Nobody’s Perfect
Douglas Clark
© Douglas Clark, 1969
Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1969 by Harper & Row.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
1
It was a bright Tuesday morning in October. The ten o’clock sun came unhampered through the wide windows of the new Yard building and cast deep shadows of the handrails on the stairs as Masters and Green tramped down, side by side, in grim silence. Normally Masters would have appreciated the effect. Today, as they set out to investigate the sudden death of Adam Huth he was thinking savagely that this was the fifth successive time he’d been saddled with Green as assistant on a major case. He didn’t like the idea that the pairing was becoming accepted as a permanency. He didn’t like Green, either, and definitely didn’t want a passed-over old has-been tied to his tail forever.
Green’s thoughts were equally hostile. Masters had grown too big for his boots. It always happened when young coppers were jammy enough to catch somebody’s eye and get promoted too soon.
Masters settled himself heavily in the back seat of the Vauxhall. Green climbed in beside him, still trying to figure out how Masters had managed to claw his way above older and better men. Particularly as Green thought he had no more than an average flair for detection. Yet Masters was looked on as a flier at the Yard. Green felt destructively bitter at the thought of any man getting ahead for reasons other than those of sheer merit and length of service. He leaned back in his corner as far away from Masters as possible and swore to himself he would find some excuse for not working with him again, even if it meant asking for a transfer to one of the Divisions.
The two sergeants, Hill and Brant, were already seated in front.
Masters said: “Take the West Road.” Hill started up. “Look out for one of these modern blocks called Barf House. Spelt BARUGT.”
“The drug company?”
“Their head office.”
The car moved off. Masters took a large-bowled pipe from his breast pocket where he carried it wedged upright by a white silk handkerchief. Green watched the slim hands pack Warlock Flake in the pipe. This was another source of irritation: that so big a man as Masters should have such hands, well-kept and brown-skinned, as though their owner had just returned from a holiday in the sun. They made Green feel socially inferior. When he was a little boy his mother had always told him how important hands were as she treated her own work-worn fingers with cheap glycerine and rosewater each night. Now he supposed he had a complex about them. He associated fine hands with swells — his mother’s word — and because of this he felt his own stubby fingers branded him with the indelible stamp of lowly birth. The hell of it was the feeling only came on in Masters’ company.
Hill and Brant sensed the atmosphere in the back of the car. They cut out their usual backchat and kept eyes front. Nobody said a word until after the Chiswick roundabout. Then Masters said, “This is the first time I’ve ever been landed with the chairman of a big company killed in his private office.”
“What’s different about it?” asked Green.
“I’ve never had anything to do with big business before.”
“It’ll be no different from anything else. They’ll be humans, won’t they?”
“Too many humans. Eight hundred working there by day and probably an army of cleaners at night. Swarming all over the shop. We won’t be able to bottle that lot up for questioning.”
Green felt a surge of sour pleasure. He could actually taste it at the back of his tongue, like being sick used to be a relief when he’d overeaten as a kid. He thought it was unlike Masters to admit the possibility of difficulties at any time. Yet here he was with the jimjams before they’d even started on this case. Just because it was a bit different from the nice little domestic tragedies he’d tackled so far. For a moment he hoped Masters would fall down on the job.
Masters said: “Adam Huth was somebody.”
So that’s it, thought Green. These nobs are all alike. They even find class distinction in murder. He’s actually frightened because the victim’s an important man.
Masters went on, “The successful head of one of the most dynamic firms in the country, with big home and export sales.”
“And even bigger beautiful profits made out of us poor suckers who pay National Health.”
“Did you know him?”
“I know he’s a big capitalist who’s been getting all nosey-botty with a Labour government just to get a knighthood. It makes me want to puke.”
“You’re suggesting he should come to a sticky end just because he’s done his damnedest to support the government’s plea for more productivity?”
“That’s not what I meant. After you’ve been in this game as long as I have you’ll know that when a creeper like him gets the chop the pressure’s put on us from all sides.”
“So you think we’ve got to make sure this time?”
“And be quick about it. The Barugt Company’s American-owned.” Green said it as though this fact made the task doubly distasteful to him.
“What does nationality matter? You said yourself they’ll all be human.”
“There’ll be pressure just the same. Even if we don’t get chased from up top, there’ll be executives and vice-presidents, whatever they are, trying to outsmart us.”
“When I suggested this a few minutes ago you pooh-poohed the idea.”
“I’ve changed my mind. They’ll try to use business jargon to keep us guessing. They’re trained that way in Yank firms. Go one better than the next man or get out.”
Masters asked: “No union to protect them?” The dig at Green’s socialism made him feel better. Like landing a sweet blow in a scrap.
“Have your laugh. You’ll soon find out what I mean.”
“Goolies! All the employees are British. It’s an autonomous company.”
“I don’t know what that means but I suppose it makes everything just lovely. Even if they are British they’ll be like religious maniacs. Converts are more fanatical than those born to it.”
