“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.
Brennan took a step towards the door.
Inexplicably, his foot failed to meet the ground. It seemed to have been taken in charge with quite astonishing dexterity and determination by Miss Teatime, who, slipping from his grasp, now thrust herself neatly aside so as not to impede Brennan’s floorward plunge.
The room reverberated so violently that it was some little time before the ringing of the telephone separated out as a significant sound.
Brennan lifted his head. Ponderously, he raised himself to a kneeling position.
Miss Teatime looked down at him sternly.
“You must never do that again,” she said.
The phone was ringing once more.
“Are you not going to answer it?”
Brennan got to his feet. He steadied himself against the wall and picked up the phone.
While he listened, he scowled with increasing intensity at Miss Teatime.
“Yes, I see... Did they say why?... No, I’ll come down. Tell them that. I shall be down in a moment, yes.”
Back went the receiver. The baleful stare was maintained.
“More of your stupid nonsense?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Those two policemen downstairs. They are your idea?”
“They most assuredly are not!”
Miss Teatime’s indignation had the ring of truth.