A Blind Goddess bbwwim-8 Page 15

  “Why?” Fraser asked, allowing a smirk to show. “Do the Americans need a loan? I thought they were swimming in money.”

  “We ask the questions here, Razor,” Payne said. “So is there nothing you remember about Neville’s visit? Nothing you noticed?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I’d have thought he’d have been more interested in reviewing the plans,” Fraser said, gesturing at drawings unrolled on a nearby table. “We had an architect draw them up, all ready for inspection, but he gave them only the slightest attention. He is supposed to determine whether we have everything planned out properly, after all.” He sounded offended, as if he wished the dead man alive again only so he could berate him for his shortcomings.

  “You haven’t heard anything about a kidnapping gang around here, have you?” Payne asked. “I know you’ve defended some dicey characters in your time, but crimes against children were never among the charges. Sexual crimes. If you’ve heard anything, it might save a young girl’s life.”

  “I’ve heard about the drowned girl, it’s all over town,” Fraser said quietly. “Speaking in the hypothetical, I may have had certain contacts with people you’d not consider on the up and up. But every last man of them would draw the line at children. If I knew anything that would help apprehend the fiend who put that poor girl in the canal, I’d tell you and be glad I’d done my duty. Sadly, I cannot.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Fraser,” Payne said, ending on a cordial note. He rose and studied the drawings. “A greenhouse, eh? My wife’d fancy that herself.”

  “I trust this incident will not hold up the loan, Inspector,” Fraser said, opening the door for us to leave.

  “No, it should not,” Payne said, squinting at the printed legend on the plans. “You can tell the firm of Harrison Joinery not to worry. They should be on the job in no time.”

  We left the office, and quickly confirmed with Mrs. Fraser that her husband was home the night of the murder. I wanted to ask about the other evenings, but bit my tongue. Instead, I asked Payne what his comment about the carpentry firm was all about as soon as we were out of earshot.

  “Just a hunch,” he said. “Razor Fraser has likely accumulated income he cannot properly account for. I wouldn’t be surprised if the business doing the renovations is owned by him. Then he has the work end up over budget, and pays himself the difference from a stack of pound notes given to him by his criminal clients, so the illegal income gets washed clean. All sorts of ways ’round the taxman for a rogue like him.”

  “Do you believe him about his gang drawing the line at crimes against young girls?” I asked Payne.

  “From what I know of Fraser, I’d guess he believes that. There is a code of sorts among most villains. But there’s always a chance of one really rotten apple among all the merely bad.”

  Payne’s driver took us out of Hungerford, taking the long way around to Kintbury, since the main road was closed off because of military traffic. We could hear the roar of engines in the distance, perhaps the start of the maneuvers Tree had mentioned. I wondered if he’d found out anything useful at the Chilton Foliat jump school. We planned to meet for lunch at the Three Crowns Pub and exchange information. He was as anxious for me to solve the case of the murdered and missing girls as he was to get Angry Smith out of the slammer, now that wild rumors were sweeping through every base and billet in the area. As we drove along back roads where farmers were plowing their fields, I thought about Tree and how nothing was ever easy between us. It was like we could never simply do one thing and not have it cascade into a dozen problems. There was no straight line between us, only the hard angles of race and distrust, softened by familiarity, then hardened again by betrayal.

  I shook off the memories as the automobile gained the main road and we made for the outskirts of Kintbury, passing the Avington School, where Diana was paying her social call, or conducting an interrogation, depending on how you viewed things. The driver slowed as we approached Hedley’s Sweet Shop, and I could see a horse cart halted at the side of the shop.

  “That’s our man,” I said to Payne, pointing out Ernest Bone. He was unloading lumber from the cart and stacking it at the rear of the store. His shop adjoined a bakery on one side, but on the other there was nothing but a large shed, a fence, and open fields.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bone,” I said as we approached the store owner. He dropped the planks of lumber he’d carried on his shoulder from the cart onto sawhorses set up by the shed. For a paunchy older guy, he had some strength to him. A pony in traces whinnied as we walked by.

