Malice in Wonderland

by Nicholas Blake

  “Pull yourself together, my dear chap,” said Captain Wise. “No one’s accusing you of anything. The chap may have done it so quietly you didn’t hear.”

  He and Nigel left the chalet. As they were walking away, Captain Wise said:

  “Nothing in that, is there? I mean, as he said, he wouldn’t have put the bomb under his own chalet—not if he was the practical joker.”

  “Not unless he was the practical joker, you mean. It’d be the obvious way of clearing himself of suspicion, wouldn’t it—to stage one of the jokes on himself?”

  “Oh, that’s a bit too subtle for me,” said the manager, laughing.

  XV

  THE NEXT DAY, though for the great mass of the Wonderland residents it provided nothing more dramatic than the weekly sports gymkhana, was unbelievably melodramatic for two of them. Not only melodramatic, one might say, but decisive. for they would never be quite the same again. To a superficial observer their actions, in relation to the characters who performed them, might have seemed a running contrary to form—almost a flat contradiction of all we know about the characters. Luckily Nigel Strangeways was not a superficial observer, and was able to see how these actions, apparently so impromptu and paradoxical, proceeded logically from deep-lying sources. Had he not perceived this, the Mad Hatter case would have become intolerably complicated, and perhaps defied all solution. It was, in essence, as he had vaguely suspected all along, a simple enough case, its difficulties being on the whole accidental to the main plot.

  This morning, as yesterday, the Daily Post lived up to its reputation for making the best of the newspaper silly season. FURTHER OUTRAGES AT WONDERLAND, it announced to its enraptured readers. DEAD RABBIT IN ’TEC’S BED. And in considerably smaller type, HOLIDAY BELLE POISONED? Whatever consolation Phyllis Arnold may have derived from this headline, Captain Wise plainly believed that the whole thing was a final, knock-out blow for Wonderland.

  “Where’s the leakage, though?” he kept on plaintively asking Nigel. “How did they find out this time?”

  “Presumably the Mad Hatter rings them up with a daily bulletin.”

  “We ought to have had the telephone boxes watched,” said the manager irritably, by “we” clearly meaning “you.”

  “It’d have been no use. We couldn’t possibly ring up the exchange every time one of your visitors makes a call, and ask them what he’s been talking about. We haven’t got police powers.”

  “Arbuthnot—that’s our managing director—is coming down this morning. I’d like to have something concrete to show him.”

  “Concrete? How d’you mean?”

  Really, thought Captain Wise, this alleged detective is being remarkably obtuse and unhelpful to-day.

  “Something about the Mad Hatter, of course.”

  “You’d like me to produce the Mad Hatter at the conference?”

  “Well, naturally,” replied the manager, looking a bit startled. “But I quite realise you’ve had very little time. We can’t expect results so soon, and——”

  “Oh, I’ll bring him out of the bag, if you like.”

  “You know who he is? Since when?” Captain Wise was in a state of keen excitement.

  “I’ve known for some time. I can’t prove it yet, though.”

  “It wouldn’t be much good, then. Arbuthnot’s a man who’ll want hard facts.”

  “He’s that sort of man, is he? And if he doesn’t get them, I suppose I’m fired?”

  “No. Not necessarily. It was on my responsibility that you were called in, and I shall be footing the bill myself.” Captain Wise gave a short, apologetic laugh. “No, But the fact is that this publicity, in my judgment, has done for the Wonderland camps, so it doesn’t much matter now whether we discover the culprit or not. To put it bluntly, I can’t afford to pay you much longer for doing work that has ceased to be of more than academic importance.”

  “I see that. Though I shouldn’t say that the protection of your guests is an entirely academic matter. After all, the chap may start shooting off something more lethal than rockets at them soon——”

  “There’ll be damned few guests to shoot at next week.” Captain Wise indicated a pile of letters on his desk. “That’s just one post. People cancelling their bookings. Yes, they’re preferring to sacrifice their deposits rather than come to this plague spot.”

  “As bad as that? Yes, quick results do seem to be called for. I must jump to it.” At the door Nigel turned and said, “By the way, can you vouch absolutely for Miss Jones?”

