Nobody's Perfect

by Douglas Clark

  Mouncer stubbed his cigar and made no comment.

  Masters said, “Why weren’t you called this morning when the body was discovered?”

  “Because I get here half an hour after Miss Krick opens up for Mrs Pallot. By that time the police were in charge and their own surgeon was here.”

  “Who broke the news to you?”

  “Mablethorpe. I came straight up but was told I would be contacted when I was wanted.”

  “Is Nutidal a dangerous drug?”

  “If you mean by that does it come under the Dangerous Drugs Act, the answer is no. It’s not dangerous, nor is it scheduled, otherwise I should have refused to prescribe it. It’s widely prescribed by doctors, but the public wouldn’t be able to buy it over the counter like aspirin. A chemist would refuse to sell it for self-medication. He’d only supply it against a prescription.”

  “I’d like to know more about it.”

  “I can assure you that A.A. wouldn’t die of Nutidal poisoning. But you’ll find a binder with all our medical literature in it in the bookshelf under the phones.” Mouncer got to his feet. “If you want anything more than that there’s a product book which I keep. It’s a comprehensive history right from the start of research into the drug, but I’m afraid a layman would find it less than illuminating.”

  Masters also stood up. He disliked anybody he was questioning to tower above him. He felt at a disadvantage.

  “You visited Mr Huth yesterday morning?”

  “For coffee at half past ten. I came in most mornings at the same time. Not for any specific reason. Merely to keep in day-to-day touch.”

  “Did he say how he was feeling?”

  “I asked him. He said he felt all right. I thought he seemed a bit tired, and put it down to the fact that he’d been ill and hadn’t bothered to take a rest to get over it.”

  “Did you give him a cigar?”

  Mouncer raised his eyebrows. “Why should I?”

  “You smoke them. He smoked them. Don’t people offer their cases nowadays?”

  “Not to A.A. He had his cigars hand rolled. He could afford to, of course. I buy mine by the packet. He wouldn’t have looked at my brand.”

  “Or anybody else’s?”

  “Not if he could avoid it.”

  Masters said: “He smoked one different from his usual brand yesterday morning. We’ve found the butt. In addition, your butler told us that Mr Huth said at lunchtime that he’d smoked a cigar which tasted like tram-driver’s glove. How does that square with what you’ve just told me?”

  “It doesn’t. All I can say is that he must have accepted a cigar from somebody whom he didn’t want to offend by refusing. I have known him accept one from an employee whose feelings he didn’t want to hurt.”

  “Employees smoke cigars?”

  “Quite a lot of them. Ever since the cigarette and cancer scare. We encourage it, in fact. As a responsible pharmaceutical company we could take no other attitude unless we tried to ban all smoking except pipes. You can imagine what the result of that prohibition would have been.”

  *

  When Mouncer had gone, Hill salvaged his cigar butt. They compared it with the remnants of the odd man out in the envelope. “No luck,” said Hill. “The one we’re interest in is thinner and paler than both Huth’s and Mouncer’s.”

  “Is it milder or stronger?”

  “Definitely milder. I think it’s a popular brand, but I’ll have it checked tonight.”

  “Do that. It’s likely to be important.” Masters walked to the phone table and picked out the green binder of Barugt medical literature. Each leaflet had an earpiece with its name. He opened it at Nutidal and read for fully ten minutes. When he shut the book he sounded jovial, “Now for Green. I wonder what joy he’s had.”

  “None if you ask me,” said Hill. “Else he’d have been up here laying it on thick. Inspector Green likes to make sure he gets his share of the credit. He lets the world know when he strikes oil.”

  Masters said, “Don’t we all?” Then the internal phone rang. He said before he picked it up, “Talk of the devil! This is probably him, now.” He was wrong. It was the constable at the main entrance.

  “I checked everybody out and in at lunchtime, sir. They’re all back now except one. And as it’s half past three it looks as if he’s out for the rest of the day.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Edward Dieppe, Company Pharmacist.”

  Masters paused while he tried to recall where he’d heard the Company Pharmacist mentioned earlier in the day. Then he asked, “Anything else?”

