James Benn - A Blind Goddess

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?”

“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.