Masters relit his pipe. He thought Green was trying to be more bloody-minded than ever, and the time was fast approaching when he would have to be taught who was boss.
Green went on, “That’s why Yank firms corner the markets over here — after they’ve taught their business methods. They brainwash the workers.” He sounded as if he thought this explanation put his other claims beyond doubt. “We ought to nationalize the lot.”
Hill said: “Coming up on the left, sir.” He slowed to turn the Vauxhall into the forecourt of Barugt House, stark as a child’s building toy on a green tablecloth. A constable posted outside the great glass doors flagged them down.
As soon as they were out of the car Green said with a sneer, “See what I mean?” Masters looked up. Above the doors a green and gold fascia board shouted: “BARUGT HOUSE. ALL WHO LABOUR WITHIN THESE WALLS DO SO IN THE CAUSE OF HUMANITY.”
Masters felt sick. He made for the door.
“Detective Chief Inspector Masters?” asked the constable, looking at Green.
“Him,” said the older man, jerking a thumb in Masters’ direction.
“Superintendent Bale asked me to tell you he’s on the tenth floor with the deceased, sir.”
“We’ll join him there.”
“Lift on the right, sir. Self-operating.”
Brant pushed the up button. Number-one cage came down and opened its doors.
>
“Not that lift.” The commissionaire was wearing green livery, and standing behind a reception counter. He looked like a retired army man, and sounded as if he’d been severely niggled by some event he didn’t like or couldn’t understand.
Masters said, “It’s going up.”
The commissionaire glared at the bags the sergeants were carrying. “No cases allowed in that lift. That’s for V.I.P.s, and cases and trolleys scratch the paint.”
“We promise to be very careful.”
“I’ve told you.” The commissionaire came slowly round from behind his desk.
Green and the sergeants stood still. Brant held the retain button. They all knew that Masters’ rating of his own importance when he was on the job was as high as Everest. Failure by others to recognize it usually led to a display of temper. Uncharacteristically, Masters kept control. Green thought he’d go to pieces; and in front of a hall porter, at that.
Masters said in his normal voice, “I’m a senior police officer. I go where I like, when I like and how I like. Understood?”
“Have it your way,” said the commissionaire. “I’ve got my orders.”
“And you’ve told us. We’ll still take this lift.”
Green began to be worried. He thought he knew Masters well enough, but now he was acting out of character. Masters had acted this way on purpose. He didn’t want to get het up before they started; and in any case, he thought he quite admired the old commissionaire for standing up to four policemen so stoutly.
“D’you want me to take you up?”
“We’ll manage, thank you.”
Hill looked about him as the doors closed. “Pretty lush, this, for a lift. If it’s anything to go by, we ought to have brought a lawnmower.”
Brant asked: “Why?”
“To cut a path through the pile on the carpet to get to the boss’s desk.”
They stepped out into a vestibule. The wall-to-wall carpet was thick with rubber underlay; and dark green to contrast with the pale pitch-pine panelling. Ahead of them were washrooms and lavatories with the silhouette of a man on one door and a mini-skirted nymph on the other. The doors were flush mahogany with round, flat handles as big as teaplates made of the same wood. Immediately to the right, in line with the lifts, was a single door. Further away, at right angles, were double glass doors giving onto an open plan office. To the left were another two single doors next to each other. One was labelled: “Conference and Board Room,” the other: “Mr A. L. Huth, Chairman” and “Miss S. T. Krick, Personal Assistant.”
Masters went into the one with Huth’s name on it. It was the P.A.’s office, with a uniformed sergeant in occupation.
“Superintendent Bale’s in the inner office, sir. He’d like you to go through.”
Green followed him. Bale was sandy-haired, with freckles on pale skin. He was lean and long-jawed, with thin lips. He gave the impression of being extremely tall with a slight stoop until Masters approached him. Masters’ height, seemingly lessened by his breadth, cut Bale down to size. The superintendent looked undernourished and ailing beside the chief inspector.
Bale said, “Hello. How do you do?” It was a careful, precise voice. Masters thought Bale must have worked hard to cultivate it, because the aitches were slightly too pronounced, as though he were afraid of dropping them. But in spite of the veneer, the voice was warm enough to add sincerity as he went on, “I was interested when the Yard said they were sending you. I’ve heard things about you lately. I want you to do a good job for me here.”
Green daren’t say “I told you so” but the glance he gave Masters meant he hadn’t missed the first pressure.
“I’ll do my best,” said Masters. “Is this Huth?”
“Admirable Adam or A.A. was what his workers called him,” said Bale. “He’s not very admirable now.”
Huth was lying in a swivel chair which had circular movement and controlled tilting backwards. The weight of the body had set it back so that, though the head was lolling forward, the face was visible to Masters as he stooped to examine it.
Masters said: “He was a distinguished-looking man. Slightly fleshy, perhaps.”
The full head of clean grey hair — clean in so far as it was not flecked with still dark strands — was parted very exactly to show a line of pink, shiny scalp. At odds with this, the flesh of the face was greyish blue, the jowls sagging slightly, and there were signs of vomit round the mouth.