  “Vouch——? What an extraordinary suggestion! You don’t seriously——”

  “Her father was ruined and driven to suicide by financial competitors. If any of those men were behind Wonderland, it would supply the motive.”

  “But the idea is fantastic. She’s entirely trustworthy, devoted to this place—why, I don’t mind admitting, she’s done more than anyone for it. You say you know who the culprit it; but if you’ve fastened on her, you’ve made a complete blunder.”

  Nigel retired. In spite of Captain Wise’s protestations, Nigel believed he had seen a faint glimmer of doubt, of hesitation in his eyes. Going to one of the telephone boxes downstairs, he rang up Sir John Strangeways at New Scotland Yard. Sir John’s information was largely negative. He had had discreet inquiries made into the Wonderland company, and could assure Nigel that none of the financiers who had ruined Lysaght Jones were behind it. He had no information to the discredit of Teddy Wise, beyond a certain episode relating to a policeman’s helmet knocked off after a Varsity match. Mortimer Wise, declared Sir John, had run very quickly through a large legacy received a few years ago: this, Nigel imagined, was the period when he had become acquainted with Miss Jones: after that, Mortimer had descended to the secretaryship of a golf club; his copy-book appeared to be unblotted.

  “And what about that snapshot I sent you?”

  “No luck yet. Give me time, boy. I’ve only had a few hours.”

  “Try——” Nigel mentioned the name of a secret department which invigilates over the activities of foreign agents. “I fancy they may have seen that phiz before.”

  He rang off, leaving his uncle fuming at the other end of the wire. His next move was to go in search of Sally Thistlethwaite. He found her practising with Mr. Morley for the three-legged race that would take place in the afternoon. Detaching the girl from her partner, he took her off to a quiet seat near the edge of the cliffs. Behind them, to their left, was the white, functional Wonderland building, the windows behind the “Captain’s bridge” open to the mild southerly airs. From the fun-fair, which was behind them on their right, came the cries of children at play. Nobody appeared to be using the miniature rifle range; but from somewhere inland, where a territorial camp was situated, there could be heard the spasmodic rattle of machine-gun practice. These sounds punctuated the rhythmically beating ground-bass made by the sea as it played upon the shingle far below. Nigel began to question Sally about her own experiences at the camp. She was evidently on the defensive against him when the names of Paul Perry or Albert Morley were mentioned, though she was frank enough about everyone else: this first became apparent when he talked about the duckings; she insisted that neither of them had been near her when she was pulled under water, but her insistence did not ring true to his ear.

  Nigel, however, had a way with unwilling witnesses, and before long she was confiding in him her fears for Paul Perry.

  “I’m certain he didn’t do these things, but he makes it so difficult for me. He seems to be avoiding me. I wanted him to be my partner in the sports, and he just said he was going for a long walk to-day. It’s funny,” she added with pleasant ingenuousness, “because I’m sure he’s attracted to me.”

  She then told him how Paul had refused to handle the fish she caught. “That proves it, doesn’t it?” she said. “If he hated touching the fish, he’d never have carried those beastly stinking animals about.”

  “No. Unless he didn’t know he was doing it. Has
he talked to you about split personality at all?”

  “We were talking about it—when was it?—on Sunday, I think—by the tennis-courts. But——”

  “I think one reason why he’s behaving oddly, avoiding you and so on, is that he’s afraid that’s what’s wrong with him.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Sally asked directly.

  “I can’t say absolutely for certain yet.”

  “If it was, and he is the Mad Hatter, they couldn’t do anything to him, could they?” Her eyes were veiled now by her dark lashes.

  “They wouldn’t put him in prison, no.”

  Sally opened her eyes wide at him: the effect was dazzling, like sunshine after rain. She said, blinding at the words:

  “Would a person like that have dotty children, if they had children?”

  “Probably not. But we’re looking a bit too far ahead, my dear, aren’t we? Let’s go back to the case.”

