Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘There are some of those strips as well. Look! One just inside the door. Two by the window.’ Brant stepped over to the mantelpiece. ‘And another here. Behind the electric clock.’

  ‘I wonder why the perfume’s weaker?’

  Hill said, surprisingly: ‘Oh, did she use those?’

  ‘You know what they are?’

  ‘Yes. Micro-encapsulated perfume strips.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘They’re a new American idea for scent makers. They can give them as samples or hand them to women to sniff when they’re choosing scent at the counter.’

  ‘That doesn’t tell me what they are.’

  ‘Little blobs of perfume, encased in cellulose and stuck on to paper. That’s why the surface looks a bit rough. If you scratch your nail along them you rupture the cellulose and release the perfume. I don’t know how long they last, but if you do it once every day they’re supposed to keep a room sweet-smelling for so many months. If they don’t pong as much in here as they do in her bedroom it means she scratched these more often and they’re nearly played out, or those in the bedroom are newer.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do they matter?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I’m interested because I’ve never met them before.’ Hill looked closely at Masters. The Chief Inspector was not speaking with his usual incisiveness. Hill couldn’t guess that Masters’s mind was momentarily elsewhere. In a prison cell with Joan Parker. The girl he had been instrumental in sending down for three years for manslaughter. The girl Masters wanted, dreamed of, built plans round. Would a few strips like this sweeten a cell, sweeten life, overpower the sourness and carbolic harshness of the prison atmosphere? He couldn’t take them to her himself: as a policeman he was forbidden communication with a prisoner under sentence. But his mother or Mrs Huth, who visited Joan regularly, could take them. To stick on the wall with the photographs she was allowed—or on the photographs themselves if the authorities disapproved of desecrating their colour wash. He must get some. Joan would love to smell the scent of flowers again. He said to Hill: ‘Who sells them?’

  ‘Dunno, Chief. Big London stores, I expect. Chap I knew was asked if he’d like to buy some as an advertising gimmick for something he was selling.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Masters was thinking Compton might know. If these were used for advertising, probably some commercial traveller calling on the camp had left them.

  Brant was opening a bow-fronted, figured walnut cabinet. He said: ‘Drinks and sweets in here, Chief. Have we to test the bottles?’

  ‘Only the opened ones.’ Masters squatted beside Brant. ‘Quite a store.’

  ‘And quite a sweet tooth. Four boxes of sweets. How anybody ever eats peppermint creams, I don’t know. So sickly.’

  Masters stood up. ‘I must say I prefer the wafer mints, myself. I suspect those are her dance prizes.’

  Hill said: ‘Dog hairs everywhere. No wonder she needed perfume strips. I’ll bet those two poodles stank the place out. They always do in flats where they can’t get out into a garden when they want.’

  Masters stood in the middle of the room and rubbed a fill of Warlock Flake. He was wondering what this flat had been like under the control of the first Mrs Partridge: business woman, school teacher and mother. Somehow he felt that her successor had degraded the place. A parasite, battening on the fruits of the labour of other people. A dead parasite. But one whose killer he was committed to tracking down. For a moment he felt sympathy with Green, who very often stated that sometimes murderers were public benefactors, ridding the earth of vermin. He knew this was no good—not his own philosophy. The law is the living skeleton of a living society, and without its living skeleton the whole structure would collapse. Masters believed in tracking down and subjecting to the full rigour of the law all murderers, whether apparent public benefactors or not. He was as keen to put his finger on Fay Partridge’s killer as he ever had been to arrest any other assassin. But he decided he must be careful not to let Joan Parker know where he first saw the perfume strips. If she learned where he’d got the idea of giving them to her, it might rob the gift of all pleasure. He’d have to pretend to his mother and Mrs Huth that he’d seen them in some store. Practise a little of what a lawyer would call suggestio falsi—what others, less legally minded, would call white lies.

