Nobody's Perfect

by Douglas Clark

  “What sort of a car is it?”

  “How the devil do I know? It shouldn’t be beyond your powers to find out.”

  Green grew angry. “And what the hell does it matter if it was here? Huth was here. That’s all we want to know.”

  “I want to know if Huth was in his office all yesterday afternoon, dying.”

  “That’ll help, I suppose?”

  “It might.” Masters turned to Hill. “Ring up the secretary of the Association — the number’s bound to be in the book somewhere — and ask him whether Huth attended yesterday’s meeting. And don’t be put off by a simple ‘no.’ Make sure he was expected to be there, just in case he told people here he was going but wasn’t really intending to.”

  “What if he’s left his office?”

  “Chase him at home. Give me the answer in the morning.”

  *

  The house was even bigger than Masters had thought it would be. In the darkness it loomed, unlit, before him. He thought Hath must have splurged after his earning power had soared.

  There was no sign of servants. Mrs Huth answered his ring and let him in after he’d told her who he was. She appeared to be alone in the house. He guessed she was slightly older than her husband; in her middle forties. She was tall and big-boned, with iron-grey hair cut straight with a fringe. She was wearing a tweed skirt and fawn cardigan, and one leg was swathed in an elastic bandage under the stocking. She wore low-heeled shoes and walked with a slight limp. He thought she looked competent: just the sort of woman to mother fine sons, but who might easily be a failure with daughters. She was emphatically not his idea of the wife of a youthful industrialist, and as far as he could tell she showed no signs of distress at her husband’s death.

  He liked the house but not the furnishings. There were none of the economies of the born well-to-do. No loose covers to make a still serviceable suite last a few years longer. No old piece pressed into use in a modern setting because it would have been wasteful to throw it out. The furniture was expensive, but had not been collected over the years. He imagined he could have ordered it all in one day from the various departments of any one of the big stores. The patterns of carpets and curtains were futuristic. The lampshades were cylindrical and hung at uneven heights. The upholstery reminded him of battledress serge.

  She showed him into her sitting-room. He felt it impersonal and couldn’t reconcile it with the impression he had of the woman.

  He said, “Who told you your husband was dead?”

  “Superintendent Bale. He rang at a quarter past nine this morning. Soon afterwards, Dr Mouncer rang, too.”

  “I must apologize for not getting in touch with you myself before now.”

  “You must have been very busy.” Her voice was clear, with none of the despondency he would have expected.

  He approved her attitude. It made it easier for him, and he admired courage. “I shall have to ask you some questions. Personal questions. Probably painful ones.”

  She said, “I once read that in any case of sudden death the police investigate the next of kin very closely.”

  She’d had all day to prepare for a visit. He wondered if she’d rehearsed her part, it was so well controlled.

  “Mr Huth was murdered.”

  “I hadn’t been told, but I guessed as much. The Superintendent was very guarded when he spoke to me.”

  “And Dr Mouncer?”

  “Not very sure what had happened. When you arrived my suspicions were confirmed. You deal almost exclusively with murder, don’t you?”

  “Murders are the only cases that get into the papers. I’ve plenty of less lurid ones to deal with in the average day’s work. However, I thought I might have met you earlier.”

  “You’re surprised I didn’t call at Barugt House?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was obeying orders. I asked the Superintendent if I should go over and he said he would prefer me not to. Perhaps he thought I should be hysterical. Dick Mouncer also suggested I should keep clear and let you come to me when you wanted to see me. So you see, it wasn’t sheer indifference that kept me away; and, of course, I went to the mortuary this afternoon.”

  He felt she was rebuking him, as though he had suggested she had neglected her wifely duty. It often happened. People read more into simple questions than a mere request for information. He regretted this woman had done it. She seemed to be too perceptive to make such a mistake.

  He said, “I didn’t mean to imply you were indifferent, and I’m sure you were being co-operative, but I thought you would have been anxious because your husband didn’t come home last night. Weren’t you surprised that he didn’t?”

  “Not particularly. He said he might stay in London.”

  “Might stay? Not definitely?”

  “Adam was not thoughtless about letting me know his definite movements. He always did whenever possible, but for the past five or six years he’s been difficult to keep track of. These American firms are restless, you know. Opportunists. They expect their top men to dart about, finding new openings for markets, creating trends favourable to their own marketing techniques, pressurizing competitors, and finding new ways of doing everything under the sun in the hope that some graph will plateau higher up the scale or run off the chart altogether.”

  “Did he stay away very often without letting you know he definitely wouldn’t be home?”

  “Not often. But often enough for it to be no cause for surprise. He kept an overnight bag ready packed in his office in case he had to go off somewhere at short notice.”

  “Without picking up the phone to let you know?”

  She hesitated a moment. Then: “I was out sometimes when he rang.”

  “No servant to take a message? Couldn’t his P. A. have rung you when you got home?”

  “I’ve said that his unexplained absences were very occasional, and usually he’d warned me to expect them.”

  “When they happened were you worried?”

  “Not after the first few times. I didn’t like it, of course. No woman would.”