  “No, sir. They all came back looking as if they’d been out for a drink and a sandwich at a pub. They do it instead of going to the canteen. There’s nothing stronger than Coke there.”

  “Did you notice Mr Torr go out?”

  “No, sir. Nobody by that name left the building.”

  “Thank you.” As Masters put the phone down, Brant came in.

  “Inspector Green’s been trying to get you on the phone, but you were engaged, so he sent me up to ask you to come down to the basement.”

  Masters said to Hill, “Go through the files in here. Look for anything to do with Torr, the Personnel Manager, Dieppe, the Company Pharmacist, and some other chap who’s in advertising. I’ll be back soon.”

  The lift went down to the basement. They stepped out into an area of bare concrete walls and solid square pillars, subdivided into scores of tiny cubicles by chain link fencing which reached from floor to ceiling. The cubicles had frame doors with large grey padlocks. Dim light came from low-powered bulbs in ceiling blisters. Brant led the way past doors crudely labelled with department names. Masters wondered how any business could function splintered into so many units, divisions and sections. It gave him an idea of the complexity of a modern pharmaceutical firm that owns research, development, promotion and marketing facilities.

  Green was inside an open cage, using a vehicle inspection lamp fed from a power point for light.

  “See this?” Green pointed to the doors of the cage he was in and the one next door to it. The open one had no label. The other was labelled “Personnel.” “I’ll bet he came down here at dinner-time and took off the name. Crafty bastard. You see why, don’t you? Nobody else has two cages, only Torr’s lot. He kept one for business and one for himself. He tried to bamboozle us all right.”

  “Any trouble with the keys?”

  “That’s what let him down. I tried the key he gave me on the cage with the name on it, and it didn’t fit. I got in with the master. There’s nothing in there except leaflets saying what a marvellous firm this is to work for. But I reckoned I ought to try and find out which lock the key he gave us did fit.”

  “And you found it next door.”

  “Yes. You can see where the label’s been. Taken off as soon as we’d left him, I’ll bet. There wasn’t much else he could do unless he’d come down here with wire cutters. This fencing’s tough stuff.” Green picked up a sheet of paper and wiped his hands. “As soon as that key turned I knew we were onto something. And he was telling the truth when he said he doesn’t keep old records down here. He doesn’t.”

  Masters wished Green would get on with it. He’d found something, otherwise he’d have waited till the phone was not engaged, and saved Brant travelling up ten floors. Masters gestured towards the shelves in the open cage, laden with plastic bags full of papers.

  “A blind,” said Green. “We’ve been through the lot. Nothing but letters dating back to the year spit. Not worth the room they’re taking up.”

  “I’ll swear he was trying to hide something.”

  Green crumpled up the paper he’d been using as a towel and threw it to the ground. “He was,” he said in mean triumph. “At the back there, in that cardboard box.”

  Masters went in. A heavy-duty, two-foot-cube carton had been emptied of bundles of industrial training pamphlets. At the bottom was a round tin, four inches in diameter and six tall, enamelled in pal
e green with red lettering. “Fingerprints?” he asked.

  “We only touched the rim of the lid when we took it off.”

  Masters used his handkerchief and lifted the tin out. It was well finished, with rounded edges and a tight lid. He read the printing: “Hospital and Dispensing Pack. 1000 tabs. Metathiazanone B.P. Barugt.” He set the tin down and took off the lid. Inside was a plastic bag two-thirds full of white tablets.

  Masters said, “He’ll say that a senior executive of a drug firm has a right to possess a large amount of one of their own products and keep it safe under lock and key.”

  “It’ll have to be a good excuse,” said Green. “He’s not connected with the drug side of the firm. And he’ll have to explain why he hid it down here.”

  “He’ll have to explain that barney with the key, too,” said Brant.

  Masters said, “Metathiazanone sounds like powerful stuff. Do we know exactly what it is and does?” He didn’t look at Green as he spoke. From sad experience he guessed Green hadn’t yet disclosed all he knew. Hill had been right. Green rarely discovered anything of use, but when he did he tried to make the most of it. There was pent-up excitement in the Inspector now. Masters sensed it. Green’s attitude made it appear as if he regarded the discovery of the Metathiazanone as momentous.

