantly, “that collection may throw some light on this. By the way, I can trust you two girls not to say too much about all this.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We won’t. I must confess, however, that I told John Clarkson about the lift business. You know that,” I added to the Sergeant.
“The traffic officer on duty last night?” queried the Inspector, turning over papers. “He is a man of authority, so that will not matter.”
“Men are usually very discreet,” I conceded honestly. His eyes twinkled for a moment.
The phlegmatic Roberts appeared once more. “Mr. Scott wants to know if you’re ready for him yet?”
I felt amused at Bertie’s humility; as a rule, he was a most independent person. He peeped around the door like a frightened rabbit.
The Inspector arose. “Come in, Mr. Scott. You have arrived at a very good time.” Bertie handed him a docket, and he glanced at it, puzzled. “Oh, yes, many thanks. We will go into that matter a little later on. Just now, I want to know if I can borrow one of these young ladies?” I looked from Mac to the Inspector in amazement. “I’d like one of them to accompany us to the home of the deceased; a little matter of identifying some correspondence. Now which one can you spare?”
“Neither,” answered Bertie promptly, who imagined that he was always short of staff, “but I suppose that it is a command.”
“That’s quite correct,” said the Inspector firmly.
“You go, Mac,” I urged, rather reluctantly. I wasn’t anxious to miss anything that might happen. I felt jubilant when she shook her head, frowning.
“No, I’d much rather not, Maggie,” she replied with sincerity.
“You’d better make it urgent leave,” Bertie declared in a resigned fashion. “Make out an application, and I’ll see if you can get it with pay.”
‘I should think so,’ I thought indignantly, as I thanked him.
“We’ll have those rooms cleared for you by to-night,” Inspector Coleman told Bertie. I presumed that he meant the rest- and cloakrooms. “We’ve done all the work we wanted on them. But if we might keep the use of this office for a while, I should be glad.”
“That’ll be quite all right, Inspector. I’ll fix it up with the Department. We are only too glad to be of any assistance. The sooner that this horrible business is cleared up, the better. The traffic is worse than usual to-day, busybodies ringing up and trying to find out details.”
“The general public has the mind of an insect,” agreed the Inspector. “Are you ready, Matheson? Just leave those papers; we can lock the door.”
“Are you sure that you don’t mind going?” whispered Mac, as we went into the corridor.
“No fear!” I said stoutly, “I think that it’s all rather fun.”
As she shuddered a little and turned away, it occurred to me with amazement that Mac was developing sensibilities.
We drove towards the east of the city in an open patrol car. Sitting in the back seat and holding my big hat safely on my knees, I received quite a thrill when a policeman on point duty saluted as we passed. How Mac would have enjoyed it; that is, if she wasn’t in her present distrait mood. We had had a lot of fun together, Mac and I. Our personalities seemed to harmonize, which was remarkable because I am not overfond of my own sex. I suppose that comes from working amongst females—a hundred of them to one male. Fortunately, chattering is strictly forbidden in the trunkroom, and after work the quicker one gets away from the place the happier one is.
I already knew where Sarah Compton lived. When I first came to town, a rather shy and awkward country girl, I’ll admit, she approached me to rent one of the furnished rooms in her East Melbourne house. Luckily someone intervened, and gave me some sound advice as to what type of woman I was up against. I was told that she made one pay “through the nose” under a legal arrangement that did not permit one to back out of the proposition if dissatisfied. I used to pass on this information to any new girl who came to the Exchange, when I saw Compton’s eyes alight on her.
I believe that it was her old home that she had turned into small flats. It was one of a terrace, overlooking the gardens. A very excellent position, but I was told that the house itself was terrible: small, poky rooms badly lit and ventilated, and smelling always of mice. She must have been doing excellent business just lately, because every room was taken. But with the present housing shortage, I should imagine that people would be only too glad of any type of dwelling.
Inspector Coleman ran his finger down the cards in the harrow hall, and we mounted the steep stairs to the first floor. Compton had kept one of the front balcony rooms for her own Use. I was agreeably surprised. Though full of hideous, old-fashioned furniture, it was neat, clean and cool. I dropped my absurd hat on to the spotless counterpane of the brass-knobbed bed, feeling a little sacrilegious. Although prying into other people’s business had been the spice of life to Sarah Compton, it did not seem quite the thing to be rummaging amongst her belongings when she was not alive to protect her own.
‘Heaven knows what they might find,’ I thought, wishing that I hadn’t come after all. But I comforted myself with the reflection that Sarah herself would have been only too glad to assist in the discovery of her assassin. I sat down in the one lounge chair that her room held to watch the two policemen at work. They were so methodical in their search that I was amazed after having observed the Inspector’s untidy desk and creased appearance.
On one side of the room Sergeant Matheson had started with the wardrobe, and was working round to a marble-topped washstand and bedside table. Inspector Coleman was tackling the dressing-table and a masculine-looking desk. The latter was locked, and he glanced around frowning. Without a word, he began to finger the contents of the pin-tray on the dressing-table. I watched him, fascinated, as he selected a good-sized hairpin and slid it carefully into the keyhole of the desk. There was a quick turn of his wrist and a click. The roll-top slid up under his hands.
“Are those the Inspector’s usual tactics?” I asked Sergeant Matheson softly. He grinned.
“The hairpin trick? He learned that from an old friend of ours, who is staying out at Pentridge for an indefinite period.”
“Nice company you keep,” I observed acidly, but he missed my remark. The Inspector had beckoned him over with a jerk of his head. Together they thumbed over a couple of packets of letters, held by rubber bands.
“On the bed, Sergeant,” said Inspector Coleman, “The light is better.”
I leaned my chin on the arm of the chair and watched. I was longing to ask them what they had found, but their business-like demeanour bade me stay quiet. They went through the letters systematically,