  Sally answered his questions more freely now. Little by little, he drew from her all she had seen and heard during the last five days. While they talked, one of the staff came and herded the children away from the fun-fair: the children’s sports started at eleven-thirty and were to be over by lunch-time. Shortly after eleven-thirty a messenger arrived asking for Nigel’s attendance in the manager’s office. The great Mr. Arbuthnot was come, in clouds of wrath, to deliver judgment.

  Mr. Arbuthnot had small, shrewd, choleric eyes, a rather ferocious set of the mouth, and a neck that overlapped his collar at the back. He looked what he was, the successful business man: he was behaving now like a spoilt child whose world has suddenly turned him over and given him a spanking.

  “——the whole thing’s been outrageously mismanaged from the start,” he was saying as Nigel entered. “The company holds you responsible, Wise, and—who the devil’s this?”

  “Mr. Strangeways. This is our managing director, Mr. Arbuthnot.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot gave Nigel a curt nod and one of those cold, searching gazes with which his kind like to feel they are at once summing up the character of the recipient and putting him in his place. Sitting behind his desk, Captain Wise fiddled sheepishly with papers: Teddy Wise, standing by the far wall, had the glazed look of a punch-drunk pugilist—he had evidently had a gruelling at the hands of Mr. Arbuthnot. Only Esmeralda Jones seemed unconcerned: her cool, demure efficiency was almost a parody of itself: Nigel could have sworn that her left eyelid drooped at him behind the horn-rimmed glasses, as the managing director began stamping up and down the room again.

  “The police should have been called in at once, Wise, since you were incapable of controlling the situation yourself. There’s no use having amateurs fiddling about with this kind of thing.”

  “As I told you, Mr. Arbuthnot, the police would have meant publicity and great inconvenience for our visitors,” Captain Wise repeated wearily.

  “Damn it, man, you’ve the publicity and the inconvenience anyway. And made a fool of the company into the bargain.”

  “If I’m not wanted,” Nigel interposed politely, “I’ll go. I’ve got plenty to do.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot halted abruptly and stared at Nigel as if he hadn’t noticed him till this moment.

  “You’ll go when I tell you, young man. You’re in the company’s employment now, and don’t you forget it.”

  “On the contrary, I understood I was being paid by Captain Wise.”

  “Well, well, don’t quibble. You’re supposed to be here in the company’s interests, though what you’ve done to justify——”

  “I’m here to discover the identity of a practical joker, Mr. Arbuthnot, and not to whitewash the Wonderland company.”

  The director’s bull-like neck went purple and seemed to swell.

  “Whitewash? Who said anything about whitewash?” he exclaimed.

  “I just wanted to make my position quite clear,” Nigel answered mildly.

  “Oh, you did, did you? Well, perhaps you’ll now go on to make it quite clear what you’ve done to justify that position. And I want facts, see?—no fancy theorising.”

  That suited Nigel, too, who felt no strong desire to place any theories before Mr. Arbuthnot in his present mood.

  “Very well. Here are the facts up to date——”

  “Wait a minute. It’s damned hot in here. You—what’s your name?—Miss Jones—can’t you open a window or something?”

  “The windows are all open, Mr. Arbuthnot,” she replied sweetly. “Perhaps you would prefer to continue the conference on the balcony?”

  Grumbling, the director assented. Chairs were brought outside, and Nigel gave a résumé of the outrages and his own investigations. When he had finished, Mr. Arbuthnot gave an impatient snort.

  “Yes, yes,” he exclaimed testily, “we know all that. What do you make of it? Have you got anywhere? That’s what I’m interested in. You’re paid to get results, aren’t you?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Captain Wise stood up and moved over to the rail at the right-hand end of the balcony.

  “The case is by no means a simple one,” Nigel began. Before he had got very far, Mr. Arbuthnot interrupted:

  “Poppycock! Don’t start making a mountain out of a molehill—I’m not impressed. Anyone with their wits about them ought to be able to put a finger on this chap at once. Some hooligan starts practical joking, and you all behave as though he was a master criminal. Good God, you’re not acting in an Edgar Wallace——”

  Mr. Arbuthnot’s tirade was cut short, for the second time within a few minutes. Accustomed to being heard out in respectful silence, the director was stung to fury by this treatment. He glared at Captain Wise, who had interrupted him by clapping his hand to his ear. He shouted:

  “What the devil——?”