  Green said, “It is powerful and it isn’t.”

  Masters thought that if this was the way Green intended to play it, he had another guess coming. Green might be unwilling to let the cat jump before he reached what he considered to be the most impressive moment, but this time he was going to lose his opportunity. Masters deliberately switched the discussion line.

  He said, “How many tablets are missing?”

  “About three hundred,” snapped Green. “You can see the bag’s still about two-thirds full.”

  Masters began to back out of the cage, apparently prepared to leave the matter where it stood. Green had no choice. He now had to divulge his great news if he wanted to keep Masters’ interest.

  He said, “I found these in the tin.” He handed over a small bundle of certified delivery postal slips. The climax had been a damp squib. Green looked and sounded nasty. Masters looked at the slips.

  Masters said peevishly, “Why the devil can’t postal clerks fill these things in properly? ‘Cordner E.2’ isn’t worth the paper it’s written on as an address.”

  “Yes it is,” said Green, a touch of triumph returning to his voice. “There’s three with Cordner’s moniker on them. If you’d been with us a few years back and read the bulletins you’d remember Dopey Cordner.”

  “I wasn’t with you years ago, and I’ve never had anything to do with the dope squad. I suppose you’re going to tell me Metathiazanone is being peddled.”

  “Not to humans. Dogs,” said Green. “Dopey Cordner does the tracks, or rather, the kennels. I don’t know exactly what Metathiazanone does.”

  “You said it’s powerful and yet it isn’t. Why did you say that if you don’t know anything about the confounded drug?”

  “Because I know it’ll stop dogs, but I’ll bet it won’t kill them. And it’s never been in the dope lists as dangerous to humans.”

  Masters accepted this. In spite of his other shortcomings, Green could be relied upon to remember facts like these. His memory was his only asset in Masters’ opinion. But now Green’s moment of triumph had passed. Masters took charge of the tin and asked Brant to find the Company telephone exchange. “Check up on today’s outgoing calls. If they don’t keep lists, grill the girls until they remember who has made calls. Go through the internal phone book, take each executive by name, and ask every girl on the board whether they’ve asked for outside numbers. And hurry. It’s nearly knocking-off time.”

  Green asked, “What now?”

  “There’s a leaflet in Huth’s office describing Metathiazanone. I’m going up to read it. I want you to slip out and call the Yard from an outside box. Get anything currently known about Cordner and the other names on the postal slips. Ask if Torr is known or suspected. Then join me in Huth’s office.”

  As they waited for the lift Green said, “Are you thinking somebody fed Huth a thumping great dose of Metathiazanone?”

  “That wouldn’t square with your story about it not being fatal to greyhounds, would it?”

  “Not unless there are some bloody awful side effects in humans.”

  “It’s made for humans. A man ought to be able to tolerate it better than a dog. And take a lot more of it.”

  Masters was right. The medical pamphlet described Metathiazanone as “a gentle depressant for the central nervous system.” Its action was said to be mildly tranquillizing, to relieve tension and encourage sleep. It sounded just right for slowing down dogs, thought Masters, but not for killing humans, particularly as the drug was not a hypnotic, nor was there any suggestion of phenobarbitone in the formula.

  Hill was still searching through files. Masters gave him the tin for fingerprinting. Masters himself used the internal phone book to find which floor housed the Pharmacy Department. He went down to the sixth. Outside the lift was the floor plan. Pharmacy was shown as occupying about half the area: a large, open-plan space surrounded by smaller private offices. He went through the swing doors into Market Research which he had to cross to reach Pharmacy. He was conscious that all the typists were watching him closely. He was accustomed to being recognized, but this was the first time he’d encountered the grapevine workings of a big firm. He could feel the stares, but as he passed with apparent unconcern, he felt the egoistic thrill of pleasure that being the centre of attention always gave him. For effect, he stopped halfway along the room, at the desk of the prettiest girl he could see. She blushed furiously as he said, “May I?” He held out his pipe and indicated the ashtray on her desk.

