by Richard Hull
I began to think of the difficulties about that. First, there was the difficulty of his having actually put the Flukil into his tea. That could probably best be got over by hoping that he would swallow his tea completely in one gulp so that no traces would be left in the cup, or if that were too much to hope for, by carefully chosen remarks about the taste of Flukil, which was pretty nasty. The next difficulty was that it was improbable that any one would take hold of several crystals of Galatz-si and mistake the feel, let alone the appearance, for a tablet of Flukil.
That was a real difficulty. I should have to overcome it partly by letting slip to anyone who was investigating the matter, that Spencer was an impetuous man and often acted without thinking. After all, that was his character, and everyone else in the office would be bound to confirm it. But I wanted something more than that. Eventually I had what I think was quite a happy inspiration. I had in my possession an old tin of that unpleasant and fallacious cure for influenza, which I had been meaning to throw away, for personally I am quite sure that it is of no use at all as a remedy. I could take that old tin along to the office and I would see to it that the tablets in it were broken up, so that it would seem as if both the tin and its contents were more near to bearing some resemblance to the tin containing Tonescu’s crystals.
And there, with careful exploitation of the situation afterwards, was my complete scheme.
It was only necessary to find a moment when Spencer was out so that I could change the tins and be there at tea time the next day. After that, a clear head would pull me through. I did not think that I should be putting any great strain on my abilities. I should be a match for any detective.
But, curiously enough, I did not fancy the idea of sitting in the room next door to Spencer all day. I decided to ring up the office and tell them I should not come in during the morning. Then I would arrive after the time when Spencer and Barraclough went out to lunch, change my tins, and quietly go away again.
Then I should return in time to be in my place when Miss Wyndham came in with the cups of tea.
Part II
Counterplot
Chapter One
There is a limit, you know, to the extent to which the folly of anybody can be allowed to ruin a perfectly good business, and beyond that limit Nicholas Latimer has gone without a shadow of doubt. For that matter, I am not at all sure that that small-minded little pedant, Sandy Barraclough, has not gone beyond it too.
You see there are three of us running this show, an advertising agency with the damned silly name of NeO-aD, and I suppose we came together originally because we all had different characters. That it takes all kinds to make a world is a fatuous remark, but that it needs all kinds to make an advertising agency is right enough. You have just got to know everything and keep one yard in front of everybody else; otherwise you had better pack up right away.
Perhaps I did not think long enough before I went and tied myself up to those two. So far as I can see, I usually take my best decisions straight away; when I think about it too long, I generally go and do the wrong thing. So when Latimer said, “What about it?” I just said, “Right. Get on with it.” But this time, instead of having fallen on my feet, I have tumbled down the whole flight of stairs, and there don’t seem to be any banisters to catch hold of.
I suppose it was foolish of me and that I ought to have seen through Nicholas Latimer straight away, but, you know, he’s a plausible sort of chap until you get to know him. He is so hundred-per-cent confident that he is absolutely perfect that he doesn’t have to say it. It just oozes out of him and, before you know where you are, you find you have got the same idea in your own head. Just at first he doesn’t throw himself at you, he is what they call ‘quietly confident’. When you get to know him, of course he becomes excessively obtrusive, and the more you find out that he has got nothing to be proud about, the more he explains to you that he is the only maggot in the cheese—which is enough to get on anyone’s nerves.
Of course, even before we started this company, I knew he was a bit conceited; a blind deaf mute in Colney Hatch could see that; but I thought that a little bit of self-confidence would do no harm, in fact you need it to write copy, which was what he was supposed to be going to do. Besides I thought that he was sufficiently proud to see that he did his job properly.