  He asked, “What did you think he was doing on these occasions?”

  “Work.” There was no compromise in the answer.

  “Did he always tell you afterwards where he’d been and why?”

  “Yes. Always.” The shortness of the reply was defensive, he thought. Why was she not enlarging on the circumstances which had kept Huth from home without warning?

  He said, “Thank you. You can see I had to know if he was expected home last night or not. And if he was, why no enquiries had been made as to his whereabouts.” He realized he was talking like a constable in the witness box.

  Although he had put no question she said, “We are — were — a sophisticated couple. We were often apart during our married lives. Adam was a sales manager before he went to Barugt as Sales Director. In both jobs he found it necessary to be away for days at a time, travelling round his field force, going to lectures, meetings, and medical symposiums. Since he became chairman he has travelled even further afield, to Europe and America, as well as in this country. We never clung in the sense that we couldn’t be apart.”

  “Now you’ll be alone altogether?”

  “I have two children. Both away at school.”

  “And you’ll be all right for money?”

  She didn’t claim her affairs were no business of his, but explained the position quite readily. “Adam had a current salary of fifteen thousand a year. That sounds a lot — it is a lot — particularly before tax is taken off. But you must remember he only had that much for the last two years. Six years ago, when he became chairman, he had ten thousand. Before that we had between two and four thousand.” She gestured round the room. “All this cost a lot of money which we could well afford if the salary had continued. Now the situation may be different.”

  “Will there be a pension?”

  “No. Unfortunately the Barugt scheme only allows a man to decide whether he will take his ow
n full pension, or take half and leave half for his wife should she live the longer, during his last five years in the company. Adam was only in his forties. He would have had to wait until he reached sixty before making the choice.”

  “Insurance?”

  “There I shall be lucky. The company pays a lump sum of three times the annual salary for death while still employed. And, of course, there are private policies, too.”

  He said, “So apart from your husband’s estate, you will get over fifty thousand pounds.”

  “I shall invest most of it for the children and then go back to teaching.”

  “You are a qualified teacher?”

  “I taught in a girls’ grammar school. I have a degree in chemistry.”

  He said, trying to sound as if it was of no importance: “And although you might have grown a bit rusty at teaching, you’ve kept your science up to date with pharmaceuticals?”

  “You could say that. I made no conscious effort to learn anything of Adam’s work, but the knowledge has accumulated almost unnoticed, through conversations and reading journals.”

  “Do you know a bit about every side of the business? Things like advertising and packaging, for instance?”

  “Packaging, certainly. I was always being asked whether I would prefer to buy pills in bottles, bubble packs, or tear-off strips; whether I thought pale pink was a suitable colour for pediatric product wrappings; and whether I thought slide boxes more convenient than foam-lined pouches for carrying soft pills in a handbag. I found it very interesting.”

  “Did your husband ever bring samples home?”

  “Goodness, yes. Our family medicine chest is full of them. Just those it’s safe to use for self-medication, of course.”

  “No scheduled drugs at all?”

  “Not one. I wouldn’t have them in the house because of the children, and we’ve stuck to that rule even though the children are growing up and are away from home now.”

  “What about some non-scheduled drug like … well, say Nutidal, which is one of the big sellers, I believe?”

  “We wouldn’t have that, would we? It’s a specific. No use for any illness except cystitis or some other urinary infection.”

  Masters watched her closely. “Your husband was taking Nutidal at the time of his death.”

  “Adam was?” He could have sworn the surprise was genuine. “He never told me. Who prescribed them for him?”

  “Dr Mouncer.”

  “Why didn’t Adam tell me?”

  “Dr Mouncer said he was reticent about such things as urinary tract infections.”

  “He was, I’m afraid. He was brought up in a very Victorian household, and both his parents were getting on a bit when he was born. One didn’t mention certain things. A lot of that attitude could still be found in Adam.”

  “If his attitude was so strait-laced, would you say that he was unlikely to have had any women friends? Other than yourself, I mean.”

  “I don’t quite understand what you mean by women friends. Wives of friends and acquaintances? Or do you mean had he a mistress?”

  “A mistress.”

  “Who knows?” For the first time he thought he could detect a note of bitterness in her voice. “Perhaps he had, without my being aware of it. It would be in keeping, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t the Victorian paterfamilias supposed to have been the biggest rake of all time?”

  “That sounds as if you have had your suspicions.”

  “Nothing of the sort.” She rose and limped over to a side table. “Can I get you a drink. I should have offered you one when you arrived.”

  “I’d like a gin and tonic, please.”

  “I didn’t expect you to say yes.”

  “Why not?”

  “Policemen on duty just don’t — or so we’re led to believe.”

  “A popular fallacy.” He walked across to collect the drink. “I’m on duty twenty-four hours a day. If my superiors want to call me out at three in the morning, cancel my leave without notice, or send me to Timbuctoo, they can do so and I’ve got no grounds for complaint. If I never drank on duty I’d never have a drink.”

  She walked back to her chair with a glass of brandy and ginger. He followed and sat down again. She didn’t touch her drink. She said, “I can see where your questions are leading.”

