Nobody's Perfect

by Douglas Clark

  “How soon will a new chairman be appointed?”

  “In confidence, the man we shall get has already been earmarked by America.”

  “Not from within the Company?”

  “We shall soon be pressing money into the palm of the managing director of one of our competitors. He may well be one of A.A.’s former lambs coming back to take over.”

  Masters stood up. “I’m meeting Dr Mouncer for lunch at one. Just so that I shan’t be putting my foot in it, does he know everything you’ve told me?”

  “Everything. There’ll be no need to watch your tongue.”

  “Thanks. For the time as well as the information.”

  Barraclough came round from behind his desk. “I’ve wanted to talk like that to somebody for a long time. Thank you for listening. I hope it helped.”

  “It did. Enormously. You’ve no idea how bewildering it can be being pitchforked into an organization like this; to take it to pieces without undoing any of the parts.”

  “I have. We brought in a firm of business consultants to advise us on part of our field operation. It took them three months to find their way round. Or, at least, that’s what they charged us for.”

  *

  “The fool,” said Mouncer. “The blind, stupid fool. I’m not worried about Torr himself, you understand, or his racing colleagues. I’m more concerned about the greyhounds than any of them.”

  Masters said: “And about something else, even more important?”

  “Yes. The tranquillizers. We’re just beginning to find out that helpful as they are to many people, even these mild relaxants are dangerous in the wrong hands. The Dunlop Committee has just attributed over ninety deaths to them. And Torr, the thundering idiot, has been distributing them wholesale to witless thugs. You appreciate the danger, I hope?”

  Masters said gravely: “You mean that because they appear to be relatively harmless — simply strong enough to sedate dogs without any ill effects — some of these people might have been eating them like Smarties.”

  “With the possibility of serious sequelae. Every little girl clerk in this organization should know better. Does know better. In fact, some of the senior typists and secretaries could give points to some doctors concerning our own products. But Torr! I’d like to flog the oaf.” Mouncer’s mouth set in a hard line. He picked up a spoon and attacked his chocolate mousse.

  When he had finished, he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and went on: “There’s the possibility of scandal, too. Don’t smile. It’s a reaction you meet every day of your life, no doubt. And it’s laughable. But I want you to understand that scandal doesn’t worry me for my own sake. But the reputation of this firm is above rubies. Not only for me as Medical Director and the rest who earn their bread and butter here, but for the world at large. If some physicians — and there are as many bigoted asses in their ranks as in any other walk of life — were to stop prescribing Barugt drugs because they lost faith in the Company, we should lose a few pounds in profits, but many sick people would not get the best treatment available. I say that because some of our drugs have no equals anywhere in the world.”

  “I’ll put in a special plea for discretion to be shown,” said Masters. “I’m expecting Superintendent Bale this afternoon, and I’ll mention it to him. He’ll do what he can.”

  Mouncer murmured: “Grateful. We’ll get — are getting — enough notoriety over A.A.’s death. Though, to be fair, the tone of the Press is helpful and hopeful. Due, no doubt, to your being on the case.”

  Masters laughed “My mother has turned herself into a press-cutting agency with only one client. We’ll be moving to bigger premises any day now.”

  Mouncer pushed his chair back. “Don’t discourage her. Her efforts must be encouraging to you, and I’m a great believer in the power of encouragement. It cures as many ills as drugs do — given the chance. And in your case I should say it serves to enhance, or at least confirm, your belief in yourself, thereby making you a better policeman.”

  Masters said: “You extend psychological cures into the realms of psychological success.”

  Mouncer said: “Don’t be too cynical.” He ushered Masters to the door. “It’s a proven fact that fourteen per cent of all patients involved in drug trials respond to placebos, because they’re under the impression they’re getting the latest — and, therefore, to them, the best — of wonder drugs. The old bromides like ‘Think you can and you will’ were all, to some extent, based on experiences and observations the facts of which we are only just rediscovering with the help of computers.”