  *

  Green was worried. He couldn’t conceal it from himself as he made his way to the Meeths’ house. Masters had guessed at the reason, and the mere fact of talking about it had eased the strain a lot, until that bottle of Nonavom had appeared. Why the hell hadn’t Larry Meeth mentioned last night that he’d prescribed a schedule 4A poison for Fay Partridge? Only one tablet had gone from the bottle in the bathroom, but what if that hadn’t been the only bottle? Or what if he’d prescribed some other equally potent drug that he’d also conveniently forgotten to mention last night? Green knew Masters. When it came to a murder hunt he was merciless. If he considered it necessary he would take the two Meeths apart in his search for the truth. And Green had no wish to see Meg Meeth tangle with Masters. Masters had too happy a knack of coming out on top. And Green liked Meg Meeth. He had no wish to disguise it. Couldn’t have done if he’d wanted to. Masters had cottoned on quickly enough. That was the hell of it. Green wouldn’t be able to soften any blow without being accused of being the devil who tries to look after his own. The one ray of sunshine about finding that bottle of Nonavom was that it gave him a positive excuse for calling at the doctors’ house. Usually he never minded descending on people in the hope of finding a worthwhile reason for his visit after his arrival. That was part of the job. But with Meg Meeth he’d be a bit wary of showing up just to ask why she disliked Fay Partridge. It was as good as telling her she was under serious suspicion and asking her to confirm that suspicion.

  He opened the wrought-iron gate and walked up the flagged path between beds of new flowering snapdragons, red, yellow and pink. He wondered whether he should walk in, as a patient would. Where would that leave him on the question of entering without permission? The surgery was a house, too. He decided he’d better ring. It was safer. He felt low. He’d got the Meeths well to the forefront of his mind as suspects now. To the extent of observing the technicalities. He sucked his teeth as he waited on the doorstep and gazed unseeingly at a floppy hollyhock that appeared to have outgrown its strength and was too weary to stand upright.

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ Meg Meeth was in a lightweight linen suit this morning. Fawn, with a white blouse. Very businesslike. Very fetching in Green’s eyes.

  ‘Can I speak to you both for a few minutes?’

  ‘Over a cup of pre-round coffee? Come in. Larry’s making out his list. In his surgery. You know your way.’

  *

  ‘Nonavom?’ said Laurence Meeth. ‘I’ve never prescribed it for her.’ He got up and went to his filing cabinet. ‘Here’s her card.’ He handed it over without inspecting it. ‘Dates and clinical record, with prescriptions.’

  Green studied it. The last entry was in February. Domiciliary visit. Mild flu. Prescription—50 tabs Panadeine Co. No mention of Nonavom. He said: ‘Was this the last time you saw her professionally—at her home—when you made the crack about the dogs?’

  ‘I see Meg has been sharing our private joke. But, yes, to both questions.’

  ‘You’ve not missed anything off this—by mistake perhaps?’

  ‘No. I repeat, I never prescribed Nonavom for Mrs Partridge. And what if I had? She can’t have died of an overdose of that particular drug, because most of its constituents would leave traces in the body, and none were found. I know atropine sulphate is a poisonous alkaloid of belladonna and scopolamine hydrobromide is dicey stuff. But anybody who takes them to excess might as well write a letter of intent, because both produce similar toxic effects, and too much of them together would induce terrible thirst, dilatation of the pupils, flushing and dryness of the skin, and a desire to urinate without the abi
lity to do so. As time went by they would increase the pulse rate, cause stertorous breathing, raise the body temperature, and most likely cause an outbreak of rash on the face and trunk. None of these happened to Fay Partridge. And another thing. With both belladonna and scopolamine, the symptoms set in promptly and last possibly for several days in fatal doses. So unless Fay Partridge—and her dogs—took a large overdose of Nonavom in Rob Wintle’s poodle parlour that morning, with half the inhabitants of Throscum looking on, you can rule out your find on that score, too.’

  Green felt uncomfortable at Meeth’s tone, but relieved to hear so authoritative a denial of the possibility of Nonavom being the culprit. He felt this helped to exonerate both Meeth and his wife. He said: ‘We didn’t really think Nonavom was the cause. We couldn’t reject it on medical grounds, of course, because we didn’t know enough about its action. But as there was only one tablet missing from the bottle . . .’

