the body.”
“I’d rather speak to them myself, before you tell me what they said. Is that all right?”
“It’s the way I’d prefer it, should I ever find myself getting in the way of a murder investigation in America. Go on in, you’ll find them in the kitchen.”
“Have you canvassed the neighborhood yet?” I asked.
“No, I planned to do that next. We’re shorthanded here, and with a man out front waiting for you and one in the back standing over the body, I had no one to send.”
“Sergeant Miecznikowski-you can call him Big Mike-was also a cop back in the States. He can help out with that.”
“I believe I will use the nickname,” Payne said, giving Big Mike a wink. “Constable Higgins, take the sergeant along and check the neighbors. Ask about anything unusual during the night or early morning.”
“And ask them if they were used to seeing Neville out at odd hours, and if he went boating,” I said. “His feet are wet.”
“There are puddles on the path along the canal,” Payne said. “Could have come from there. The ground is hardpacked, though, no footprints. So, off with you, Higgins. Lieutenant Kazimierz, perhaps you should wait outside, to keep up the appearance of a purely American involvement.”
“Excellent idea, Inspector,” Kaz said. His British uniform with the
“Have at him,” Payne said. “Give whatever you find to Constable Gilbert.”
“When you’re done, Kaz, take a walk along the canal and check things out. Neville and his assailant probably came from that direction.”
I followed the inspector inside. The aroma of coffee and cigarette smoke hung in the air. I entered the kitchen as Payne tromped down the hall to use the telephone.
“Sir!” A US Army Air Force buck sergeant stood to attention. His eyes were wide, his expression fearful, but his posture was good. He looked nineteen, twenty tops.
“Relax, soldier,” I said, focusing on the Millers, who sat at the kitchen table, eyeing me. “I’m Captain Billy Boyle. Would you mind answering a few more questions?”
“Yes, certainly,” George Miller said, nodding in excessive agreement. His English was good but the accent was perceptible, the same as the potbelly stretching the buttons on his vest. “Anything we can do to help. This is a terrible business.”
“Please, sit down, Captain. May I offer you coffee?” Carla Miller looked at me expectantly. Her English was also good, clipped with a British accent, either picked up here or from the person who taught her. She had a healthy look about her, ruddy cheeks, fair skin, and blonde hair shot through with strands of grey.
“Thank you, Mrs. Miller, that would be nice.” I sat, and motioned for my fellow Yank to sit as well. I wanted them at ease, and the best way to do that was to make this a social call. Coffee and chitchat about the dead guy outside.
“A terrible business,” Carla Miller said, busying herself with a cup and saucer. “Who could do such a thing to poor Mr. Neville?”
“And why, that’s what I wonder,” George Miller said. “There must be a lunatic loose. It makes no sense.” George lit a cigarette, after offering me one. A Lucky Strike. I said no, and made a mental note that Sergeant Jerome Sullivan was no dummy, bringing gifts of scarce smokes and java to his girlfriend’s parents. George shook his head sadly, blowing blue smoke in every direction.
“He was a boarder here?” I asked as Carla set a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. It would be impolite to ask for sugar with wartime rationing, unless that luxury was included among Jerome’s gifts.
“Yes. Mr. Neville has been with us over a year now,” Carla said, her accent almost musical in its cadence. “Or was.”
“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?”