  “I warned you they might be painful.”

  “Do you realize that nobody has yet told me how Adam died? I’ve seen his body, so I know he wasn’t shot or coshed. So I imagine you’re not looking for a thug. If he was poisoned — and I think he was — you could be looking for literally any type of murderer. Including a partially crippled, but otherwise healthy, woman who is now a widow with a motive worth Fifty thousand pounds. At this moment you are obviously trying to credit her with a desire to be rid of a husband who was deceiving her.” He held up his hand to stop her. She went on: “No. Please let me finish. What I can say in all honesty is that I was not aware that Adam was having an affair. And one other thing: I did not leave the house last night, though I realize that in a case of poisoning whether I left home or not could be immaterial.”

  “You said you had no knowledge of an affair. Did you have any suspicions? On the nights he didn’t come home?”

  “I don’t believe I did.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “You don’t want suspicions or opinions, do you? Aren’t you interested only in facts?”

  “Hard facts are just the kernel of the nut. What surrounds them has to be cracked.”

  “So you’ll believe just what you want to. Or have you proof that Adam was carrying on with some other woman? Have I really been blind? The last to know?”

  “I shall believe what you’ve told me. Until I’ve reason not to.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’m not here to answer questions, but I’ll explain my thoughts. If I find a man staying away from home at night without giving his wife an explanation before he goes, I immediately suspect another woman. And I’m usually right. So I’ve questioned you on this point, and I shall go on probing until I know for certain that there isn’t another woman involved. It sounds dirty, but my job, and murder, are like that. But it doesn’t mean that I automatically disbelieve everything I’m told. I’ve said I believe you.”

  “But the suspicion that I killed my husband still remains.”

  “It’s got to. I know that whoever murdered Mr Huth was somebody very close to him. So I can’t exclude anybody in that category — least of all you — until I know the answer.”

  “He was poisoned?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s why you were so interested in my knowledge of pharmaceuticals.” She picked up her glass, and with the first sign of nervousness she had shown, held it to her lips with both hands and drained it. She put it down and looked at him. “But why all those questions about packaging?”

  He didn’t reply. He put down his empty glass and stood up. She rose and stood beside him. “Thank you at least for saying you believe me about Adam, and for being so frank about the situation I’m in.”

  She showed him out. He walked away wondering whether people like him were not sometimes very lax in confirming facts. He’d believed Miss Krick’s admission that she had been Huth’s mistress simply because it seemed unlikely that any girl would say she was involved if she wasn’t. But what if Krick had been yearning for her employer’s favours and had dreamed up the seductions she claimed had taken place? He felt this exempted him from guilt for the half-lie he had told Mrs Huth. He had no absolute proof of her husband’s unfaithfulness.

  By the time he caught the tube he decided he was only having this debate with himself because he liked Mrs Huth. And that, he thought, was not a good thing at the moment. He had to stay impartial.

  3

  Wednesday morning was again bright and fair. Though they set out in the early part of the rush hour, Hill made good time because the main flow of traffic was inwards to London. Masters to
ld Green of his talk with Mrs Huth. Green annoyed him by saying, “She sounds a fly customer. Ramming her own motives down your throat like that.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Masters. “It would have been useless for her to try and hide them. We’d have found out soon enough.”

  “That’s what I mean. She knew she couldn’t keep it a secret how much money she’ll get, so she blurted it out to show you how truthful she is. But you notice she didn’t admit anything she thought you couldn’t prove. She didn’t say she knew her old man was carrying on with another woman.”

  “I thought she was telling the truth.”

  Green replied with a curl of his lip. “Garn tittle! Any woman knows whether her old man s having a bit on the side or not. You get married and see.”

  “Krick says it didn’t happen often. It could have escaped Mrs Huth’s notice.”

  “Blow that for a game of soldiers.” said Green offensively. “I’ll bet what Huth sampled once he’d want again pretty often. Probably not with Krick because she’s a bit prissy. I tried to have a parley-voo with her yesterday and all she could say was ‘Pardon? Pardon?’ to everything I said. She struck me as the sort who’d be frightened of getting her hands dirty in bed.”

  “What about the common belief that the wife is always the last to know?”

  “Did she pull that one on you, too? Well, of course, she would. I’d believe it if the wife was some downtrodden little dumb cluck without a word to say for herself, but you say Mrs Huth is pretty wide awake. She’s got enough nous to know what was going on, and to tell you she didn’t know. It’s an old trick. First she tried to defend herself by telling the truth, then when she saw she’d got you round to believing her she started the lies. What I’d like to know is why she did it. If she’s got nothing to hide.”

  Masters remembered his own half-lie of the night before, and said: “Everybody’s got something to hide. It’s not easy for a proud woman to admit her husband preferred somebody else.”

  “Not easy. But it’s safer, in a murder case. She’d be able to work that out all right. So why not say so?”

  Masters grudgingly admitted that there was some logic behind Green’s argument. But it was all based on supposition. He decided to ignore it, and said no more until they reached Barugt House. Green had the keys to Huth’s suite. He opened up. The rooms were stuffy from overheating and too much stale smoke.