Malice in Wonderland

by Nicholas Blake

  “I dare say. But I still don’t see how we can find out which of the visitors—apart from those who came with their families—answer your description.”

  “That’s where your own services would be useful, Mr. Perry. You have a semi-official position here, which enables you to ask questions without seeming unwarrantably to intrude into private lives. There is also your questionnaire, on which people were asked to subscribe their names and addresses. An examination of these addresses would yield at least provisional results.”

  They decided to get to work on the questionnaire papers straight away, though Paul secretly believed that it would do little to narrow down the investigation. Mr. Thistlethwaite, by some strange reaction of mind upon matter, had already assumed the appearance of one of those solid, heavy-jowled, ordinary-looking men under whose photographs in the press you read the legend “Superintendent ——, one of the Big Five, who is in control of the investigation.” Only the bowler hat was missing.

  It was while they were engaged upon the papers that a man approached Sally, who was sun-bathing on the beach, and began talking to her in the free-and-easy manner of Wonderland. Lying on her stomach, scrabbling her toes into the soft sand, she did not at first give him more than a brief glance. He looked very much like any of the older visitors—grey flannels, sports coat, open-necked shirt, one of those old-young faces whose wrinkles and grey hair are contradicted by clear-cut features and a keen, mobile expression. His voice was pleasant, too—slow, paternal, somehow reassuring. Afterwards, when her mother mildly commented on the way she had conducted herself, Sally could only say that he’d seemed a perfectly inoffensive creature.

  The two talked desultorily for a few minutes. Then Sally said:

  “Be a sport and rub in some of this sun-tan oil, will you? I can’t get at my back.”

  “You don’t look as if you needed any.”

  “I certainly do. I’ve got to be a South Sea maiden in the cabaret to-morrow.”

  As the stranger rubbed in the oil, the conversation drifted round to the Mad Hatter. He had not realised that she was the practical joker’s first victim. It must have been a nasty experience, being dragged under the sea. What had it felt like?

  Sally chattered away happily. They discussed the other exploits of the Mad Hatter, and the way they had affected the visitors. Presently the stranger rose from his knees, rubbed his hands in a dirty handkerchief, and drifted off. As she looked up to thank him for his ministrations, Sally had subconsciously noticed something which did not come to the front of her mind till the stranger was already nearing the top of the cliff path.

  He had not been wearing a Wonderland identity disc, that was it.

  Well, of course he wasn’t. Lots of people don’t wear them down at the beach. Yes, but he wasn’t bathing, he had no towel or costume with him. Oh, don’t be silly. Yes, and he was an oldish man, grey-haired, and his voice sort of deliberate, like—— But the hermit’s voice was husky, hoarse, quite different. That might have been assumed. Suppose it was the hermit, the Mad Hatter. All right, suppose it was; he didn’t do you any harm, you poor, nervous ninny. He was very nice and kind. He even——

  Sally’s eyes fell on the bottle of sun-tan oil, upright in the sand where he had laid it down. She felt cold and hot and cold, as if she were swimming through the layers of chilly and warmer water out there in the sea. She thought she would faint, she wished she could scream, remembering what had happened yesterday to that other girl. Blisters. Mustard-gas, they’d all said, and Captain Wise had publicly denounced the people who spread such a silly rumour. But you could not decontaminate your mind from that rumour just in a few hours.

  Oh God, she thought, holding up the bottle, desperately trying to remember how much there had been in it before—— Oh God, supposing it was something else he rubbed into my back, something out of a different bottle.

  She shuddered. She could feel his hand again, rubbing gently but very persistently, the hand of that horrible old man who had flapped at them in the wood, the Mad Hatter who poisoned dogs.

  In a moment she had braced herself hard against this undertow of panic. You didn’t have to rub mustard-gas into people: and, if it had been acid—vitriol, or something like that—she’d have felt it burning at once: and it’d have burnt his hand too. But still, he may still have been the Mad Hatter, drawn back to the scene of his crime. He had no disc, he started talking about the practical joker—in a queer, interested, inquisitive way, almost as though he had not seen the effects of them himself and wanted to gloat over an eye-witness’s account.

