Colin Watson - The Flaxborough Crab

Miss Teatime was interested to see that he could eat with scarcely any overt jaw movement. She wondered if, instead of using his teeth, he had acquired the ability to crush food between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

“Oh, but I must not frighten you with talk of side-effects. I know they are bound to be a constant nightmare for you pharmaceutical people, and I do sympathize with you. Well, I know what I should feel if we began to receive complaints at Moldham Meres that people had been taken ill after using our products.”

Brennan cut away another piece of apple. There was a slightly more savage turn of the twist this time. He remained silent.

“To tell you the truth,” Miss Teatime continued in a lowered voice, “and quite in confidence between ourselves, there have been one or two cases lately that give me concern. A somewhat curious illness has afflicted several of our customers. Moreover”—her voice fell still further—“there has been publicity. You may well imagine how damaging that can be.

“The odd thing is that every one of these unfortunate customers of ours happens, or happened (one of them has died, I fear), to be also a taker of ‘Juniform’. This doubtless is pure coincidence, but it may serve to help you appreciate my firm’s predicament. I mean, it does bring you closer to the problem, does it not?”

She frowned. “Now, what was the other strange coincidence I meant to mention? Ah, yes—this illness. Do you know, it is exactly similar—or so I am reliably informed—to one that has been reported in a couple of Continental countries. And yet Moldham Meres Laboratories do not sell any of their products in Europe. I find that comforting, I must say, but it is rather mysterious.”

The apple was now sculpted down to its core. Brennan regarded the remnant pensively for a moment, then placed it on the saucer.

“And why are you telling me all this?” He spoke with tight, cold precision.

“Because I dared to hope that you might be interested in the problem as a colleague.”

“That is nonsense. What have I to do with this...this nature cure chicanery?”

“Let us not use harsh words, Mr Brennan. I am simply giving you an opportunity to use your influence with a very worthy organization towards an equally worthy end.”

“Again nonsense! My dear woman, if you imagine...”

“Please do not tell me,” Miss Teatime interrupted firmly, “that you are unaware of the existence of C.I.R.F.”

“And what is that pray?” Behind the hard, sardonic tone, there was a hint of caution.

“The Chemo-therapy International Research Foundation, Mr Brennan.”

“Ye-es, I have heard of it.”

“You should have done. It happens to be the creation of your own firm, by which it continues to be financed.”

“What of it?”

“The funds of C.I.R.F.—and please correct me if I am wrong to believe them substantial—are used to finance clinical trials of new drugs. They are supposed to be administered impartially, and I am sure they are, but the only trials of which I have personal knowledge are those which Dr Meadow—the late Dr Meadow, rather—conducted on ‘Juniform’. Dr Meadow received grants from the Foundation totalling nearly six thousand pounds. It was money well spent, of course, because it enabled him to establish that the drug was not only efficacious but completely harmless. His findings were published in the medical press and went into the sales literature of Elixon to be distributed all over the world.”

Brennan walked slowly to a chair and sat down. He did not take his eyes off her, nor, even when seated, did he relax the military stiffness of his back and shoulders.

“Go on, Miss Teatime.”

She nodded and gave him a benign smile.

“How fortunate that poor Dr Meadow was spared to complete his work in time. But now, alas, he has gone, and one might almost say that a vacancy has arisen in consequence.”

“A vacancy?”

“Yes—in relation to the availability of C.I.R.F. funds, I mean. Forgive my being forthright—presumptuous, I fear, was my father’s word for it—Sir William Teatime, the surgeon, you know—but it did occur to me that a research grant might appropriately be made to Moldham Meres Laboratories, in view of the parallel nature of our work in geriatrics. After all”—Miss Teatime gave a little shrug of sweet reasonableness—“my firm did receive the blame for those regrettable cases of indisposition which might just as well have been caused by ‘Juniform’, despite Dr Meadow’s vigilance.”

For a long time Brennan’s square, sombre face remained quite motionless while he stared unblinkingly at Miss Teatime. Then he gave a curt nod, as if he had just made up his mind about something, and examined his hands, slowly bending and unbending the stubby, powerful fingers.

“When you came in here,” he said, “I thought you were a crazy but harmless old woman...”

“That was a most ungentlemanly impression!”

Brennan ignored the interruption. “...but I see now that you are clever and far from harmless. It is obvious that you have been making a lot of inquiries into matters which cannot be said to concern you. You think you have found things out which will embarrass me or the firm I represent. Perhaps—and I shall put it no more strongly than this, out of respect for your age and sex—you are hopeful of financial gain.”

“Perish,” stoutly interjected Miss Teatime, “the thought!”

“Ah, I am glad to hear you say so. Because, believe me, you will be damnably disappointed”—his voice suddenly rose to a shout—“damnably disappointed, I say!—if you imagine that I will tolerate, let alone succumb to, any threat from you!”

Miss Teatime’s small, dainty mouth pursed in conjecture.

“You know, Mr Brennan, there is something about you which I do not quite understand. You do not have the style of a commercial traveller. Nor do you speak like one. I am particularly intrigued, because your, name is not known at the London office of Elixon’s subsidiary company in England.”

He glared. “My God! Your spying seems to have been very thorough!”

“My inquiries,” she corrected, gently.

“You will stop interrupting! Let me make this absolutely clear. Unless you cease your preposterous attempt to extort money and leave here immediately, I shall send for the manager and have you removed.”

“That would be very unethical, Mr Brennan. I have done no more than put to you a reasonable suggestion concerning medical research.”

“Get out!”

He had risen from his chair and was now standing a few feet away from her. His brittle fury was like that of a parade ground officer faced with some insolent subordinate.

Miss Teatime did not budge. She smoothed out a small crease in her skirt, sat a little more erect, and shook her head regretfully.

“Oh, dear. So Germanic.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You certainly could not be accused of having a bedside manner, doctor. But then, general practice is not your sphere, is it?”

“You are a lunatic! I was right, after all. You are mad as a hatmaker!”

She laughed. “ Hutmacher ...no, no, you are too carefully colloquial, doctor. In England, we say hatter. Nevertheless, your accent is most creditable—apart from a certain residual flatness. Tell me, how long were you in South Africa after the war, Dr Brunnen?”

He walked to the door, opened it, and came back to stand over Miss Teatime. She felt his fingers close over her upper arm.

“If you would be so good, madam...”

The harsh, ironic voice was within an inch or two of her ear. She was aware of her shoulder rising as if it had been trapped in machinery. For a second, the rest of her body drooped helplessly from it, like that of a cat picked up by one foreleg.