  ‘One tablet? It wouldn’t hurt a baby.’

  ‘That’s what we thought.’

  ‘Then why come here and question me about it?’

  ‘Because she might have had another bottle before the one we found. If so, there was the possibility that she could have overdosed herself.’

  ‘I see. You boys don’t miss a trick, do you? All I can say is I never prescribed Nonavom for her.’

  Meg said: ‘Nor me.’

  Green scratched one ear. ‘You do see our difficulty, don’t you?’

  ‘What difficulty? Nonavom didn’t kill her.’

  ‘I’ll accept that. But Nonavom is a schedule four poison. She couldn’t have got it legally without a doctor’s prescription, and you’re her doctor. If you didn’t let her have it, who did? And did whoever supplied Nonavom also supply something else on the side? Something which did her a lot of no-good?’

  Meeth helped himself to a second cup of coffee and refused one of Green’s cigarettes. ‘I’ve only one suggestion to offer as to where she got the Nonavom—one of her pals gave it to her. Somebody who thought she’d no further use for them. I’m sure no doctor would let her have them if she wasn’t on his permanent list or temporarily under his care, and no pharmacist would sell them to her without a prescription.’

  Meg Meeth said: ‘Lots of pep pills that are neither prescribed nor sold do go the rounds, though. Could she have got them from a pusher?’

  ‘My lovely, Nonavoms aren’t amphetamines. They don’t make you feel good—except by suppressing early-morning sickness. Pushers wouldn’t bother with them.’

  Green said: ‘So we’re no nearer the answer—unless, as you said, a pal gave them to her, which I find difficult to believe. I mean, handing medicines around!’

  ‘You’d be surprised. All the old dears swop their sleeping pills. “Here you are, love. You have one of my pink ones and I’ll have one of your green ones.” Sometimes they even quarrel because one colour is bigger than another and a one for one exchange isn’t fair—or so they think. You’ve no idea the dangers they’re submitting themselves to.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. But what about your other point? Had Mrs Partridge been away on holiday this year?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘She might have got collywobbles on holiday and consulted another doctor.’

  Meeth shook his head. ‘All the Throscum folk go on holiday out of season. Even Fay Partridge, though she played no active part in running the show. She liked to keep her eye on how the dibs were rolling in, that one.’

  ‘Besides, she’d have had to give her name and Larry’s name to the other doctor, so that the other man could claim the fee, and he would have informed Larry of what he’d done for her, more than likely.’

  Green leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m getting nowhere fast. Tell me why you didn’t like Mrs Partridge.’

  The sudden question took Meeth aback, but Meg smiled. ‘I knew you were going to ask that sooner or later. I guessed, last night. I think Larry did, too, didn’t you, my pet? When you warned me to be careful.’

  ‘Don’t go making a mystery of it, Meg. Tell the nice policeman.’

  Meg Meeth turned towards Green. Her face was earnest. He found himself liking it as much in repose as when smiling. The small furrow of concentration across the brow. Her hands, lying still in her lap. Her legs and feet outstretched together, because she was sitting on the front edge of the chair and needed to balance. She said: ‘Larry and I came here on spec. There’d never been a G.P. in Throscum before. But after we married we wanted to be away on our own, working together. And vacancies for doubles in practice are never easy to find in the sort of place where we wanted to live. So it was a gamble coming here, breaking new ground. One of the things that helped us choose Throscum was the holiday camp. When we were prospecting in this area we stayed there. Molly Partridge—Claud’s first wife—was really sweet to us, and when she got to know what we were doing she helped us a lot. One of her greatest worries about the camp was its lack of medical facilities, particularly as there was no local G.P. She’d set up a first-aid room and had a nurse in attendance, but she could only staff it during the day for five days a week. At nights and weekends, the nurse wanted to be away—naturally. And she couldn’t get a second and a third to work shifts, which was what was really needed.