That has been shock No. I. Whether he can write copy if he really tried, I have no idea. I believe, if the truth were really known, that he cannot, or at least, that he can only turn out second-class work. But I do not really know because I cannot believe that he has ever tried fully. He is so bone lazy that he just puts down the first thing that comes into his head. Now anyone can write some sort of copy but it won’t do; it won’t be good enough. To do it properly, you have got to do a little work to find out what it really is you are trying to advertise, and then you have got to think pretty hard and also have a flair for new ideas. Some people have it; some have not, but, by working, can produce pretty fair stuff. Nicholas has absolutely no flair, and he never does any work whatever.
Some of the stuff he will bang down is incredible. For instance, there is a friend of mine, Charles Fletcher, known him all my life, a really nice fellow, who had some stuff for curing ‘flu. Not bad stuff, mind you—as good as anything else in that line. One day Fletcher will get hold of some capital and push Flukil hard and proper and then he will make his fortune; but it wants the sort of job the Aspro people have done, and poor old Charles can’t afford it. No blame to him in that.
Meanwhile apart from being a friend of mine (we were at school together) so that I want to do him any good turn I can, it is wise to keep him happy and try to build it up. Of course there isn’t much money for us in it at present, but there might be if Nicholas would put a little work into it. But will he? Will he? Hell!
He would keep the same rotten bit of stuff going week after week if Charles and I didn’t badger him occasionally and then he merely alters it for something worse, and curses and swears at me because I have made him do it. Generally, of course, I make Charles do the badgering, but I think Nicholas sees through that. He has enough brains for that.
But get him to take an interest and do a job of work at it, we neither of us can. I don’t think I ever knew a lazier man. His idea of office hours is twelve to four with two hours for lunch and three half holidays a week. Well, literally, I don’t think he ever goes to the office before eleven. He has never been known to stay late in his life; you cannot tell how long he will take over lunch, and on the very slightest pretext he is out for the afternoon or not coming up in the morning.
Well, how can you run a business with a fellow like that? I mean it’s absolutely impossible.
But as well as being lazy, he is so incompetent. You tell him that copy is wanted for one thing and he is forced to write something new. He just parodies the last bit he wrote or the first thing he sees in the nearest paper. Somebody put in an advertisement one day beginning—‘And now—the new’ something or other, I forget what—perambulator I think. Well, I will admit it caught my eye and I read it, but I still do not think it was an absolutely inspired bit of advertising, but as a result we had, ‘And now—the new’ everything, hats and beads for Henriques—we nearly lost the job over that—‘the new cure’ for Flukil, which had been in the same papers for years, so that ‘new’ was the last thing it was. If he had done any work, which he would not, for the Greyfields canners, it would have been ‘and now—the new peach’, I fully believe. ‘And now—the new’ anything has become a sort of office joke. So much so, that I have heard even Miss Wyndham, our typist, not a bad sort of girl, if a bit painful to look at, and Thomas, our tame artist, making jokes about it.
However, laziness and incompetence are two things about our friend Latimer that are pretty trying. By the time I had found those two out I was beginning to feel that things were a bit difficult. I never expected to make a great friend of him. He got a rotten education at some fifth-class school or other, and though I am a
lways very careful not to refer to it (he is frightfully sensitive about it), it does mean that we have not much in common, and do not meet the same people. But all the same, I have tried my level best to be friendly and jolly with him.
I fully admit that I have a bit of a temper—short, sharp, and up in a moment, sometimes about nothing very serious, I am afraid, but it is soon over. Quite often one of Nicholas’s damn silly remarks has been too much for me—I never can stand fools gladly—but I have always got over it at once and tried to laugh it off. Hasty, I may be, but I am not spiteful, and I am always ready to forgive and shake hands.
But not Nicholas. Oh dear no! I really believe that he is more annoyed by the fact that I recover and become my cheerful smiling self again after a few seconds, than by the fact that I have ever been cross. I mean I will give and take good hard knocks with anyone and all friends after, but sulking is too much trouble. Besides it upsets one’s digestion.
