A Blind Goddess (23 page)

“Yeah, funny that you should turn down a loan to a guy with a little sweet shop, but give one to a gangster’s shyster,” I said. Flowers looked uncomfortable.

“I’m sure Mr. Flowers doesn’t know anything about money laundering,” Payne said to me.

“Probably not. But in the States, we’d let the prosecutor decide that.”

“Arrest the lot of them, and let the Crown Prosecutor sort it out? That might work,” Payne said, rubbing his chin and staring at the ceiling. “Mr. Flowers would likely be let go, but we’d have to arrest him here and keep him several nights in jail. Not good for business, but that’s not my concern, is it?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Flowers said, pulling his chair closer to his desk and turning on the charm. “I assure you, neither I nor the Newbury know the details of Stanley Fraser’s sources of income. We’re not the Inland Revenue, after all. Perhaps you should speak to them.”

“Perhaps,” Inspector Payne said, leaning toward Flowers but leaving all charm behind, “you should show us what we ask for and save yourself a pile of trouble.”

“I should really call Lord Mayhew first,” Flowers said, with such a lack of conviction that I knew he was waiting to be talked out of it.

“I don’t think there’s reason enough to bother His Lordship,” Payne said. “Him being a busy man and all. Show us the paperwork, and we’ll be out of here in no time.” He clapped his hands on his thighs, grinning at the both of us. Flowers did his best to return the smile, but it was hard on him. He drummed his fingers on the desk, right next to the telephone. Lord Mayhew, who apparently called the shots around here, could be on the line in a minute, and then Flowers could explain what we wanted. Or, he could give it to us and get us out the door before Mayhew would be done hollering over the phone.

“Very well, gentlemen,” he said, standing and smoothing back his pomaded black hair. “I’ll not let it be said the Newbury stood in the way of justice. Follow me.” We did, down a hallway to a room with a frosted glass door. Inside was a table, with several stacks of files arranged on it. Two chairs, nothing else. “Take your time,” he said, and left.

“He’s had a sudden change of heart,” Payne said, taking off his raincoat and draping it over a chair. “Probably means he had time to go through the file and remove anything remotely embarrassing to the sainted Newbury.”

“Embarrassing or incriminating,” I said.

“Perhaps, although I can’t understand what they’d be incriminated in,” Payne said. “I don’t peg Flowers as the killer type.”

“No, I don’t either,” I said, taking a seat and reaching for a pile of file folders. “But there was something odd in his speech.”

“Odd how?”

“It was only yesterday morning that he found out Miss Gardner was gone, right? But today he said
saw
her handwriting every day. He used the past tense without losing a beat. I don’t know about you, but I find people stumble over that with the recently dead or missing, until they’re used to the idea.”

“Right you are,” Payne said. “But he could have that kind of mind, adjusting to a new idea quickly.”

“So you don’t want to arrest him?” I asked.

“It would be preferable to sorting through this lot, but he’d be out in no time. Maybe you could shoot him, Captain Boyle,” Payne said, gesturing to the bulge under my jacket. “I know I’d be tempted if I went about armed.”

“Maybe,” I said, patting the .38 Police Special. “But then I’d have to write a report. Let’s try this first.”

It wasn’t just Stanley Fraser and Ernest Bone. There were files on dozens of applicants. None of them lived very far away. Lots of renovations and additions, but not much new construction or large-scale work. German bombing raids had devastated London, the ports to our south, and any city with large-scale industry. Newbury had
been hit once, earlier in the year, with casualties and a number of houses destroyed. But it was nothing like the wholesale destruction in some cities. That rebuilding took all the available labor and materials, leaving little for small towns and villages. People fixed things up, houses, clothes, and automobiles alike, making do until the war was over and the boys came home.

We read for over an hour, pursuing one of the most boring aspects of police work: reading bank reports. Some folks, like Razor Fraser, had blueprints and plans drawn up. Most made do with a written description. The level of detail varied. There were specific measurements, giving the dimensions of a new room, and others that were sketchy on the details. None of that seemed to matter. Neville’s notes spoke about income, business plans, funds in the bank, and potential earnings more than the building plans themselves.