  Sally leapt to her feet and swam out to where Teddy Wise was sitting on a raft. Breathlessly she whispered to him what had happened. His sleepy eyes came wide awake. They swam together, racing for the shore, hurried on their bathing-robes, scrambled up the steep path. Sally had no very clear idea of how they were to find the unknown man amongst all the crowd and buildings of Wonderland, but the mere physical action of keeping up with Teddy’s long strides heartened her.

  When they approached the main building and the recreation grounds, they discovered—if they had any attention to spare for it—the difference between running through a crowd of strangers and trying to make one’s way through a mass of people who have already been tuned up to crisis. A smash-and-grab thief can nearly always get away to a good start, for the shock of his action creates a momentary paralysis in the bystanders. But the Wonderland visitors, who swarmed helpfully or inquiringly round as soon as they saw Teddy Wise and Sally running, made a formidable obstacle. In the end they had to stop while Sally, at Teddy’s suggestion, described the appearance of the man on the beach. The visitors then scattered in search of him.

  “Listen, Teddy,” she said. “If he’s the Mad Hatter and going around asking people how they enjoyed his fun, he may be talking to that woman whose dog he killed, or to the girl with blisters. Quick! Which shall we try first?”

  They decided for Phyllis Arnold, whom the doctor had ordered to rest in her chalet. It was a sound decision. As they approached the chalet, Sally saw their quarry emerge from it. Nor did she have any more doubts about his guilt; for no sooner had he caught sight of them advancing, and before Teddy had shouted for him to stop, he was off and away, streaking down the avenue between the chalets.

  “Go and see if she’s all right,” exclaimed Teddy, jerking his finger towards Phyllis Arnold’s chalet. Reluctantly Sally obeyed him. The girl was reclining on a chaise longue, looking seedy and not a little startled.

  “What are they shouting about?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s just someone shouting,” Sally replied vaguely: it would do no good to have the girl further alarmed.

  “You sound quite breathless, Miss Er.”

  “I’ve been running.” Sally, though young, realised by instinct that there are occasions when the truth is much more deceptive than any lie. “I thought I’d pop in and ask how you’re getting on.”

  “It’s very nice of you, I’m sure. Not that I’m ill, mind you. Not as you might say ill. It’s all subjective, don’t you think?” Miss Arnold pushed her arms deeper beneath the rug. “Still, I always say you don’t know how sympathetic people are till you’re down. Look at the way working-class people help each other. I don’t know how many inquiries I’ve had this morning. There was a gentleman who left just before you came in—ever so kind he was—asked me all about how it happened, and wanted to see my scars—my arms, I mean.”

  “Did you show them to him?”

  “I didn’t want to, you understand that, don’t you, dear? But he was so kind, it would have been like snubbing him. So I let him take off the bandages.”

  “Did you?” Sally’s heart seemed to miss a beat. “Did he—do anything?”

  “Do anything? He was most respectful. I wouldn’t let a man take liberties.”

  “Did he touch them? The scars?”

  “No, he just looked at them, that’s all. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Are those the bandages
on the table? Oughtn’t you to put them on again? Let me do it. Practise my First Aid.”

  “No, dear, thank you all the same. I mustn’t give in to such weakness again. It’s all subjective, you see.”

  “You mean the blisters weren’t really there at all?”

  “Not exactly that. But if I believe I’m well again, and have enough faith, I shall be well.”

  “But couldn’t you have the bandages on and still believe that——?”

  “You don’t understand, dear,” said Miss Arnold with exasperating patience. At this point Teddy Wise turned up, inquired after the invalid and took Sally off with him. The unknown man had escaped him, he said, running through the trees, clambering over the farm wall, and making off on a motor-bike: Teddy had not been able to see the registration number, and the chap would have been two miles away before he could have returned to the camp garage and got out his own car for pursuit. Sally told him what the stranger had been doing in Miss Arnold’s chalet.

