Nobody's Perfect

by Douglas Clark

  He said, so that there should be no mistake: “You’re not referring to untidiness about the home or other irritating habits of males who aren’t too well house-trained?”

  “No. About the house Adam was as good as, but no better than, the other adult males I know. I was talking about his half of our marriage partnership. Wasn’t that what you wanted to hear?”

  He nodded. She passed the cake plate to him again and he hesitated before taking a piece. At last he took the end slice. “I like the outside,” he said. “The crispy bits.”

  She put the plate down and said: “We hear so much these days about how hard a couple must work to adjust themselves if their marriage is to be a success. I suppose it’s right in theory, but it’s not always easy to put into practice.”

  “It was difficult for you? Or both of you?”

  “Both. Adam just couldn’t adjust himself to me. I tried — I honestly did — to move towards him, and I think I managed it fairly well up to a point. But he always wanted more than I could give.”

  “It happens like that more often than not.”

  “Does it? Well, anyway, this is where I think the theory fails. Giving without spontaneity is bogus, and bogus feelings ruin a marriage as fast as, if not faster than, incompatibility. That’s by the way. We were both aware of our wants and our shortcomings; but I think this is where we made our big mistake. We never discussed them.”

  He carefully collected a cake crumb from his knee and dropped it on his plate. He said nothing. Talcum nudged his hand and asked for the crumb.

  She went on: “As I told you, Adam, for all his virility, was a bit Victorian in his attitude. He shied away when I tried to take the initiative, and he only ever mentioned the subject when goaded into it because I was feeling particularly noncooperative. Naturally, the only response he got on those occasions was far from enthusiastic.”

  Masters felt a bachelor’s irritation for the difficulties of marriage. But he felt sympathy for Mrs Huth. Proud, well-read, and having to confess to an inadequacy she hadn’t been able to overcome for all her intelligence and effort.

  “We still shared the same bed,” she said candidly. “These last two years I’ve been at the change of life, and Adam treated me with great kindness.”

  Masters thought that was big of him. Aloud, he said: “That was in character.”

  “Only partly. He really was a kind man, but his attitude still surprised me.”

  “Why?”

  “It seemed contrary to nature to be able to suppress a sex drive which in him was a tremendous urge. That’s why I shouldn’t have been surprised if you’d found he had a mistress. Have you, incidentally?”

  “Not a whisper since I spoke to you last.” He stood up.

  “Honestly?”

  “I swear it.” He picked up his hat. “Thank you for telling me all this.”

  “Did you recognize what you were expecting to hear?”

  He looked at her for a moment. “I’ll have to think it over carefully. I’d better go and do it now, before I forget what you’ve told me or I outstay my welcome.”

  “The hunt for weaknesses in Adam’s character must go on.” She sounded bitter. He hurried to put her right.

  “I’ve got to keep looking. But I promise I’ll not turn over more stones than I’ve got to. I’m not out to blacken him, you know.”

  “I know. Surely you see I trust you. I wouldn’t have spoken to you like this if I didn’t.”

  Masters thanked her for the tea. At the front door he stopped and said: “Do you happen to know anybody who really disliked Mr Huth?”

  “At Barugt House, you mean?”

  “I think It would have to be somebody there.”

  She thought for a moment. “No. I can’t think of anybody. They would all have been weeded out long ago, knowing how Adam worked. He did so like a friendly team.”

  “You’re sure he would dismiss anybody who didn’t like him? Just for that alone? It doesn’t match up with his known concern for employees’ welfare.”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it? But I think he would try to do it as gently as possible all the same … no, wait. There is one man. Adam told me he was always being belligerent towards management. Over the question of work, of course, nothing else. Adam said he couldn’t help it because he was born that way. A dour man.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I’m trying to remember. Adam liked him in spite of everything he had said. Yes. Now I remember. Adam said that this man’s suggestions were always quite logical, and any red-blooded man would get cross if for no apparent reason all his good ideas were squashed. So Adam promoted him as a sort of sop.”

  “No idea of his name?”

  “No. But I think he must be in Research and Development. They’re the people who are supposed to have ideas for products, and the impression seems to stick at the back of my mind.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  “I’m sure you will. But please don’t think I’m saying this man might have murdered Adam. It wasn’t that sort of dislike at all. Simply business differences.”

  Masters said: “Please don’t worry. All I want from him is a different slant on your husband’s character. It’s good to know both sides. Goodnight, and thank you for the cake. I enjoyed it.”

  He set off for the tube, trying to remember in what connection he had heard Research and Development mentioned before.

  *

  “No good,” said Green the next morning in the car. “Half the things in that blasted museum are dummies.”

  Masters said: “I thought they might be, but we had to try.”

  “No dangerous drugs in there at all, and some of the others with what’s known as a short shelf life are left out, too. All they put in the cases are the empty bottles and boxes. They’re more interested in labels than contents.”

  “Who looks after it? The librarian?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t know much about the products, and the key’s never been out of her possession, she says.”

