by James R Benn
There was a heavy rain the next morning when I dropped Diana off at the train station in Newbury. The downpour didn’t leave much time for long goodbyes or lingering kisses on the platform. I ran by her side with an umbrella in one hand and her suitcase in the other. I handed both to her as she boarded, the locomotive releasing a gasp of steam as if it were straining to depart and carry Diana away.
We kissed quickly, and Diana smiled at me, her eyes latching onto mine. Then she laughed as a stream of water cascaded off the roof of the railcar, spattering the top of my service cap. Passengers surged around us, in a hurry to get out of the rain. Civilians, soldiers, and sailors pushed Diana back as they boarded, and all we could manage was a half-hearted wave before she vanished and I retreated to the jeep. The rain on the canvas sounded like a drumroll, and I shook the water off my trench coat like a shaggy dog, glad that I had on my rubber-soled combat boots.
I sat, watching the empty street, blurry and grey through the rain-streaked windshield. Pretty close to how I felt about this investigation. Nothing made sense. I had no idea why anyone would have killed Stuart Neville. No idea why Cosgrove was preaching hands-off the Millers. No idea who had killed Margaret Hibberd. Not a clue what happened to Sophia Edwards or who killed Tom Eastman.
So what did I know? That there was something weird about the Neville murder, and Cosgrove’s instructions to lay off the Millers. And why was Neville such a cipher? All I knew for sure was that along the line I’d gotten close to something important, important enough to warrant a smack on the head and a midnight try at the dead man’s float. No, check that. No one could have known I was headed to that part of the canal. I was sure I wasn’t followed. So it was a chance encounter, an attack of opportunity. What was important was the suitcase. Someone, probably the same person I spooked without knowing it, had planted it there. Why? To throw suspicion on Neville, or possibly Miller. Or maybe to distance himself from the scene of the crime.
As far as Angry Smith went, all I knew was that he was innocent, the victim of a perfunctory CID investigation. The agents had gone straight to the easiest answer, and the fact that Angry had been seeing a white girl certainly hadn’t helped move the wheels of justice in the right direction. I liked the notion of the killing being linked to Sam Eastman’s past. It made sense, in a warped sort of way. Sam arrests a guy who is sent to prison or the lunatic asylum. Time passes and that guy gets out, and he decides to take his revenge-no, make that a relative, someone close to the imprisoned guy. Sam is long dead, so this avenger kills his son Tom, and deposits his body on the grave. A final insult. Nice and neat, except for how much time had passed since the elder Eastman had been on the force. I couldn’t see an old man coming out of the joint and carting Tom Eastman’s corpse through that cemetery. I’d heard revenge was a dish best served cold, but this revenge had been in the ice box a damned long time. I needed to learn more about Sam Eastman. But first, it was time to meet Inspector Payne at the Newbury Building Society and bang our heads against that wall for a while.
When I arrived at the building society at nine o’clock, it was raining even harder, with rolls of distant thunder echoing off the buildings. I dashed in and found Payne shaking off his umbrella in the foyer.
“Damned rain,” he said, stamping the wet off his feet. “Any word on Major Cosgrove?”
“No,” I said. “I sent Kaz over to see how he’s doing. I’ll drop by after we’re done here.”
“Too bad,” he said. “Not the most likable chap, but it’s a pity to finish up like that. Had an uncle who had a heart attack and lived. Doctor told him to stay in bed, and so the fool did. For the next three years.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Had another heart attack and died. Nothing the doctors can do about it, so they tell you to rest. Not the way to go out of this life, with nothing but bedsores to show for your last days. But that’s neither here nor there.” He leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “Follow my lead. I won’t reveal it was Miss Gardner who put us onto Neville’s last appointments.”
It was quiet in the society offices, the hard rain keeping customers inside their homes and shops. We entered Miss Gardner’s office, where she served as gatekeeper to the exalted Michael Flowers. I tried to think of a way to tell her that her secret was safe, but it wasn’t necessary. Miss Gardner wasn’t there. Not stepped out for a moment, but gone.
Her desk was clean, no papers, pens, not even a paperclip. The shelf to the rear of the desk, where there had been a couple of pictures and knickknacks, was empty. Her typewriter was covered and the wastepaper basket was empty.
“Gentlemen,” Flowers called out from within his office. “How can I help you?”
Payne raised his eyebrows at me, noting the desk, and we went in.
“Short of help today?” Payne said, in the friendly tone cops use when they want information the easy way.
“Oh, Miss Gardner, you mean? We’re looking for a replacement now. It’s been quite difficult without her. I never realized all the things she took care of. Very efficient.”
“What happened to her?” I settled down into one of the leather chairs facing Flowers, like a charter member of the society making small talk.
“She left,” Flowers said.
“Suddenly, I take it,” Payne said. “Since you’re just now advertising for her position.”
“Well, yes, it was very sudden. I came into work the other morning and found a note from her, saying she was sorry but a family matter had come up and she had to leave. She left instructions about her final paycheck and that was all. A bit mysterious, don’t you think?”
“Where is the check being sent?” I asked.
“To a bank in Glasgow. Scotland, can you believe that? I had no idea she was Scottish.”
“Do you have the note?” Payne asked.
“No, I threw it out after I gave the payroll department the information. Why are you asking about Miss Gardner, anyway?”
“Did you recognize it as her handwriting?” Payne asked, ignoring Flowers’s question.
“Of course I did. I saw her handwriting every day for almost eight years. I expect I would, don’t you?”
“When did you find the note?” I asked.
“Yesterday morning. Now, really, tell me what this is all about.”
“As regards Miss Gardner,” Payne said, “purely professional curiosity. You can’t tell a policeman about a sudden and strange departure without encouraging questions, can you?” Payne laughed and smiled, putting Flowers at ease, he hoped. “Habit, that’s all. What we came to see you about are the last two appointments Stuart Neville kept with customers. In the course of our inquiries, we learned he visited Ernest Bone, the fellow who runs the sweet shop, and Stanley Fraser, the solicitor. We would like to see any records of those visits, notes or anything that may provide information about his activities.”
“You must be retracing his steps thoroughly,” Flowers said. “I don’t recall giving you names of our members.”
“That’s what the police do, Mr. Flowers,” I said. “Do you have many members like Stanley Fraser?”
“What do you mean?” Flowers asked. He pushed back from his desk, putting more space between us.
“Members with nicknames like ‘Razor’ and known criminal associates,” Payne said.
“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?”
“Ge
ntlemen, 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
Payne 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.”