  ‘To have us close by seemed the answer to her fears, as you’d be surprised how many small accidents there are in a holiday camp with busy kitchens and so on. Anyhow, Molly was prepared to pay for service, and in return for our promise to be available—one of us—at all times between April and September, she offered us a retainer—quite small, but more than enough to pay the rates—plus a fee for each visit to the camp, whether for emergency treatment or hygiene purposes.

  ‘This was quite a happy arrangement for us. It helped, financially, to get us started. And it also justified two G.P.s in the area. Claud was quite happy about it, too. For though he was a bit of a rogue, he was a pleasant one. He’d pull clever deals, but he’d never do you down. In fact, he was instrumental in getting us this house at our price—but that’s another story. As long as he was alive we got our retainer and fees.

  ‘Fay was a different kettle of fish. Out for every penny she could get. She knew that legally and ethically we couldn’t refuse treatment to anybody needing it, and also that if we have names and N.H.S. numbers we can claim official payment for casual treatments. So she stopped our money from Throscum House. We’ve still had as many surgery calls—more, in fact—since then, and only a few less calls for visits to the camp.’

  ‘So you missed the money,’ Green said.

  ‘A bit. Not all that much, perhaps, because we were established in the area, thank the lord, before she took over. But we resented the nastiness of it, the way it was done, and the fact that it was done by a common prostitute. And one other thing. In her this year’s brochure she states that there are first-aid facilities within the camp and medical help close by. That’s us! She advises holidaymakers to bring their medical cards in case of need, or at least to make a note of their N.H.S. numbers before leaving home. Can you beat that for impudence? I know we’re servants of the public and all that, but we don’t like being taken a loan of in that way.’

  ‘I can see you had every reason to dislike her.’

  ‘It wasn’t only her actions, it was her character, too. She was a tart, pure and simple.’

  Larry said: ‘Can a tart be pure and simple?’

  ‘You know what I mean. A tart may be immoral, and no matter what the rest of her anatomy is like, can have a heart of gold—or so I’m led to believe. But Fay Partridge was amoral, with a heart of flint. Everything about her was vulgar. Nasty.’ Meg Meeth shuddered involuntarily. It said more to Green than her forthright words. He reckoned that if a woman like this doctor was revolted—even allowing for differences in temperament—Fay Partridge must have been the scum of the earth. He wondered how Masters would react to this information.

  He needn’t have bothered. Masters was learnin
g for himself what manner of person the victim had been.

  Chapter Four

  Masters had left the sergeants to go over the flat systematically soon after inspecting Fay Partridge’s store of goodies. He went down the wide staircase slowly, and carefully replaced the barrier cord after he had passed through. He made his way to Compton’s office.

  The manager and his secretary were both busy. Masters said: ‘End of the week rush of paperwork?’

  Compton took off his glasses and got to his feet. ‘Not end of the week. Beginning of the week.’

  ‘No bills for those who leave tomorrow?’

  ‘No bills here. Not for guests who stay for a holiday. Everything is paid for, either before they start, or in cash while they’re here. Motel guests—usually one- or two-nighters—do pay, as with an hotel bill.’

  ‘I haven’t seen your motel chalets.’

  ‘There are sixteen of them—but not all separate. If you go to the square and turn left behind the garages you will come across what I believe was called a spider block by the Army. There are five wings to it, each divided into two cabins. The other six are separate and were, I believe, safe stores for instruments. At any rate they are concrete built and have been landscaped very pleasantly by our gardening staff.’

  Masters asked if he might smoke, refused an offer of cigarettes, and started to fill his pipe. Compton, who seemed slightly ill at ease during the silence, said: ‘No. Our work today is for next week. Bungalows were allocated weeks ago, of course. But the paperwork is not confined to guest lists. Oh, no. Laundry lists are terrible. Terrible. A list for each steward and stewardess on how many items to draw up. It differs each week—three in a bungalow now, four from tomorrow. And breakages and losses! Electric light bulbs! You’d never believe the number we go through.’

  Masters struck a match. ‘I’ve seen a bit of vandalism, Mr Compton.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. It affects even the people one might expect better of. No consideration for other people’s property. It’s a malaise, Chief Inspector. A malaise.’