  They went up together in the lift. Mouncer went straight to his own office. Green and the sergeants joined Masters in Huth’s office.

  Masters said: “I’ve had too good a lunch to want to move out of this chair this afternoon. What about anybody else?”

  “You’re all right,” said Green. “You can sit here and wait for the Super. We’re trying to find missing phenobarb. In a place like this! If we have any luck it’ll be a miracle.”

  “You’ve checked the Pharmacy records?”

  “Back to the year spit. All accounted for.”

  “And Reculver’s department?”

  “He’s got a doctor’s signature for every grain sent out since his books were last inspected. I haven’t been down to see Pitt yet. but it’s too much to hope that I’ll be lucky with him a second time.”

  Masters said: “You’ve got to try him.”

  “I know.”

  Hill said: “I’ve been on to the hospital. Dieppe’s comfortable, but they don’t want him to be questioned just yet if we don’t have to see him.”

  “Skip it. If the Pharmacy stock of phenobarbitone is all accounted for we’ll forget Dieppe for the moment. I can’t see him fiddling it from anywhere else.” He turned to Green. “Can you?”

  “No.” It was definite. The certainty of a man whose experience has taught him when he can be sure of things. Masters was pleased. Green was having a more cooperative phase. He thought it might even be Green’s birthday and his wife had remembered to give him a present.

  Masters said: “But I would like to know about the strange cigar. Have we had the report on it yet?”

  “Verbal only,” said Hill. “I rang last night. The full report is being typed today and you’ll get it when you call in at the Yard.”

  “What’s it going to say?”

  “The cigar’s a Du Plat. Pretty common these days because they’re being pushed to take the place of fags. Their adverts take the line that if you’re a cigarette smoker you’ll find a Du Plat just as mild and satisfying as a Virginian; and they reckon that old and young of both sexes enjoy them equally. And that’s about right, because I think their main sales are among the longhaired lot.”

  Masters sat thinking over what he’d heard before lunch from Barraclough. He’d had little time to assimilate it while listening to Mouncer’s views. Bale walked in.

  “Any luck?” he asked Masters.

  “If you mean have we made an arrest the answer is no.”

  Bale peered at him and then said: “You don’t look too despondent.” He turned to look at the others. “But these three look pretty glum.”

  Hill said: “Chief Inspector Masters has spent the last two days proving that most of our suspects are innocent, sir.”

  Bale said: “That’s what I like to hear. Rule out those who couldn’t have done it and whoever’s left is your man. So you see, sergeant, you’re progressing.”

  “There’s nigh on eight hundred suspects in this case,” grumbled Green. “And when you’ve got to comb the whole lot in the hope of finding a thimbleful of phenobarb, it looks like being a long job.”

  Masters said: “It really is too early to tell yet. What about the inquest?”

  “Person or Persons Unknown. And nothing said for you to worry about. The funeral’s on Saturday.”

  Green and the two sergeants went off to continue their search. Masters and Bale sat down and Masters report
ed what had been done to date. When he had finished Bale said: “You’ve covered some ground. I’m surprised to hear you’re not considering the Krick woman. She had the best opportunity, you know. And a motive. It’s a bit difficult to believe she sat in her office all afternoon and heard no movement in here.”

  “From a semi-comatose man? This room is almost soundproof. We’ve tried it. And Krick’s windows look out onto the main road. There’s not a high level of noise if the windows are closed, but there’s a constant background of sound from the traffic. You don’t notice it unless you stop to listen, but it’s loud enough to drown the noise of any weak movement in here.”

  Bale stood up. “I’m going before I get taught any more lessons. By the way, thanks for Torr. It was a bit of luck, Green stumbling on him like that.”

  Masters agreed in a dry voice. Green had lived up to his reputation for taking credit that wasn’t entirely his.