  “We’ve got to find out where the phenobarbitone came from. And I want to trace a bottle of Nutidal as well.” Green grimaced. Then he said: “You’ve a hope. We’ve tried everywhere for phenobarb without success. Now you want Nutidal. It’s one of their biggest sellers, and because it’s non-poisonous they don’t have to get a signature for it. Yesterday we were knee deep in statistics about Nutidal samples. They plaster the countryside with the stuff. Anybody could get hold of it at any time without anybody else being the wiser.”

  Masters said: “We’ve got to have the phenobarbitone at least. The Nutidal if possible. So go to it.”

  “What if it didn’t come from Barugt House after all?”

  “You mean somebody might have got it on prescription from their own doctor.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know the answer. If you finally fail here, you’ll have to interview every employee’s doctor. Take your choice.”

  Green didn’t reply. Masters thought that would stop him grumbling for an hour or two. The sergeants kept quiet. Green brooded until they reached Huth’s office. Then he said: “You didn’t tell us what Mrs Huth said last night.”

  Masters didn’t want to give them a long account. He said: “She gave me a cup of tea and some cake. Told me she thought her husband was oversexed and that somebody in Research and Development disliked him. Not enough to kill him.”

  Green asked: “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to try to help you.”

  “How?”

  “You’ve exhausted every known source — or every source known to us. There’s only one thing to do. Find new sources. I’ll be pottering around.”

  Masters left them and went to Hunt’s office. He pressed the handle and pushed, but the door only opened fractionally. He gave a harder push and heard a startled exclamation from inside. He recognized the voice. Vera Chambers. He peered round the door and saw her rubbing an elbow. Hunt was close to her looking embarr
assed and all protective.

  “Damn you,” said Hunt. “Can’t you knock on the outside?”

  “Why? Have I knocked somebody out?”

  “Only Miss Chambers. You’ve hurt her elbow.” He gently shepherded Vera away from the door. “Oh, come in,” he said in exasperation.

  Masters said: “I wasn’t to know you were only just inside. Sorry, Miss Chambers.”

  Vera laughed ruefully. “It would have been all right if you hadn’t barged with all seventeen stone or whatever you weigh.”

  Masters said: “I always mistrust doors that won’t open. You must admit it was a silly place to stand.”

  Hunt said: “She had no choice. I was holding her. It’s all right. I was only kissing the wench.”

  “At this time of day?”

  Vera said: “We’ve agreed to get engaged. Just now. Agreed, I mean.”

  “I see. Congratulations. But why choose this spot?”

  Hunt said: “Where else? It’s the most strategic point. Away from the windows so’s we shouldn’t be seen, and acting as a doorstop against unwanted intruders. We hadn’t reckoned on a visit from you, otherwise I’d have shoved the desk across.”

  Masters regarded Hunt solemnly for a moment. “You’re a quick worker.”

  “I know. I told you I was going to try my luck. Well I have, and I’ve been accepted.”

  “Well, really,” said Vera, who was patting her short hair into place. “Why don’t you shout it from the top floor windows?”

  Masters said, smiling: “I’d want to, in his place. And take it from me he’s got it badly. He couldn’t even hear me mention your name without wanting to talk about you. That’s a sure sign.”

  She blushed at his compliments and said modestly: “It’s just one of those things. Now we can tell you, we might as well admit we’ve both had an eye on each other for ages, and we’ve been pretending we haven’t. Last night he invited me out and had enough gumption to tell me how he felt about me. I can’t think what made him take the plunge at that particular moment.” Hunt glanced at Masters, who remained poker-faced. Vera went on: “You know, it seemed too good to be true at the time, so I actually made him wait until I’d had all night to think it over.”

  “Clever of me, don’t you think?” asked Hunt, very pleased. “A wife in a working profession. She’ll always be able to keep me if pharmaceutical advertising’s axed.”

  Vera put her tongue out at Hunt and turned to leave. She stopped and said to Masters: “Keep it under your hat, won’t you?”

  “If you want me to, but why?”

  Hunt said: “This firm won’t employ husband and wife. In fact, that slob Torr — who I’m pleased to hear you’ve arrested for some dirty work or other — went so far as to get rid of one or other party if two people here announced they were engaged. We’d both rather keep our jobs together for as long as possible.”

  “I see. So it’s a dark secret. I claim to be remarkably discreet.”

  Vera blew Hunt a kiss. He said: “See you for lunch, poppet. We’ll go to The Pantiles for beer and a sandwich.”

  “Half twelve in the foyer,” said Vera, and left.

  Masters said. “You’d probably prefer to sit alone and daydream, but I want your attention for a few minutes.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When you promote a drug, what exactly happens?”

  “New drug? Or an already established one?”

  “Established.”

  They sat down. Hunt put his feet up on the desk.

  “There’s always a careful plan. It’s based on past profits and what Market Research says the future potential is. If it’s a real money-spinner we keep at it almost without stopping. But if it’s just a good product which jogs along nicely on its own, we’ll probably ignore it for a bit to give ourselves the chance of getting new numbers off the ground. After that, it may be considered worthwhile to spend quite a few thousands on it. What we would most likely try to do is boost sales to a new high level and then leave it there to jog along on its own again until the next time. You see, we’ve got so many products that we can’t push them all at the same time, so we have to do this leapfrogging with the good, solid, routinely prescribed numbers.”