  But Nigel was already on his feet, peering incredulously at Captain Wise, who said:

  “Something must have stung me. A hornet, I should think.” He took his hand away from his ear. It was covered with blood. And blood was streaming from a neat notch, like a hole clipped by a bus-conductor’s punch, that had been made high up on the edge of his ear.

  “That’s not a sting. You’ve been shot at.”

  “Rubbish,” said Mr. Arbuthnot, his eyes popping. “People don’t——”

  “Shut up!” said Nigel over his shoulder: he was now leaning over the end of the balcony. “I thought I heard a shot, only you were bawling so loud. Yes, somebody shot at Wise from the miniature range down there. A .22 presumably. Teddy, come over here and keep your eye on the range. Miss Jones, get some cotton wool and plug that wound: then fetch the doctor.” He raced through the office and down the stairs.

  “An inch or two to the right, and that bullet’d have gone into the back of my head,” Captain Wise was saying dazedly.

  “There’s your first introduction to the Mad Hatter, Mr. Arbuthnot,” said Miss Jones.

  But Mr. Arbuthnot had retired precipitately into the office, and was steadying himself with the contents of a pocket flask.

  Watching from the balcony, Teddy Wise saw Nigel run towards the fun-fair and enter the miniature range. Nobody had emerged from it in the interval, and there was clearly nobody hiding there now. So much Teddy could see: what he could not see was the expression of bewilderment on Nigel’s face. The shot which had clipped Captain Wise’s ear and so intimidated Mr. Arbuthnot, had neatly upset all his own calculations, too. Calling to Teddy to stay where he was, he went round to the back of the miniature range and hurried towards a clump of trees some hundred yards beyond that was the only cover for anyone who might have fled in this direction. As he did so, a figure walked out towards him from the trees, and resolved itself into the form of Albert Morley.

  “Hallo,” he said; “anything up? I heard shouting.”

  “Captain Wise has been shot. Did you see anyone come this way?”

  “Shot?” Albert Morley looked as if he was going to be sick. “But it’s—he’s not dead?”

  “No. He escaped that by a couple of
inches.”

  “Oh, thank God! thank God! What a terrible thing to happen!”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “No. I was just going for a little walk, and I heard people shouting, and——”

  “Did you hear the shot?”

  “Well, I suppose I must have. But one often hears shots from the range. You say Captain Wise was hit?”

  “Yes. In the ear. You’d better come with me.”

  “Of course. If I can be of any help——”

  Nigel examined the clump of trees, but no one was hiding there. They then went back to the fun-fair and searched the swing boats and everything else which could afford a hiding-place. Presently Nigel called Teddy Wise down from the balcony. Teddy was instructed to find the attendant who looked after the shooting-gallery, and to mobilise the whole staff for the purpose of finding out where each of the visitors had been at the time of the shooting.

  When the attendant arrived, Nigel pointed out a rifle which was lying on the counter of the range.

  “I want that taken away and put in a safe place. Wrap a handkerchief round the stock. There may be fingerprints. It has an empty cartridge-case in the breach, and must be the rifle that was used.”

  In a few minutes the man returned. Nigel learnt that he had been helping with the children’s sports: it was quite usual to leave the shooting-gallery unattended—visitors put money in a slot if they wished to use the moving target, while shooting at the ordinary targets was free.

  “D’you mean, anyone can stroll in and pick up a rifle and blaze away? Isn’t that a bit dangerous? One of the children here might walk off with a rifle.”

  “Oh, they’re not allowed in without an adult.” The man looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Nigel soon forced him into the admission that it was not usual to leave the gallery unattended: he had, in fact, forgotten to lock it up just now when he went over to the children’s sports. This was shortly after eleven o’clock.

  Nigel then enlisted his aid in making a thorough search of the gallery. The recent marksman must have departed in such a hurry that he might possibly have left some clue behind. If he had, they could not find it. What they did find, however, made the problem more baffling than ever. The attendant discovered that one of the rifles was missing.