“Do you get the feeling there wasn’t much to Neville’s job?” I asked.

“He had a nose for numbers, that’s plain to see,” Payne said.

“He did, but anyone here could have put all this together. Why did he visit the applicants? There’s hardly a comment about the actual plans or buildings.”

“He had to assess future earnings potentials, didn’t he? Can’t do that from an office.”

“Right,” I said, leaning back in my chair. That was why he turned Ernest Bone down, and it seemed logical. Why put money into a business that sold a rationed product? Hedley’s Sweet Shop probably sold out every month on a regular basis. Once the ration coupons were used up, there was no way to increase sales. He couldn’t even sell to me for cash.

“Why did Fraser want to build?” I asked, tossing down the file I had been pretending to read.

“To create an image of himself as an upstanding and successful man. And to please his wife,” Payne said.

“That makes perfect sense,” I said. “And why did Bone want to build?”

“To prepare for the future, I’d say,” Payne answered. “He had adequate space for current business, according to Neville’s notes.”

“Right. But who knows how long the war will last? It could be over by Christmas if the invasion comes soon enough. Why wouldn’t Neville approve the loan? It wasn’t for that much.”

“Perhaps you should advance Mr. Bone the loan yourself,” Payne said with a laugh. “Then you’d have all the sweets you’d want.”

“It seems odd.”

“Well, the war could be over by Christmas, just no telling which Christmas. If we’re still at it in 1946 or so, the Newbury would never get their money back. Bone can’t make enough under rationing. It’s too bad the man chose the profession he did, but he’s got all his eggs in one basket, now, doesn’t he?”

“All his sweets, you mean. Let me see his file.”

Payne grunted and shoved it over. He returned to poring over Razor Fraser’s application, looking for anything even slightly illegal.

Bone’s proposal was fairly simple. He wanted to remove a wall and extend the kitchen. Build a larger storage area for his products in his basement, and remodel the façade. He mentioned expanding after the war, shipping his sweets to France from the Channel ports. All smart ideas, it seemed. Neville had scribbled notations in the margins.

Rationing? How long?

Excavation unnecessary
.

Foreign markets?

I looked at Neville’s typewritten report. He didn’t mention any of that, simply saying that economic circumstances due to the war did not favor the loan, and that the business and Bone’s own savings might not be sufficient to cover any potential loss. It made sense.

“Did Neville have any handwritten notes on Fraser’s papers?” I asked.

“He did,” Payne said. “A bit hard to read, but here they are.” He handed me a notepad. Neville had a list of questions written down.

Mrs. Fraser?

Harrison Joinery—who owns?

Source of income?

Room necessary?

“He had the same suspicions you had,” I said. “But he approved the loan.”

“Aye, but that’s his job. Fraser has the money, and that’s all Flowers and his high and mighty boss Lord Mayhew care about,” Payne said.

“But if Neville looked into the source of the income, he may have found out that Fraser didn’t need the loan at all. Not for the building project, anyway. He needed the loan to launder his illegal money.”

“So, you’re saying Neville took his role a bit too seriously and played detective. Found out about Fraser’s scheme and had to be silenced?”

“It’s possible. Have you found out about Harrison Joinery yet?” I asked.

“No, I haven’t had the time. This afternoon, though, I’ll make it a point to find out who really owns the firm. If things lead back to Razor, we may want to press the matter with him. At the station.”

That was all we came up with. Other than the lady who wanted to build a special room for her cats. All thirty of them. Neville’s handwritten note simply said
crazy
. On our way out, Flowers gave us a cheery wave, leaving us with the idea we were missing something at the Newbury Building Society, something bigger than both of us.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

P
AYNE WENT OFF to follow up on Harrison Joinery while I took a walk. It wasn’t far, over the bridge to the other side of the canal, following Stuart Neville’s walk home from work. Time for a pleasant chat, a social call. I knocked on the front door, which was answered by a guy I didn’t recognize. He wore a sweater and had a pipe clenched between his teeth.

“Yes?”

“I’m Captain Boyle,” I said. “Here to see George Miller.”