  “Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly, and pushed the heavy glass plate towards him so clumsily that she cascaded papers onto the floor to add to her confusion. He tapped the pipe, examined it, took a paper clip from the tray on the desk, straightened the wire and dug into the dottle. When he had finished he smiled his thanks, threw the wire into the wastepaper basket, and passed on his way thinking he’d made the girl’s day by giving her himself to talk about when she got home. He was still smiling with satisfaction as he went through the partition door into Pharmacy.

  He could see nobody in the room but girls.

  He paused and then turned to the one sitting immediately inside the door. She was looking up at him and grinning at his bewilderment. He asked, “This is the Pharmacy Department?”

  “Too true. A folly of female pharmacists — except for the two near the window who are filing clerks. They know all about storing medical data and clinical trial reports. You’re Mr Masters, aren’t you?”

  She sounded gay, and he thought she looked good fun. She was sitting in a swivel chair, showing a lot of shapely thigh unselfconsciously. She went on, “We have no men here, worse luck.”

  “Not even Mr Dieppe?”

  She tutted in disgust and called across the office: “Chris, Mr Masters wants Teddy.” She turned back to Masters. “Chris is our Unit Manager. Teddy’s the Departmental Manager. Chris stands in for him when he’s not here, which he isn’t at the moment.” Masters knew Dieppe was not in Barugt House, but he didn’t say so.

  “I’m Christine Blake,” said the Unit Manager, coming over from her desk. “Vera talks too much. She’ll jaw to any man.” She turned to Vera. “Pull your skirt down. You’ll embarrass him.”

  “Not likely.” She stood up and tugged at the miniskirt. “It won’t come down I’m happy to say. Go with Christine, Mr Masters. She’s the cold, clinical, factual type. She’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Your reputation gallops ahead of you,” said Miss Blake.

  “And we’re duly impressed,” said Vera, sitting down again and showing, if anything, even more thigh. “I hope I haven’t shocked you.”

  Christine Blake ushered him into Dieppe’s office before
he could reply.

  “Vera who?” he asked.

  “Chambers. Known as Jerry when she’s being particularly difficult. She gets ragged about her name in a department like this staffed with nothing but women.”

  “You’ve a poor opinion of your sex?”

  Christine Blake was no beauty. She had straight fair hair, glasses, a neck that seemed far too long and a flat chest. But she had an air of forthrightness and candour that made him trust her instinctively.

  She said, “Individually, no. I should have thought you could have told I was a feminist, just from looking at me. It’s a pastime of the not over-intelligent but definitely below-par-in-looks type of woman. I’m the only woman unit manager in the company. But unmarried women in a group … there are six of us in there, all of an age, all spinsters, nearly all pharmacists, and all earning roughly the same salary. We’re too alike to make comfortable roommates. You need a cross section if you’re not to get the prejudices we suffer from. We can pick each other up on the smallest mistake. And we do.”

  “Vera seems cheerful enough.”

  “She’s an exception. She keeps us going. Without her there’d be a bust-up. She’s the most attractive of us physically and mentally — to men, I mean — and other women sense this and, funnily enough, respect it. But don’t get me wrong. In the office we’re a catty lot, but outside we’re looked on as being level-headed, competent, professional women. What we like is an upheaval now and again.”

  “Such as a murder?”

  She frowned. “No. Just something lurid to gossip about. For one of us to hook one of the eligible men we all claim to know but never manage to marry. Even for one of us to have an illegitimate baby would give us something fresh to talk about.”

  “I sympathize,” said Masters, “but I’d have thought Mr Dieppe would have leavened the lump a little.”

  She snorted in disgust. “Teddy? He’s the biggest old woman of the lot of us.”

  “But clever, surely? He’s the Company Pharmacist.”

  “Competent,” she said. “No more.” She sat down behind the desk and gestured to the visitor’s chair. He took it. He looked about him and saw that departmental managers were entitled only to a square of carpet, not the close-fitting variety the directors had. The furniture was too modern and flimsy for him. He hadn’t yet learned to like moulded plywood with all the beauty of grain submerged under liquid plastic paint.