Green said, “He looks like Claude Rains to me.”
Masters looked up, frowned at the irrelevancy and said, “I want you to find the head of the Personnel Department and go through the records of senior employees who have left at any time since Huth became chairman of Barugt.”
“That’s more than six years ago,” said Bale.
“You want me to find somebody who was fired, and still has a grudge against Huth?”
Masters said, “I don’t know whether you’ll find one or a hundred, but it’s the obvious step to take.”
When Green had gone Masters said, “Why murder and not suicide?”
Bale pointed to a small brown bottle on the desk. “He died from poison. That’s empty now, but I imagine whatever he took was in it.”
“Sounds suspiciously like suicide.”
“Meant to look like it, you mean. See the label? Nutidal capsules. Non-poisonous. And Huth would know. It’s one of his own drugs.”
“You’re saying the drugs were switched and he took some form of poison by mistake?”
“That’s my theory. And my Divisional Surgeon says that his preliminary investigation suggests barbiturate overdosage.”
Masters peered again at Huth’s face. “The grey skin indicates cyanosis.”
“You appear to know all about it.”
“Not quite. Did the Surgeon say anything else?”
“He confirmed it by inspecting the mucous membranes. They’re blue, too.”
“Lack of oxygen again. Do we know when he died?”
“Not to within three or four hours. My information is that he would suffer shock and go into a coma long before the end.”
“I seem to remember that barbiturate poisoning lowers the blood pressure and the body temperature. Did that affect your man’s assessment? There’s central heating on, too.”
“He took it all into account.”
“What other effects did he say barbiturates have?”
“Respiratory depression,” said Bale. “The breathing gets shallow. And there’s a lot more, like losing the use of muscles and eyes and so on. Nothing very important.”
“I don’t agree.”
Bale started in surprise. “Why?”
“If he lost the use of his muscles it would explain why he didn’t pick up a phone and call for help or why he didn’t crawl out of the office.”
“I hadn’t got as far as thinking about that. But the phone switchboard is closed down at five-thirty and the only one he could have used after that is the commissionaire’s in the foyer.”
“What’s his name?”
“The commissionaire’s? Mablethorpe.”
“Thanks. So we’ve got to be satisfied with the fact that he just died sometime during the night?”
“Between midnight and four. The post-mortem might tell you more exactly.”
Masters looked about him. As Hill had foreseen, the room was large and palatial. One end was occupied by the desk and usual office accoutrements of a senior executive. The other half was furnished for comfort. A circular table on an extensible central leg could be raised to normal height or lowered as it now was to coffee-table level. It was surrounded by three easy chairs and a long studio couch backed against the end wall. There were two short-shorn sheepskins on the floor, a triangular wine cupboard in one corner, and opposite the windows, a glass-fronted bookcase. Masters strolled over to inspect the titles.
“The Art of Selling, The Science of Marketing, The Hard Sell, The Soft Sell. Good lord! There’s scores of them. And the next shelf’
s all advertising. D’you think he’d read them all?”
“He was a very successful businessman.”
“More of a businessman than a drug technologist?”
“Naturally. He could hire the brains of technicians and researchers. He exploited their efforts.”
“How old was he?”
“Younger than he looked. That grey hair was misleading. He was forty-two.”
“Ah!” said Masters, still looking at the books. “A rift in the lute.” He opened the glass door and took out one of the volumes. “After Dinner Stories for Businessmen!” He looked inside. “Quite fruity, if a little corny. Still, I suppose he could dress them up a bit and make them topical. They’d still be fruity.” He replaced the book and turned to Bale. “You still haven’t finished telling me why it was murder and not suicide.”
Bale said dogmatically: “Huth was a successful man. He was well liked and his firm was flourishing. He was earning as many thousands as we are hundreds. He left no suicide note. He knew about drugs, yet he died slowly, and probably in great discomfort.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “There’s a score of reasons why suicide doesn’t make sense. I may be wrong, but you’ll have to prove it before I’ll believe it.”
Masters moved over to the windows, noted the feel and quality of the curtains and appreciated the lovely view stretching from the well-kept lawns far below to the distant countryside. “I’ll treat it as murder. Have you arranged for the post-mortem?”
“They’ll fetch the body whenever you’re ready. Give me a ring at the station.”
“And the inquest? You’ll do that, too, I hope.”
“You don’t want to be there?”
“What’s the point? You can get the finding we want without my help.”
There was a silence. Bale lit a cigarette and as an afterthought offered one to Masters who shook his head. “I suppose you’re waiting for me to go so that you can get on with it?”
Masters knew Bale would like to stay. But he wanted no superior hampering him and achieving nothing but rebuffs to his own ego. Inspector Green, Masters thought, was enough of a hindrance in any investigation. By his silence he had as good as asked Bale to go. The superintendent had been sensitive enough to take the hint. Masters wasn’t going to keep him any longer.
Nobody's Perfect Page 1