  “Captain Boyle,” he said. “Come back for more humbugs, have you?” He gave a nervous glance in Payne’s direction, and then spotted the uniformed constable in the car. “Did I break a law giving them out like that?”

  “As strict as the rationing laws are, Mr. Bone, I doubt a few humbugs would amount to a crime,” Payne said, showing his warrant card to indicate the formality of the visit. “We wanted to ask you a few more questions about the gentleman from the Newbury Building Society who came to see you about your loan.”

  “My loan? What about it?”

  “Does this man look familiar?” I said, holding out the picture of Stuart Neville at the Kennet Arms.

  “Yes, indeed it does. That’s the fellow from the Building Society. Wasn’t very pleased with his report, I can tell you that.”

  “Really? Do you remember when I asked if you knew a man by the name of Stuart Neville? Well, this is Neville, murdered shortly after visiting with you.”

  “What?” Bone looked shocked, his eyes wide. “But I didn’t recall his name, honestly. I had no idea it was the same man.”

  “Why weren’t you pleased with his report?” Payne asked.

  “Well, he didn’t approve the loan,” Bone said, “and I needed it for my kitchen and storage. There’s hardly enough room to make my boiled sweets, and I need a cool place to keep them. I make them all here, the old-fashioned way, Inspector. Over copper pans, you know.” Bone’s face brightened up as he spoke of his candy, which evidently was his passion.

  “Yes, you told me when I was last here. Did Neville tell you why he turned your application down?” Payne asked.

  “Not in so many words, but I got the impression he thought that with the war and rationing, I couldn’t make enough money to pay the loan back. He said that perhaps I should wait until peace had come, and people would have more time and money to buy sweets.”

  “Were you officially turned down?” I asked.

  “Yes, the Building Society sent a letter saying it hadn’t been approved.”

  “Did you ever see Neville again?” Payne asked.

  “No, never.” I watched for any sign of nervousness or deception, and saw only the gentle smile of a candy maker.

  “Did you have building plans drawn up?” I asked.

  “Nothing so fancy as that,” Bone said. “The society didn’t require it, and I figured why spend the money until I get the loan, right? But I wrote out everything I wanted to do and had a rough sketch I drew myself. The plan was to expand the kitchen, and build a storage area in the basement where it’s cool.”

  “Are you going to do the work yourself?” I asked, pointing to the lumber.

  “Oh, no, that’s too big a project for me. Just a bit of fixing up to hold things together. I’m glad I have Sally here to fetch the lumber for me.” He patted the pony and brushed her black mane. “A Dartmoor pony, she is. Children love her, which helps when we sell at fetes and the like. I put baskets of sweets in the cart and Sally draws them in, adults and kids alike. Everyone loves a pony, don’t they?”

  “Sounds like you have a good business for yourself, Mr. Bone,” I said.

  “Good enough. Someday better, I hope. Sorry I couldn’t help you, gentlemen. Inspector, do stop by again when I’m open, won’t you? There are all sorts of new temptations inside.” He waved us off, smiling as he caressed the mane on his Dartmoor pony.

  We left the temptatio
ns behind, driving to the Three Crowns to meet Tree.

  “Interesting that the society doesn’t require plans,” Payne said. “It fits my theory that Razor is funneling his illegal gains into a legitimate business.”

  “He probably paid Harrison Joinery a pretty penny for those drawings,” I said.

  “Yes. I think I’ll look into who does own that firm. Not that it will help us much, but at least it will make me feel like a policeman with a clue.”

  I knew the feeling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We waited for Tree for an hour at the Three Crowns. We’d eaten our rabbit-meat pasties and finished our pints. We went outside and took a seat on the bench-the same one that Tree, Kaz and I had sat on a few days ago-and let the warmth of the spring sun wash over us. The constable leaned against the automobile and lit a cigarette. It was quiet and peaceful, but I felt something was wrong. It wasn’t like Tree to let anyone down. Not Angry, not me, not his unit.

  “He probably couldn’t get away,” Payne said. “New orders or something. It is the army, after all.”

