float. No, check that. No one could have known I was headed to that part of the canal. I was sure I wasn’t followed. So it was a chance encounter, an attack of opportunity. What was important was the suitcase. Someone, probably the same person I spooked without knowing it, had planted it there. Why? To throw suspicion on Neville, or possibly Miller. Or maybe to distance himself from the scene of the crime.
As far as Angry Smith went, all I knew was that he was innocent, the victim of a perfunctory CID investigation. The agents had gone straight to the easiest answer, and the fact that Angry had been seeing a white girl certainly hadn’t helped move the wheels of justice in the right direction. I liked the notion of the killing being linked to Sam Eastman’s past. It made sense, in a warped sort of way. Sam arrests a guy who is sent to prison or the lunatic asylum. Time passes and that guy gets out, and he decides to take his revenge-no, make that a relative, someone close to the imprisoned guy. Sam is long dead, so this avenger kills his son Tom, and deposits his body on the grave. A final insult. Nice and neat, except for how much time had passed since the elder Eastman had been on the force. I couldn’t see an old man coming out of the joint and carting Tom Eastman’s corpse through that cemetery. I’d heard revenge was a dish best served cold, but this revenge had been in the ice box a damned long time. I needed to learn more about Sam Eastman. But first, it was time to meet Inspector Payne at the Newbury Building Society and bang our heads against that wall for a while.
When I arrived at the building society at nine o’clock, it was raining even harder, with rolls of distant thunder echoing off the buildings. I dashed in and found Payne shaking off his umbrella in the foyer.
“Damned rain,” he said, stamping the wet off his feet. “Any word on Major Cosgrove?”
“No,” I said. “I sent Kaz over to see how he’s doing. I’ll drop by after we’re done here.”
“Too bad,” he said. “Not the most likable chap, but it’s a pity to finish up like that. Had an uncle who had a heart attack and lived. Doctor told him to stay in bed, and so the fool did. For the next three years.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Had another heart attack and died. Nothing the doctors can do about it, so they tell you to rest. Not the way to go out of this life, with nothing but bedsores to show for your last days. But that’s neither here nor there.” He leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “Follow my lead. I won’t reveal it was Miss Gardner who put us onto Neville’s last appointments.”
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?”
