James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“Where was he employed?”

“At the Newbury Building Society, over on Bartholomew Street,” George said. “He handled mortgages and construction loans. This caused him to travel fairly often, never for long, but with little notice. It was why he liked keeping a room here.”

“You have other boarders?”

“Just one at the moment. A fellow named Nigel Morris. He is traveling on business out Bristol way, I think. He works for a firm that manufactures radios. He’s been with us only a few weeks.”

“George is fixing up our only other room, Captain,” Carla said. “He is always making improvements to the house.”

“Was Neville in his room last night?” I asked.

“His bed was not slept in, no,” Carla said. “We did not see him yesterday evening, but that was not unusual with his schedule. He would normally let us know when he expected to be here for dinner, and when we did not hear from him, we naturally thought he was away on business.”

“What about you, Sergeant Sullivan? Were you acquainted with Neville?”

“Yes, sir, I was. Can I leave now, Captain? I just came over for a quick visit, I can’t be away all day.” Sullivan looked worried, but not about a murder charge.

“Not quite yet, Sergeant. No pass?”

“No. We were supposed to have flight training this morning, but it got canceled due to cloud cover, so I came over for a quick visit. I should be back by now.”

“How much coffee did you bring? Or should I say steal?” It was time to shake things up. A man was dead and everyone was too polite for the circumstances.

“It was just a little gift,” Sullivan said. “I traded for it at the base, honest.”

“The sergeant has done nothing wrong,” Carla said. “He is a good boy.”

“Good boys don’t trade in black market cigarettes and coffee. I don’t think things would go well for a nice German couple to be accused of trafficking in the black market.”

“Hey, hold on, Captain,” Sullivan said.

“No, no, Jerome. Do not get yourself in trouble,” George said. “It is true, Captain Boyle, that I have a weakness for the Lucky Strike cigarettes. Jerome does not smoke, so he shares his with me. As for the coffee, on occasion he does bring some. Very often he eats with us, and brings food. Many American soldiers do so, given the rationing. You Americans have so much of everything, don’t you?” George Miller was not a man to rattle easily. Maybe opposing and then escaping the Nazis had something to do with that.

“What I have so much of right now is an American soldier at the scene of a murder. As long as he had nothing to do with it, I don’t care if he carries sacks of coffee under each arm when he comes here. So tell me now, Sergeant Sullivan. Did you and Stuart Neville ever argue about anything? Did he ask about supplies from the base, ask you to bring him anything on the side?” I fired off my questions with a practiced hard stare, looking for any sign of nervousness. A twitch or blink, any show of fear.

“No, nothing like that, Captain, really,” Sullivan said, wide-eyed with naïve innocence. “He asked me a lot about America, but then everyone does. I’m from Kansas, and he wanted to know about our farm, that sort of thing. He never asked me for anything, and we never had a beef.”

“Beef?” Carla said.

“They never argued,” I said. “Did Neville have any visitors? Did he have a girlfriend?”

“No, he was a quiet man,” she said. “He worked with numbers, financial numbers. He was quite busy with loans for all the repairs and rebuilding from the bombings. He worked long hours, and was gone two or three nights during the week.”

“He wasn’t in the service? He looked young enough.”

“Punctured eardrum, he told me,” Sullivan said.

“How do people here treat you?” I asked the Millers. “I imagine some folks don’t like having Germans in the neighborhood, no matter what your politics were.”

“It is not bad, especially after what we endured in Germany. Once the brownshirts have assaulted you, a few comments in the street are nothing. We came here before the war, you see, and that allowed us to get to know people. And they us.”

“So there’s no one with a serious grudge against you?”

“No. Do you mean I might have been the target, not poor Mr. Neville?” George looked astounded at the idea, Carla frightened.

“It’s something to think about. It was dark, he was at the rear of your house. Any idea what he was doing out there?”

“No. Perhaps he took the path along the canal and was returning from work.”

“Or from the pub,” Sullivan said. “He stopped at the Hog’s Head once in a while. I mentioned that to the inspector.”

“I’m sure he’ll check that out. Mrs. Miller, I assume Neville had given you his ration book, since he took his meals here.”

“Yes, of course. He enjoyed my cooking very much. He said it was nice to have a home-cooked meal after traveling as he did.” He was the perfect roomer. The Millers got use of his ration coupons but he ate many of his meals away.

“What about your daughter, Mr. Miller? Is she in the house?”

“Yes. The inspector spoke to her and told her she could go about her duties. She helps us with the rooms, keeping them clean. She’s tidying up Mr. Neville’s room now.”

“Show me, please,” I said, standing up. “Have the police checked his room?”

“This way,” Carla said, taking the stairs at the back of the house. “Yes, the police went through it already. I thought we should organize things in case a relative wants his possessions.”

I bit back a comment about overly efficient Germans and followed her up to the third floor. Payne likely gave the room a thorough search, but I’d feel better if I had my own shot at it. One of my dad’s favorite sayings-and he had a lot of them-was if you wanted something done right, don’t wait for someone else to do it. And since he’d taught me everything I knew about being a cop and a homicide detective, I thought I ought to follow what advice I could remember.

“Eva, this is Captain Boyle, he’d like to look at the room,” Carla said, standing with her hand on the doorknob.

“Yes, Mother,” Eva said, bundling up sheets stripped from the bed in her arms. She was fair-haired, with a spread of freckles across her face. A bit on the short side, with an intelligent look in her eyes, even as they avoided my gaze. And her mother’s. She stared down at the floor, in sadness or obedience, perhaps.

“Hello, Eva,” I said, trying to ease the tension.

“Hello, Captain. Are you going to find who killed Mr. Neville?”

“I hope so. I’m sure Inspector Payne is working as hard as he can on it. I’m here to help.”

“The police can use the help,” Eva said. “There’s some girl gone missing and most of them are out looking for her. I think they’d rather find her than look for whoever murdered Mr. Neville.”

“Eva, don’t say such a thing,” her mother said.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Eva had no trace of a German accent. Her voice was pure English schoolgirl. “If there’s a chance of finding that poor girl alive, why wouldn’t they send all their men out to look for her? Mr. Neville is dead already.”

“Finding whoever killed him is important too,” I said, although I liked her logic. “Especially if we can stop him from killing again. Do you know the missing girl?”

“No, I only heard about it at school yesterday. She’s one of the evacuees living in that manor house outside Kintbury.”

“There are several large houses in the area where the children were put up,” Carla said. “They were evacuated from London when the Blitz was at its worst. Some have gone back to the city now that the bombing has lessened. Perhaps the poor dear tried to find her way home.”