  “Maybe. But he said he was scouting sites for maneuvers this morning, and from what we saw today they’re about to start up. He should be done by now.”

  “Well, I hope they don’t ruin too many plowed fields,” Payne said. “I know they have to train, but some of your chaps-and ours too-get carried away. Stone walls knocked down, crops ruined, and who gets a call? The police, that’s who, and there’s damn little we can do about it.”

  “How about you drop me back at the inn so I can take a ride up to Chilton Foliat?” I said, hardly listening to Payne’s complaints. “I’ll look around and then head to the bivouac if I don’t find Tree there.”

  “If you’d like. I’ll be at the station later today if you want to come round,” Payne said. “Perhaps we should have another go with Flowers at the building society.”

  I agreed, and thirty minutes later I was negotiating the curves on my way into Chilton Foliat. I parked by the church, and walked through the graveyard where Constable Eastman’s body had been found. I followed the wide path we’d spotted in the woods, figuring I might as well check it out as a potential route for bringing a corpse to the cemetery.

  It would do fine. Wide, a bit rough in spots, but obviously a farm track a jeep could easily handle. Or a tractor, maybe a car, or a big strong guy carrying a body. I spotted Quonset huts through the trees, rows of them on a wide lawn sloping down from a large house with columns fronting it. The track merged with a paved lane that curved around a stand of fir trees and continued up to the house. Along the lane stood a row of sheds, a horse barn, and finally a thatched cottage, larger than my house back in Southie, probably originally lodgings for the manager of the estate. Whoever lived there now might have seen something that night, but it was hard to believe they would have stayed silent about it.

  Horses neighed from inside the barn as I passed, and I remembered that Constable Tom Eastman’s head had been bashed in. An accident, perhaps? A horse kicking and killing him, a nervous groom looking to hide his involvement? The cemetery was close, so why not leave Eastman on the family plot? Maybe, but maybes were as common as crows.

  I left the lane with its centuries-old stone-and-thatch buildings and walked between rows of that ubiquitous invention of the twentieth, the Quonset hut. Curved galvanized steel roofs over ends of plywood, they housed tens of thousands of GIs all over this island. The paths between the huts were covered with wood planks, like the sidewalks in an old western movie. I heard the rumble of boots stomping on wood, and caught a glimpse of men running toward the road that went up to the main house. Agitated shouts came from the road, and I double-timed it to see what was going on.

  It was a fight. A circle of GIs five deep were yelling and whooping it up, clapping and waving their fists. It sounded like they were having fun, but I couldn’t tell if it was a fair fight or not. If it was, I’d probably leave the enlisted men to their own devices. If not, I should act the officer and break it up. Then I heard it, loud and clear.

  “Give it to the nigger! Give it to ’im, Charlie!” I felt a moment of panic, knowing somehow that it had to be Tree in trouble. I pushed my way through the frenetic crowd, and as guys noticed my captain’s bars some faded away, suddenly needing to be somewhere else. Before I saw Tree, I saw Charlie. Charlie was huge, fists the size of hams and arms thick with muscle. He seemed to tower over Tree, but he had him by only a matter of inches in height. In terms of coiled power and weight, he had him beat six ways to Sunday.

  Charlie moved like an ox. Tree danced around him, coming out of his shadow and trying to throw a punch but coming up short. He stumbled but regained his footing quickly, moving to the edge of the crowd. I didn’t dare call his name and distract him, leaving him open to a roundhouse punch from a freight train.

  Tree didn’t look like he could last much longer. One eye was swollen shut, he was bleeding from his nose and a cut above the open eye, and he kept his left hand down, probably protecting a cracked rib. Aside from the vacant look in his eyes, which he’d probably been born with, Charlie didn’t have a mark on him. Another GI in the circle had a black eye, and his knuckles were scraped and bleeding. Charlie wasn’t Tree’s first opponent in this rigged fight.

  I shoved a corporal standing next to me. I tapped my bars for emphasis.

  “Ten-hut!” he shouted, and snapped to attention like a good soldier. Most of the men followed his example, and saluted. I returned the salute, noting that more GIs slithered away from the rear of the crowd. Tree kept silent, swaying in the stillness as blood dripped on the ground in front of him. He turned his good eye toward me, his fists still raised. He spat blood.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked.