“Of course,” he said, opening the door wider. “I’m Nigel Morris.

George told me about you and Inspector Payne.”

“You’re the other boarder, right?”

He shut the door behind me and settled back into his chair, where he’d been reading the newspaper. “Yes. The only one at the moment. Awful news about poor Stuart. I was away and heard only when I came back yesterday.” He fiddled with his pipe, banging out the ashes and filling it again, in the way pipe smokers do when they can’t sit still. “Any progress?”

“We’re following up leads,” I said. “What kind of work do you do?”

“Plumbing fixtures. I make the rounds of builders and plumbers, showing the firm’s new wares. Even in wartime, people need new faucets, that sort of thing. I’m off for several days now, then I do the northern route.” Morris was skinny, around fifty or so, with thinning
hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His eyes were a clear blue, and they searched my face as he answered. “Well, when are you going to ask me?”

“Ask you what?” I said.

“If I killed Stuart,” he said. “Isn’t that why you’ve come?”

“The Millers said you weren’t here,” I said. “Should I doubt their word?”

“Not at all, Captain. Having some fun with you, that’s all. Never been questioned by the police before. I was actually quite curious.”

“Okay,” I said, ready to oblige. “How did you and Neville get along?”

“Friendly ships in the night, I’d say.” Morris blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his pipe bowl giving off a red glow. “We’d chat now and then, the occasional visit to the pub, but many days I was traveling and didn’t even see him. Or I’d be so knackered I’d go to my room right after dinner.”

“Anybody on unfriendly terms with him?” I asked.

“Not that I knew of, but then again we didn’t share confidences.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, the war. Rationing, all you Yanks everywhere. The same small talk as most, I’d wager.”

“Did you kill Stuart Neville?” I asked.

“No, sir, I did not. But I’d rest easier if you caught who did it. Don’t like glancing over my shoulder at night. Not one bit.” He puffed away, one eye squinted against the smoke, the other on me.

“Do you get along with the Millers? No trouble with them being German?”

“Get along fine with George and Carla,” Morris said. “The way I see it, we had our own English fascists before the war, and a lot of good folk never objected to them. But along come two anti-Nazi refugees and all of a sudden there’s trouble. Makes no sense.”

“I’d have to agree. Any special troublemakers in town?”

“Some chap gave George a mouthful, but his son had just been killed. Understandable.”

“Did Neville ever mention the missing girl?”

“The girl from the school? No, why do you ask?” He looked up from his pipe, surprised at the question.

“He told Eva Miller to be careful, that’s all. I wondered if there was any connection.”

“Well,” Morris said, lowering his voice. “We both took a paternal interest in young Eva. Poor girl, through no fault of her own, is uprooted from her native land and brought here. Never mind it was for the best of reasons, it was still hard on her. The other children teased her, of course, and called her names.”

“Do they still?”

“No, she adapted well. She already knew English, and lost her accent quickly. And walking out with that American sergeant helped as well.”

“Anything else you can think of that might shed some light on the killing?” He wasn’t much help but he seemed a bit of a gossip, and those types usually pick up tidbits of information.

“No. But it’s interesting you asked about the missing girl. Sophia something, if I recall. Do you think there’s a link to the murder?”

“All I have are questions, not answers. Thanks for your help, Mr. Morris,” I said, taking my leave.

“Not at all,” he said, looking at me through the smoky haze. “I take it no arrest is imminent? And the girl is still missing?”

“For now,” I said, and left in search of George Miller. I didn’t need any reminders of how badly the investigation was going. No one was in the kitchen, but I followed the sounds coming from upstairs, and found him in Stuart Neville’s old room, stripping wallpaper.

“Captain Boyle, how are you?” He held a brush in one hand and a scraper in the other. Pieces of torn wallpaper littered the floor.

“Fine. Sorry to interrupt your work.”

“No problem, Captain, I am glad for a break. I thought while I had no boarder I would fix up this room and get rid of this ugly wallpaper.”

“You’re quite the handyman,” I said. “Did you ever ask Stuart Neville about a bank loan to help you renovate?”