Nicholas, on the other hand, likes sulking. It’s not a nice thing to say, I know, but I really believe that that man bears malice. I remember once telling him in quite a friendly way really, especially considering that he was being very tiresome at the time, not to teach his grandmother to suck eggs, and his face! Well, I can only describe it by saying he went a nasty shade of mottled green.
Which reminds me of his appearance. You know I do think it really is up to everyone to keep fit. If you don’t take any exercise you are bound to become bad-tempered, and Nicholas Latimer never walks a yard in his life if he can help it, and never thinks of playing a game. As a result, his normally bilious complexion has become thoroughly pasty and pimply, not to put too fine a point on it. I should think that his liver is perfectly dreadful which is why he wants to go to sleep every afternoon—even in the office—and he is developing a stomach grossly larger than it need be and at least three chins. Originally he was not a bad looking fellow, one of the black-haired rather oily type, which personally I do not admire, but with decent features, and he generally wears his clothes well. But now he is getting so fat that he will soon look perfectly terrible. Also he ought to grow a moustache to hide his rather weak mouth.
So that between being lazy, incompetent, unpleasant to look at, vindictive and stupid, he is rather trying to get on with. But I don’t want to be too hard on the fellow; I believe I could forgive it all if only he had a sense of humour. I mean I cannot get through the day without having one or two good laughs. It does help things along so. But if you dare make a joke to Nicholas, he just looks at you as if you were slightly mad. He never sees that it is a joke unless you are careful to say ‘This is a joke’ rather slowly, with pauses between, and after that your best remarks are bound to fall flat.
At any rate, Nicholas never laughs at any joke I may make. Clearly he would prefer that I should not make any, but if the point happens to be against advertising, or still more, if it happens to be against him or his copy, then he regards it as being both blasphemous and sacrilegious. Of course that makes me do it all the more.
That alone would make me want to part with him. It makes life so dull to have to work in an air of such solemnity—Sandy Barraclough’s just as bad when it comes to a joke. Besides if you are to be any good as an advertising agent, you must have a sense of humour. At least I think it is essential. If you can never see a joke against yourself, you are perfectly certain to make yourself ridiculous. Why, some of the best advertising stunts have been full of humour. Look at Bovril or Guinness. And who doesn’t remember the Mustard Club?
So what with one thing and another, things have been working up to explosion point. To-day, however, they came to a head.
Before I describe the incident of how Nicholas tried to get me killed, I must say a few words about Barraclough. At first glance you might mistake him for one of those dry, reserved sticks who never say a word and whose thoughts you never can guess. Now, a lot of them keep quiet because they haven’t got anything to say for themselves. They hope that, as a result of complete silence, lasting for several years, they will establish a reputation for wisdom, and they generally do obtain it. But that is not Sandy Barraclough. I think he is quite indifferent to what anyone thinks of him, and at times he will talk—and certainly he is ready at any time to write reams—but it is all terribly to the point at issue.
That is the first thing that strikes you. He is always so shatteringly relevant. He just sees what he wants and he goes straight for it, whether it be a person, a joke, a scruple, a fanciful idea, or ten hours’ hard work, especially the latter.
Quite what the motive is, I do not know. There must be some. I mean, nobody could voluntarily lead quite such a dull life, full of repressions, as he does, without some reason. Just think of it. Never a smile, never a touch of laziness—some glorious afternoon spent idling when you ought to be working—never for a moment letting your attention wander or your conscience go to sleep. Just pounding down the narrow way, and never being aware that there is such a thing as the primrose path of dalliance. That’s what I can’t understand.
I don’t think it’s lack of brains or intelligence. Really he has got lots. Nor do I think that it is all selfishness, because, although he is selfish, he denies himself pleasure, and I must say this for him, that he never tries to upset other people’s convenience so long as their plans do not seriously upset him. He generally quietly assumes that they will do what he wants, and oddly enough, people seem to do it.
