James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“Mueller, you mean,” Pettigrew said, stretching out the German pronunciation and looking like he wanted to spit. “I had enough of that lot back in the Great War, don’t need them moving in here and drinking with decent folk. And I sure don’t need that bastard telling me he’s sorry my boy is dead!” Pettigrew looked away, rubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw. His pain was fresh, as if he’d just heard the news, and I wondered if Miller had been the one person he could rage at with righteous justification.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Pettigrew?” I asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Please answer the question, Mr. Pettigrew,” Payne said.

“I’m a pipe fitter, down at the Fawcett Plant. They make aircraft engines. Now what else do you want to know?”

“Did you have any other run-ins with Miller?” Payne asked.

“No. Saw him once on the street, but I ignored him. Truth be told, I didn’t like to lose my temper that way. I don’t like Miller or his kind, but I don’t like folks thinking I’m a madman either.” Pettigrew spoke quietly, and I had the notion he was ashamed of how he had acted, but too proud to admit it.

“Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew,” Payne said. “That will be all for now.”

“One thing,” I said, as Pettigrew turned to leave. I showed him the photograph. “Do you know this man?”

“That’s Miller’s place, isn’t it? The Kennet Arms he calls it, as if he’s something special.” Pettigrew squinted and studied the snapshot. “I’ve seen the Yank in here, aye. And the other fellow too, the one who was killed. That must be Miller’s daughter, then.”

“That’s right. Thanks,” I said, and Payne and I returned to the booth. Kaz and Big Mike were already at work on the rabbit stew.

“Good question about where he worked,” Payne said, finishing off his ale. “A wrench or a pipe would be tailor-made for the wound on Neville’s head.”

“And he knew the house,” I said. “It’s one thing to know about the Millers in a small town like Newbury. It’s another to know the exact house. Swan Court is a swankier place than Pettigrew’s neighborhood, I’ll bet.”

“You’re thinking he attacked Neville by mistake, thinking he was Miller?” Big Mike asked, spooning up the last of his stew. “You ought to try some of this, Inspector.”

“Mrs. Monk runs a good kitchen, but so does my Mrs. Payne, and I ought to attend to her,” the inspector said. “It’s early days for such theories, my friend, but we best keep an eye on Pettigrew. I shall be at the Newbury Building Society nine o’clock tomorrow, Captain Boyle. Then I must leave to continue the search for Sophia Edwards. I’ve asked an American unit stationed near Kintbury to assist. The commander agreed, and tomorrow we’ll work a sweep along both sides of the canal, Hungerford to Newbury. It’ll be a long day.”

“Which unit, Inspector?” I asked.

“Those colored chaps, the Six-Seventeenth battalion. Tank destroyers, I think they call themselves.”

“So, what do we know?” I put the question to Kaz and Big Mike after Payne had left and I’d filled them in on the conversation with Pettigrew.

“Stuart Neville is dead, which seems not much different from Stuart Neville being alive,” Kaz said. “Except from the perspective of Mr. Neville. He appears to be one of those men who leave little trace of his existence. We also know a twelve-year-old girl has gone missing. Timothy Pettigrew is in great emotional pain, and can easily put his hands on a blunt object, which puts him in the same position as any number of Englishmen who have managed without murdering a single person. And Mrs. Monk is indeed a good cook. Rosemary and shallots for seasoning, I think.”

“And red-currant jam too, that’s her secret,” Monk said, appearing from nowhere and setting a fresh bowl in front of Big Mike.

“Mr. Monk, do you have lodgings?” I asked.

“Yes, but only one room vacant, it won’t fit all of you. It would hardly fit the sergeant alone!” He had a good laugh at his own joke.

“It’ll just be me,” I said.

“What are we doing?” Big Mike said, his eyes closed as he savored the aroma.

“Sorry, guys, but I need to keep the jeep. I’ll take you to the station and you can catch the next train to London. Big Mike, I want you to check with Army CID headquarters. Get me some details on the Angry Smith case. Find out if they had other suspects or any actual evidence against him.”

“Billy, you know Sam wants us on this case,” Big Mike said, around a mouthful of stew.

“Tomorrow the Six-Seventeenth is going to be part of this case. I want to be sure they’re not harboring a dangerous murderer as they search for Sophia.”

“Billy, you know Sophia Edwards is not part of this case,” Big Mike said. “But I’ll go and come up with a story if Sam finds out.”

“Neville did give Eva a warning,” I said. “And he was found near the canal, which is where Payne is focusing the search. It’s a connection. Not much of one, but it bothers me.”

“Why?” Kaz said.

“It’s as if Neville came out of his shell to say that to Eva. What made him warn her? Had he seen something, or someone, that put him on his guard?”

“What guy needs a reason to talk to a pretty girl?” Big Mike said with perfect logic, before returning his full attention to the stew.

“Kaz, will you give Cosgrove an update first thing tomorrow? He wanted a call tonight, but let him sweat it out. Press him on what he isn’t telling us, maybe you can get him to loosen up. And then maybe swing by the Dorchester and grab some gear? I could use a change of clothes and my thirty-eight Police Special. Boots, too.” I’d started the day dressed in my Class A uniform, and I hadn’t expected to be doing field work.

“I will call Walter and have him pack bags for both of us,” Kaz said. Walter worked the front desk at the Dorchester and could be counted on to get things done. Everything from vintage champagne to firearms. “But before we leave, you need to tell the rest of the story.”

“What story?” By that time I was pretty interested in the stew myself.

“About you and Tree in Boston. If we’re going to work that case on the side, you owe us the truth,” Kaz said. Big Mike nodded in agreement. I sighed, and thought back to the summer of 1936 once again.

I got really good at sweeping that first week, not to mention mopping and scrubbing. Dad had told me to expect some ribbing from the guys at headquarters and not to let it get to me. It did, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

“You didn’t tell me I’d be working for a colored man,” I said to my father when he got home that night.

“You work for Mr. Jackson, Billy,” he said, hands on his hips and his jaw clenched. “Don’t you forget it. He’s a man, not a color.” I knew right away I’d made a mistake. I should have let Dad settle in to his easy chair and talked to him when he was more relaxed. It never was a good idea to talk to Dad at home when he still had his tie knotted around his neck. Even my little kid brother Danny knew that. I could tell he was angry, so I stepped aside and followed as he went into his den.

“You could have told me,” I said. “About Mr. Jackson,” I added, trailing in his wake.

“Better for you to learn how to deal with people on your own. How you act when confronted by the unexpected says a lot about a man,” Dad said, turning to face me. “I hope I hear a good report tomorrow.” He took a deep breath and put his hand on my shoulder, gave me a pat, and smiled. Then I knew I’d be all right, as long as that good report came to him tomorrow.