  “Just a fight between friends, Captain,” a sergeant said as he stepped forward. He wore an MP’s white brassard.

  “You’re an MP and you let this fight continue?”

  “Well, the boys were riled up a bit, and the only way to calm things down, sir, was to let them blow off some steam with a fair fight. This here nigger started it, anyway.” He gestured to Tree with his thumb. I noticed another GI with a bloody nose behind him. I stepped forward and grabbed his hands. He flinched as I squeezed his swollen knuckles.

  “You, Private,” I said to Charlie. “Why did you fight this man?”

  “I do a lot of fighting, Captain.” Charlie’s voice came out in a low rumble.

  “Yeah, but why him, today?”

  “I dunno. Sarge just said to put him down, so I stepped in. He’s hard to hit, though.”

  “This sergeant?” I said, pointing to the MP.

  “Yeah, that’s Sarge.” Charlie probably knew there were other sergeants in the army, but to his dim lightbulb of a brain, there was only one Sarge. His.

  “How did this start, Sergeant?” I said, restraining myself from clocking him one.

  “Somebody said there was a colored boy drivin’ a jeep, and that it might be one of them who took that white girl. You know, the one that was found in the canal?” He shrugged, as if that was explanation enough for a beating.

  “Yes, Sergeant. It was the Negro unit that found her, helping the police with their search.”

  “Well, there you go,” he said, as if that confirmed all his prejudices. “So a few of the boys went up to ask him, and I guess he back-talked, which a few of the fellas didn’t take to. He sounded like one of them northern coloreds, you know? Acting better than he ought to. So I come along to be sure nothing got outta hand. Pulled ’em apart and made sure it was just one-on-one.”

  “So you’re the ringmaster here, sending in three men to fight one?”

  “Not at the same time, Captain. Now you ask that colored boy if he wants to complain about anything at all. Ask him if he didn’t agree to it, too. Go ahead, it’s a free country.”

  I looked to Tree. He shook his head, signaling to leave things alone. He was right. If he filed a complaint there’d be a dozen witnesses swearing h
e started the whole thing, and he’d be the one in the slammer. He buckled at the knees and fell into Charlie, who grabbed his collar and held him up easily with one hand.

  “You got an infirmary here?” I asked.

  “For white men, sure,” the sergeant said.

  “I’ll take him, Sarge,” Charlie said. “Wouldn’t want Sobel to find out we didn’t treat a man hurt after a fair fight.” Charlie looked like a dumb ox, but he knew how to handle his sergeant.

  “Okay, okay,” the sergeant said. “Clear out, the bunch of ya, show’s over!” The crowd dispersed, except for a civilian who might have been the caretaker. He wore a cloth cap, Wellington boots, old corduroys, and three-day stubble. He looked thirty or so, but the grin on his face made it hard to tell. A cigarette was crammed into the corner of his mouth, and he puffed and blew smoke without removing it. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away, throwing a last glance after us. He didn’t look like the sociable type.

  “Who’s Sobel?” I asked as Charlie and I each took an arm and walked Tree to the infirmary.

  “Captain Sobel, he’s in charge of the jump school,” Charlie said. “He goes by the book. Real strict.”

  “Charlie, did you hit Tree? It looks like you could break him in half with one hand.”

  “Tree? Is that what they call him?” Tree moaned at the mention of his name, and gripped my shoulder tighter.

  “Yeah, because he’s so tall. You didn’t hit him, did you?”

  “No, sir. Sarge wanted me to, but he’d already fought two guys and they got him good a few times. Didn’t seem right. Not sure I could have, the way he moved so fast.”

  “Coupla … more minutes … you woulda,” Tree croaked.

  “Maybe,” Charlie said. “Maybe not.”

  Charlie stayed with us while a medic patched Tree up. Other than commenting on how much blood was pouring out of him, he didn’t mention color, so I figured the sergeant’s comment about “whites only” was all bluster.