  “How do you go about giving this push to an established product?”

  “With what we call a reminder campaign. This means we don’t start from scratch with nothing but solid, sober facts. The doctors know the drug already, so we can use a bit of impact in the ads. Our main idea is to recall the bull points of the product to their minds.”

  “Where do the advertisements appear?”

  “Medical journals, mailings through the post. That sort of thing.”

  “Then what? Do you offer samples? Or send samples? Or do you wait for doctors to write in and ask for samples?”

  “We offer samples, usually. But we call them clinical or professional supplies. We must preserve our ethical image.”

  “How do you make the offer?”

  “We enclose a pre-paid postcard already printed with the offer. If it’s not a scheduled drug all the doctor has to do is print his name and address and send it back to us. If it is a scheduled drug, we’ve got to have his signature on the card as well.”

  “Who gets the replies? Reculver?”

  “Yes. He sends out the samples.”

  “Thanks. Now to be more specific. When did you last offer phenobarbitone?”

  “Aha!” Hunt got to his feet with a bound. “Now I can see where the bloodhound’s nose is pointing.”

  Masters said quietly: “And my questions are as secret and confidential as your engagement.”

  Hunt got the point. He opened the drawer of a filing cabinet. “We don’t promote phenobarb in quite the same way as other things. It’s so well known that all we have to do every once in a while is send a letter offering doctors a free supply for their night bags.” He took out the Guard Book. On each page was the final copy of an advertisement with details of dates when it was sent out, and to whom. The last page held a letter and prepaid postcard.

  “Sent to all G.P.s on the thirtieth of September,” he said. “We timed it then to catch them just as they’d settled down after their holidays. Just in time for a long hard winter. It’s the only time of the year they’re reputed to clean out and replenish night bags, so we should have got a good response.”

  Masters was looking at the postcard. “You offered them a choice of strengths. Very generous.”

  “It pays,” said Hunt. “Believe you me, it pays, or we wouldn’t do it.”

  “What about Nutidal?”

  “Heaven help us,” said Hunt. “We never stop with Nutidal. Look at this, this, and this,” He held out several work bags and copy scamps. “All these on Nutidal for the next fortnight alone.”

  Masters said: “We’ll skip Nutidal, then.”

  “I should if I were you. A.A. couldn’t have checked out from an overdose of Nutidal. It wouldn’t hurt a fly. Stick to phenobarb. That’ll see anybody off, given enough.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Tit for tat. How’re you getting on?”

  “Progressing.”

  Hunt said: “When asked, the Chief Inspector was noncommittal. O.K. I understand.”

  Masters left him, having once more sworn to keep the engagement a secret. He made his way to Pharmacy.

  Christine Blake had temporarily taken over Dieppe’s office. She grinned self-consciously when Masters went in. She asked: “How’s Teddy?”

  “Reports are good. You won’t have that chair for much longer, young lady.”

  She said: “If all you’ve come for is to gloat …”

  “I want your opinion, as a pharmacist, of the standard of medical knowledge among typists in Barugt House. Dr Mouncer told me some of them could give points to a doctor. Can I believe him?”

  “You’d be a fool if you did. He must have been gassing.”

  “He was being a bit explosive. But I’d like your opinion, just the
same.”

  “Some of the girls get a superficial knowledge about our own range of drugs, but we often forget how limited a single company is. Even so, the ‘some’ I’m talking about is mighty few. What you’ve got to remember is that we literally live with our own product names and so they, and the illnesses they’re used for, are always in front of a typist. But to get any real medical knowledge, the girls would have to read and understand what they’re copying, and very few of them even bother about the sense of what they’re typing. Their mistakes prove it.”

  “Say one or two of them were in the habit of reading their copy. What then?”

  “They’d have to have enough intelligence to understand it, a good enough memory to store it, and staying power to stick here long enough to accumulate a fund of knowledge and to let familiarity with medical terms play its part.”

  Masters said: “And you don’t think many of them fulfil all these requirements?”

  “Very few. And of those, only the girls who work in departments dealing with medical matters. Typists in Finance, Publicity, Admin and so on just don’t get the chance to gain any medical knowledge.”

  Masters wasn’t satisfied. It was too important. He said: “You’ve only given me the negative view.”

  “Is there any other?”

  “If a really intelligent typist were to work in a medical department — say this one, for instance — for two or three years, and at the end of that time she had no medical or pharmaceutical knowledge, what then?”

  Christine said: “I shouldn’t agree she was intelligent. Given the intelligence, you simply can’t help learning something, or at least getting a good enough basis for working up a knowledge should the need arise. It’s the same with everything. Go as a typist to an Estate Agent and if you’re not dumb you soon get to know what ‘two stroke three bedrooms’ means.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful, as you always are.”

  “You’re a funny man for a detective. Not like your three mates who go around searching for things. You just potter about asking disconnected questions. I can’t see how that helps you find murderers.”

  “Can’t you? Well, in that case, you’ll have no difficulty in forgetting everything I’ve asked, will you? Don’t speculate, there’s a good girl. Goodbye.”