  Bale said: “I’m wondering if I can’t get Torr for defrauding punters as well as everything else we’re throwing at him. What silly idiots some men are.”

  Masters accompanied him to the lifts.

  5

  Hill had joined Green and Brant in the search for phenobarbitone. Masters was alone. For a long time he sat and thought. The smoke from his pipe turned the air a dirty grey. The pipe needed cleaning and smelt foul. After half an hour it tasted foul, too. He got up and helped himself to a glass of tonic water from Huth’s stock. He was still smoking and thinking when the afternoon tea trolley arrived. In all, he sat for two hours considering the people he had met in the last three days and going over carefully in his mind what each one had said. Recalling their expressions and their attitudes, he was sweeping up facts that had fallen round him like poppy petals at a Remembrance ceremony. Now he gathered them together. Occasionally he referred to retrospective notes he had made or the copies the others had made. Finally, when he discovered he’d drunk so many cups he’d drained the pot intended for four, he took his coat from the studio couch. He put it on as he went down in the lift to look for Green. He found him talking to the woman who served in the Company shop.

  “Any luck?”

  “Not a skerrick,” said Green. “I’m trying here, but I know they never touch dangerous stuff.”

  Masters said: “I’m going to see Mrs Huth. Make your way back without me when you’re ready to go. Can I borrow Hill to run me to a bus stop?”

  Green said: “He’s about somewhere.”

  “Before I go, I’ve remembered something that might be worth looking into.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’ve a display case museum outside the library on the fifth floor. Near the back stairs. It’s got packets of all their drugs in it. See if the phenobarb bottle is full or empty.”

  Green called Brant and Hill. Brant went with him to investigate the museum.

  It was nearly dark when Masters arrived at Huth’s house. Mrs Huth again answered the door herself. He felt glad she hadn’t gone into any form of mourning. She didn’t seem surprised to see him.

  This time she led him to a small breakfast room. He saw she had been using it as a general living-room. Newspapers on the chairs, correspondence and an open book on the sideboard, and a white West Highland terrier standing perkily before an open fire. “It’s cosy in here,” she said. “It has the only chimney in the house that isn’t blocked. I insisted on having one left when the central heating was put in. I love a fire. I can only burn smokeless fuel, of course, but it glows nicely, don’t you think?”

  He agreed with her. The dog nosed him. It decided he could be trusted. It put its forepaws up on his knee and stretched, depressing its back in a downward curve of canine elegance.

  “Down, Talcum! Silly name for a dog. He gets Tally most of the time the children are here. Sit down and have a cup of tea, Chief Inspector. It’s already made, I’m indulging myself with a book and a fire.”

  “I don’t blame you. Enjoy it while you can.”

  She didn’t falter in pouring out the tea, but she said: “That sounds ominous.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. If you go back to teaching you’ll be returning to discipline, with a timetable to keep to.”

  He thought it must be at least his sixth cup of tea that afternoon, but it was the best. He sipped it slowly, while still steaming hot. It gave her time to adjust herself to his presence, although he didn’t think she really needed it. At last he said: “This is very pleasant, but I’m not here on just a social call.”

  “I hadn’t made the mistake of thinking you were.”

  He said: “I called because the time has come for me to know some of the more intimate details of your life with your husband.”

  “Oh, dear! I’m not unusually prudish, but I do like to keep my private life to myself.”

  “Believe me, I understand. But I’ve got to ask you some more questions. I’ve learned a bit about Mr Huth’s character. All to his credit. But I’m sure I haven’t got everything I should have. I haven’t had time to get round to everybody in Barugt. But it seems to me to be contrary to nature to find a man virtually without faults. And it’s even more unusual to find a very successful man, who is respected by everybody, murdered in his office. I’m looking for a weakness in his character. Something that would provide somebody with a motive for murder.”

  “You think he must have seriously offended somebody? Enough to lead to murder?”