  “If this chap is the hermit and the Mad Hatter,” said Teddy, “it’s hard to see what he was up to. He should have been buzzing around with more treacle, or whatever his next bit of dirty work is, not comparing notes with his victims.”

  “But who else could he have been? Why did he run away?”

  “It beats me. The old head-piece simply cannot stand the racket. I say, d’you know anything about this detective bloke your dad recommended?”

  “No. I’ve never even seen him.”

  “I always think of private detectives as furtive little blighters who can just reach up to peer through the keyhole. I suppose this one’s a master-man, though—hawk-like eye, eight-cylinder brain and all that. Well, he’ll need it.”

  “I wish I knew what really goes on in your head,” Sally startled herself by saying. Teddy grinned his easy, modest grin.

  “Damn all, if you want to know. But don’t tell anyone else.”

  Sally was conscious of having been politely but firmly warned off the grass. It irritated and puzzled her. She said:

  “You take everything as a sort of game.”

  “Well, games are all I’m good at.” He glanced at her self-defensively, a little wary but still good-humoured, like a boxing instructor whose pupil has landed on him with unexpected violence.

  “But you can’t go on playing games all your life.”

  “It’ll be time enough to worry about that when I’ve got a middle-aged spread, athlete’s heart and fallen arches, my good wench.”

  Sally could not resist the impulse to break through his good-humour: there was a delicious feeling of temerity in baiting him—he was so strong and handsome—she half-wanted him to hit back.

  “But surely you want to get on and do something,” she said. “Something better than playing rounders with knock-kneed girls. You must have some ambition.”

  “O, I leave ambition to Mortimer. One big noise’ll be quite enough in the family. Why this sudden solicitude for my future, anyway?”

  “I don’t like seeing people wasting themselves, I suppose.”

  “Life is real, life is earnest, what? Sounds to me as if you’d been having some propaganda pumped into you. Our Mr. Perry, was it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, he does at least take his work seriously.”

  “Oh, but don’t I? Our games organiser is the most conscientious little worker on the staff. Always bright, always on the spot to help you over your difficulties, Wonderland’s leading ray of sunshine. Which reminds me, I’m supposed to be officiating at the tennis tournament this morning. And I must toddle off first and report to my bro on the sinister bloke we’ve just chased off. Always on the go. A selfless life dedicated to the cause of others. Cheerio, Sally.”

  At that she had to leave it. As she strolled over to the notice-board, to see what time she was booked to play in the tournament, Sally took stock of herself. The fright she had got this morning, together with the atmosphere of uncertainty and unreality which the Mad Hatter seemed to have cast over Wonderland, had sobered her up. For the moment, at any rate, she could not take either herself or others at their face value. It was a queer sort of holiday: it had been queer from the word go, from the first time Paul Perry had spoken to them in the train, treating her with a stand-offishness she had never met with in any other young man. I could get him if I tried, though, she said to herself: and I could get Teddy, but not so easily. I wonder what this Nigel Strangeways will be like? Why, I never even asked Daddy if he was married: I must be losing grip.

  X

  NIGEL STRANGEWAYS CAME to Wonderland with a mind that was not only open but quite empty. His brief conversation over the telephone with Mr. Thistlethwaite had told him no more than that funny business was going on in the camp: some sort of practical joker, on the face of it, though Mr. Thistlethwaite had hinted at darker things and wheels within wheels. Nigel had not had time even to make inquiries about Wonderland Ltd. before setting off: nor had he the least idea what a holiday camp was like.

  He was certainly unprepared for the vast, Hollywood-like structure that met his eyes as the car drove up through the park. One of the Wonderland staff had been sent to meet his train, but Nigel was too much exercised about something else to ask many questions during the drive. He was worrying, to be explicit, about his suit. Clothes did not normally bulk large in his preoccupations; but, when you were going to meet Mr. Thistlethwaite, for whom clothes did very much make the man, you began to regret money that might have been spent on trouser-press, coat-hangers, cleaning and pressing.