Perhaps on the whole it is all his desire for money. He is a Scotsman, of course, and, like all Scotsmen, is determined to get his money’s worth. Well, good luck to them. Personally I think they take so much trouble to get it, that they miss the enjoyment, but that is their business. But with Barraclough it is rather more than that. It’s money first and second and last and always.
I noticed it first when we started NeO-aD. It was Barraclough who had saved up some money and, rather surprisingly, Barraclough who risked it. But I could not help noticing and admiring the way in which he kept the financial control in his own hands. Nicholas, of course, thought that if he was allowed to be in charge of production, he was the big noise in the outfit, but I strongly suspect that Barraclough really controls the show and is quite aware of it and always intended to. Not that I mind; I know quite well where I come in and where I don’t. I couldn’t run the finance if I tried—I was always bottom in mathematics of any form I was in—and as for writing copy, well, I never did think I could write English. All I was good at was just hustling around, and using my common sense and getting to know chaps. That’s why I was prepared to tie up with someone having Barraclough’s brains and also with someone having the sort of brains I hoped Latimer had, only he hadn’t, if I make myself clear.
But I must say there have been times when Sandy’s financial brains have been a bit too much of a good thing. One felt one had to ask his leave to take a bus, and I must admit I do hate having my fares and expenses bill queried, item by item, in the way he does. I let him do it the first time as a joke, but really I ought to have put my foot down at once, because I have known him to be positively impertinent about it. I mean, one must take taxis sometimes or stand prospective clients a drink, and I am blowed if I see why, in those circumstances, I should pay for my own. But Barraclough thought I ought, and when one day I put down a taxi accidentally which I had already included the day before, he as good as told me I was a thief. I mean Newgate and the Old Bailey and all that. Damn sauce.
However, despite his faults—and the most serious of them is that he cramps all enterprise by saying “we can’t afford that” and so killing a good chance, I mean one must throw a sprat or two about occasionally—despite his faults, as I say, I don’t wish Sandy any harm. I don’t want to get rid of him; he does his stuff jolly well, I think. But somehow or other he seems to want to get rid of me.
Now why should anyone want to get rid of a harmless, inoffensive sort of chap like me?
But, do you know, really I believe he did. Nicholas tried, I know, but that
doesn’t surprise me so much. I mean, Nicholas is the sort of fellow who cherishes a grievance. But Barraclough! That does beat me absolutely.
But I must explain the incident.
Nicholas had found an almost unbelievable Rumanian bloke. The sort of man who wears purple socks with a bowler hat, thinks that Fonseca was a painter, whereas, of course, he ships port, and is perfectly capable of taking mustard with caviare—that is, if they have heard of caviare in Rumania.1
Now this fellow Tonescu had got an absolute wow of an invention. You'll hear all about it one day under the ghastly name of Galatz-si, so I shan’t stop to talk about it now, but anyhow we wanted to see if it really worked, and were trying it out on Sandy’s car.
Mind you, it had been pretty funny. The whole thing was upside down because Nicholas found the chap, whereas finding people is supposed to be my show. Not that I mind, and only Nicholas would have dug up a comic like that. But the cream of the jest was when Nicholas made Sandy try the stuff out on his car. Trying it on the dog wasn’t in it, and the car had to be brought up from whatever garden suburb Sandy patronizes and it had to be garaged for a day, and if it hadn’t rained, it might have been two days.
Poor old Sandy! He fairly hated the expense, but that didn’t stop him charging it all up, plus the petrol he said he used, and an allowance for the wear and tear of the tyres and a bit of the licence and the insurance and heaven alone knows what. Everything, I think, except the use of the clock and that had stopped. Not that it was unfair. Oh dear no! Sandy was the soul of honour. He worked it all to eight places of decimals and divided by 365 and began fussing about leap year. I told him he had left out summer time, and he spent hours trying to find out some meaning in that remark, and when I told him there wasn’t any, and it was only a joke, I thought he was going to blow up.