  He said: “I can’t think what fault or offence could be serious enough to warrant murder. But it seems logical to suppose that is what happened.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “Because he wasn’t murdered for the money he had in his pocket. As far as we can tell, no envious business competitor killed him. There are none of the usual motives like jealousy, greed and envy which spring entirely from within the brain of the murderer. So I’m assuming that the reason for the murder is to be found inside the character of the victim himself. Now it’s usually fairly easy to find weak spots in the characters of people who invite murder, but with Mr Huth I can’t find a weak spot. Nobody can show me a blemish worth remarking. I’m not so naive as to suppose that Mr Huth was without human weaknesses. We’ve all got our fair share. But none of his colleagues seems to know what they were in his case. And the only drawback I can pinpoint is your husband’s almost pathological shyness, and I’ve never heard of shyness inviting murder.”

  “So you’ve discovered he was shy.”

  Masters said: “It shouted at me. If you go and speak to half a dozen people in Barugt House you’ll learn it in as many seconds. It makes me wonder how he managed to become a successful sales manager, hating meeting people like he did.”

  She refilled his teacup and offered him a plate of cake. She said: “Have a piece of this. It’s got nuts in. I baked it myself yesterday, just for something to do.”

  He took the cake and said, “Now you know why I want intimate details. Outsiders’ opinions haven’t got me anywhere.”

  She said: “I don’t believe you.” She said it good-humouredly.

  “No?” He was neither surprised nor perturbed by her remark.

  “I think you’ve come here — in the nicest possible way — already knowing what you want to hear.”

  “Perhaps. But I’ve still got to hear it, haven’t I? And there’s one other point you’ve missed. I’ve got to recognize whatever it is when I hear it.”

  “That’s what I thought. You’ve gathered a lot of the pieces together, but there’s one key piece missing. You know its shape and size, but not its colour.”

  He said, with his mouth full of cake: “More than one bit missing. That’s why I’ve got to recognize what I want as you talk.”

  “All right,” she said. “Where shall I start? You’ve learned he was shy. That’s not quite right. It’s a bit of a generalization, and generalizations never do hit the nail squarely on the head.”

  He nodded as he busied himself with the cake crumbs. Gathering them togethe
r into a little ball with the ends of his fine fingers. She watched him pop the compact wedge into his mouth and then said: “Adam was a queer mixture. I hope it doesn’t sound too silly, but I’d call him a shy extrovert. He got on very well indeed with people who really liked him. And he could tell whether they did or not at a first meeting. If they did the friendship could develop very successfully. But if anybody showed dislike, or even indifference, to him, he was never able to be himself in their presence, no matter what happened later.”

  Masters said: “Mablethorpe.”

  “Who? Oh, yes, Mr Mablethorpe. He’s a good example. Adam and he took to each other right from the start.”

  “Sorry. I interrupted you.”

  “That’s all right. What I was about to say was that the worst of all was if somebody mistakenly looked down on Adam. Socially, I mean. Then the fat was really in the fire.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll try to make it a bit clearer. Adam wasn’t class conscious at all — until he was affected by it. Then he was. You know yourself how fond he and Mablethorpe were of each other, and I’m certain Adam was extremely courteous to the youngest most trollopy little girl he ever employed. He never used his position, and when he went to see people, other businessmen or senior civil servants, he always went unannounced, just like anybody else. But you know there’s often a brash person to be got past on these occasions — somebody who is deferential to the few and tries to be superior to the many. Adam wouldn’t tolerate anybody trying to be superior to him, and I’m afraid that on those occasions when it did happen, he pulled strings to take them down a peg or two. In his position he could do it.”

  Masters said: “I react in exactly the same way myself. And what you’ve said explains one point. I can see now why his workpeople who would naturally show some outward respect to their employer found him charming when they happened to meet him, even though he was often shy of them. But you haven’t mentioned yourself in all this. How did you find him to live with?”

  She said with a smile: “He was a good husband, but far from perfect.”