“No, of course not.” His laugh was short, forced. “I just dialed the wrong number. I was having a few drinks at a bar and I got mixed up. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Turner.”
She hung tip and stared at the telephone. It occurred to her to wonder if Mrs. Turner had already told her husband she was leaving him, disinheriting him, and the rest of what she had threatened. If so, she could understand very well why he was drinking. But why had he called the office — at this hour? Was someone supposed to be here? Had her own presence frightened that other person away? She could not really believe that he had dialed the wrong number.
Julie picked up the Sloban folder and walked out to the center of the floor. She half expected to find some person lurking behind one of the typists’ desks. Whatever the explanation, her curiosity had to be satisfied. Why should she let him chase her home? She could do her work here, couldn’t she? She sat at her own desk and opened the folder. She could finish posting the dividends in less than an hour...
Slightly more than an hour was required. With a sense of accomplishment she closed the folder and returned it to Mr. Turner’s desk. At her own desk, she picked up her handbag and topcoat. Then she froze.
Like a shriek in the night, the telephone on Mr. Turner’s desk rang... first once, then again and again...
She swung about to look at the frosted glass entrance door. At any moment, she knew, someone would come bursting through that door in answer to the imperative ringing. But no silhouette approached the glass. Stiffly, resisting the magnetism of the unanswered ringing, Julie made her way across the office floor. Looking back, she flicked off the lights, opened the door, then closed it behind her. Standing at the elevator, she heard the telephone ringing still, like a petulant child, calling her... calling someone. Finally, just before the elevator arrived, the ringing stopped.
In the morning, Mary listened to the previous night’s events with wide-eyed astonishment. “You mean he called the office? Yipes, he sure must have been plastered! But, you know, I can’t imagine that man getting so plastered...”
Mr. Turner arrived only minutes late and seemed as self-possessed as ever. He appeared to have forgotten that yesterday existed. After a sharp “Good morning,” he entered his office and closed the door behind him. At about 9:20, the intercom came to life on Julie’s desk.
“Julie,” he said, “will you get Mrs. Turner on the phone for me?”
“Mrs. Turner?” Somehow she was startled to find that he could still be on speaking terms with his wife.
“Yes, Mrs. Turner. Didn’t you hear me?”
What she did hear, just before he broke the connection, was a puzzling undercurrent of sound.
“That’s strange...” she mused, turning to Mary.
“What is?”
Julie nodded toward the closed office. “He’s calling somebody on his private phone. I could hear him dialing...”
“The other woman,” said the blond girl, snapping her fingers. “He wants her to listen while he talks to his wife, don’t you see? Or maybe it’s his lawyer. Maybe they’ll make a tape recording... evidence for the divorce...”
Julie was disgusted with herself for believing Mary even for a second. She picked up the telephone, asked the switchboard girl for an outside line, then dialed. Mrs. Turner’s line was busy.
“Well, what did you expect?” Mary said. “She’s busy talking to her lawyer.”
Julie pressed, the intercom buzzer and waited for him to switch it on.
“Yes, Julie...”
“Your wife’s line is busy, Mr. Turner.”
“Oh? All right, thank you.”
“Shall I try her again in a few minutes?”
“No, don’t bother. It’s not very important...”
Julie was thoughtful as she slipped paper into her typewriter and began almost automatically to compose a monthly statement to a client. She wondered, as she often did when life gave her a glimpse of private lives, what her own future would be. Would she marry someone in all good faith only to learn one day that she hardly knew him at all? Could one trust one’s feelings...?
Absorbed, Julie did not even notice the two strangers approaching her desk. It was shortly before lunch time. She was typing, and then there was a man’s overcoat sleeve and an open hand showing her a wallet with a police badge.
That was the first time she saw Sergeant Ruderman.
“I’m very sorry I startled you. I guess you didn’t hear me over your typing. I asked if I could speak to Mr. Turner, please.”
There was another detective with him, somewhat shorter, older. She looked from one to the other. Then she nodded decisively. “Will you come this way please?”
She led them to Mr. Turner’s office. She did not follow them inside. Somehow she knew why they were here.
When they emerged with Mr. Turner, she could almost feel what he was feeling. She had never seen him so pale.
“Julie, Mrs. Turner has had an accident. I’ll be out—” He looked questioningly at the detectives. “I’ll be out the rest of the day.”
“An accident? Is it very serious?”
He nodded briefly. “The maid found her—”
Sergeant Ruderman stepped closer. “I’ll explain it to your secretary, Mr. Turner. You’d better go with Detective Wilson. I’ll be along later.”
When they had gone, he asked Julie to step into Mr. Turner’s office. He closed the door and offered her a chair. She knew by the slight narrowing of his hazel eyes that he had somehow read her involuntary feeling of resentment when he, in turn, chose the chair behind the desk.
“Mrs. Turner is dead, isn’t she?” Julie asked.
He merely inclined his head, watching her.
“How did it happen? When?”
He showed little expression. “The maid let herself in around ten o’clock this morning. That’s the time she comes in every day. She found Mrs. Turner in the bathtub. Evidently, she had struck her head and... You don’t really want to hear the details, do you?”
Julie turned away. “No... Of course it was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“That’s the way it appears. Julie, you spoke to Mrs. Turner on the phone this morning, is that right?”
“I did not. Who told you that?”
“Mr. Turner did. He said you called her this morning.”
“Yes, he asked me to. But I didn’t speak to her. The line was busy at the time.”
“I see. Yes—” The detective’s lips quirked with spontaneous humor. “That is what he told us. What time did Mr. Turner arrive at the office, by the way?”
“Nine o’clock. A few minutes after nine perhaps.”
“And what time did you call Mrs. Turner?”
“Nine-twenty, I think.”
“And Mr. Turner did not leave the office since he arrived this morning?”
She was pleased at having stumped the interrogator. “He was here all morning,” she said loyally.
“Well, that’s good.” He, too, seemed pleased. “We’ve determined that she died somewhere around nine o’clock. Whether it was before nine or after nine... that’s in question. However, none of the phones in her apartment were off the hook when we got there, or when the maid got there. And you say her line was busy at nine-twenty. So the probability is that she was alive at that time and had an accident a short while afterward.”
He smiled as he walked Julie to the door. “I don’t exactly apologize for taking you away from your work. It was a pleasure, I assure you.” His expression became earnest. “I admit I did have a kind of feeling... Julie, what was their relationship? Were they getting along?”