  The grey, pin-striped flannels he was wearing had certainly been made by Mr. Thistlethwaite. But they had been made several years ago, since when Nigel had got into the habit of patronising ready-made tailors. Would Mr. Thistlethwaite have forgiven this desertion? If he had not, Nigel was in for it. Though it was more than twelve years since, a callow undergraduate, he had first timidly entered Mr. Thistlethwaite’s establishment, his awe of the great man was little diminished. Shuddering slightly, he recalled that occasion—the first and last when he had ventured to dispute Mr. Thistlethwaite’s judgment. It was on the question of buttons. Nigel had wished for only two on the front of the lounge suit the tailor had consented to make for him. Mr. Thistlethwaite had indicated that gentlemen were no longer wearing two buttons: three was the correct number. With rash and fatal obstinacy, Nigel had stood out for two. Whereupon Mr. Thistlethwaite had drawn himself up, expanded till he seemed to fill like an outraged deity the holy of holies that was his fitting-room, and pronounced:

  “If you insist, sir, I will give you two buttons. I can only say”—Mr. Thistlethwaite’s voice took on a note of glacial distaste—“I can only say that it will look very silly.”

  Nigel had capitulated instantly. Never again did he join issue with the tailor. But the incident had left an indelible trauma on his mind. To-day, getting out of the car, peering short-sightedly into the vast atrium of Wonderland, he felt the old wound begin to throb again.

  Mr. Thistlethwaite was awaiting him inside. With the air of one veteran statesman receiving another at a peace conference, he advanced upon Nigel over the rubber floor, hand outstretched.

  “This is indeed a pleasure,” he boomed. “Unfortunate though the circumstances be.”

  “I hope you’re well, Mr. Thistlethwaite.”

  “Thank you, sir. I keep my health.” Mr. Thistlethwaite stood back a little, still grasping Nigel’s hand. “I fancy we had the pleasure of making that suit for you.”

  “Yes. Er, yes. Worn very well, hasn’t it?”

  Mr. Thistlethwaite smoothed down a slight ruck under the collar. “A good suit, sir, I always say, remains an aristocrat to the end.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments, out of respect for this dictum. Then Mr. Thistlethwaite conducted him upstairs to the manager’s office.

  “Captain Wise,” he said on the way, “will put you au fail with the situation. You will find him quite an agreeable gentleman, though we cannot approve of temp
orary officers, great as their services to their country in her hour of need have doubtless been, retaining their military titles in civil life. In a free democracy such as ours, we wish for nothing that savours of a standing army.”

  Nigel forbore to question the logic of this remarkable utterance. Presently he was seated in Captain Wise’s best arm-chair, listening to an account of what had happened: Mr. Thistlethwaite had tactfully removed himself, but Miss Jones remained, supplementing her employer’s statement when necessary from her own notes. The two obviously worked so well together that it surprised Nigel when Captain Wise suddenly rounded on the secretary over a quite trivial point. Wise mentioned that he had informed the visitors last night of Nigel’s coming.

  “You told them I was a private investigator?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think you should have done that. It’s bound to hamper me a bit, especially as you want the inquiry to be done as tactfully as possible and without interfering too much with the normal camp life.”

  “That was a point I made too, you will remember, Captain Wise,” said Miss Jones, crisply but quite respectfully.

  It was then that Mortimer Wise turned on her. “Will you kindly remember that you’re paid to be my secretary, not assist ant manager!” he burst out in a harsh, nervy voice. “I’ll ask your advice when I want it.”

  Miss Jones’ shocked expression and the way Nigel was regarding his toe-caps seemed to make him realise that he’d been unreasonable. He apologised, but only to Nigel.

  “Sorry, Strangeways. The fact is, this business is getting me down. I quite appreciate your point, but you must realise the difficulty of my position. The visitors have been getting very restive about what they called my inactivity. By rights I ought probably to have called in the police, but that would be exceedingly bad for Wonderland Ltd. Of course, we’ve been working quietly away at it, taking precautions, and so on; but we needed a rather more public gesture——”