James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“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.

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.”

“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.