“Ah, Mr. Strangeways, I see there is no anticipating you.”
“But a chap isn’t a spy just because he has aerial photographs in his possession,” Paul protested. “Anyone can get hold of them.”
“Justly observed. But my daughter, Sally, when I questioned her, vaguely recollected that at least one of these photographs depicted a dockyard. She is by no means sure of this. Taken in conjunction, however, with the fact that this self-styled, or shall I say ci-devant?—hermit is in the habit of spending two days of the week in the naval port of Applestock, and visiting a public house much frequented by naval ratings, the point has its significance.”
“Very good, Mr. Thistlethwaite,” Nigel commended. “Had you not taken up another profession, you might by now be an ornament of Scotland Yard.”
Mr. Thistlethwaite was vastly gratified. “I own myself a mere amateur,” he deprecated. “But not perhaps altogether lacking in flair. The sartorial vocation demands a certain gift for sizing up a subject, for determining the material that will best set off his physical lineaments, for suiting the cloth to the character. Here a touch of bravura is indicated: there, a more demure effect. In a word, we cut the cloth to suit not only the purse but the personality. A similar gift, may I venture to suggest?—is required for the detection of crime. You, sir, having studied your crime from every angle, have measured it up in each particular, then proceed to—however, I digress. Let us return to Old Ishmael What would be his motive for so dastardly a betrayal of his own country? I will answer you in one word. Vengeance.”
Mr. Thistlethwaite glared horribly upon his audience, blew his nose, and continued.
“Never a good citizen—for as a recluse he had long disregarded all social obligations, he conceived a positive hatred for society, and particularly for the government of his country when he was evicted from his shack upon these cliffs. At first this hatred expresses itself in childish acts of reprisal against the holiday camp: he strews nails on the road, and so forth But presently a more sinister opportunity is revealed to him. A certain Mr. Charles Black comes to stay with the farmer, Swetenham: he goes out on the cliffs with field-glasses: he objects to being photographed. Such conduct is not that of an honest man. Mr. Black hears about Old Ishmael, and seeks acquaintance with him. They are seen together in Applestock. Mr Black is unquestionably an enemy agent. But he dare not himself undertake the work of espionage in Applestock. Instead playing upon the recluse’s grievance, he suborns him to the flagitious task. Here is an instrument ready to his hand. Old Ishmael is an established figure in the town: we ourselves noticed how he sat in the Mariner’s Compass, and nobody paid the least attention to him. He is even presumed to be deaf. One of the chief tasks of a spy is to collect information, which he sends in to a central bureau that pieces it together with fragments sent in from a whole network of spies. Our gallant sailors so rightly nominated ‘the Silent Service,’ are the last men to accuse of wilful indiscretion. But who could blame them if from time to time they talked a little too freely in the presence of Old Ishmael—the recluse, the harmless, deaf eccentric? Why, he scarcely existed for them as an individual at all. I say, one would impute no deliberate misdemeanour to so fine a body of men as our tars. But even in the healthiest body there may be one or two evil——”
“The little matter of the betting-slip,” murmured Nigel.
“Just so. Why, confound it, Mr. Strangeways, I believe you were on to the whole thing long ago.” The tailor sounded considerably dashed, and Nigel hastened to reassure him.
“It is very encouraging to find that your judgment supports my own suspicions. As you say, if that chap had wanted to pass on some information to Old Ishmael, he couldn’t have chosen a less suspicious way than that of jotting down a tip for a greyhound race on a piece of paper which contained the information, and passing it over in full view of everyone. Still, we mustn’t build too much on it. It’s a bit flimsy as a clue. If only we could have another look at those aerial photographs! But he’d probably have got rid of them by now. You didn’t notice, I suppose, whether any of them depicted a harbour, Perry?”
“No. I—we were too excited at finding the one of the holiday camp.”
“Nobody’s allowed to fly over those docks; so, if he had photographs of them, they must have been passed on to him by someone in the Air Arm. However, that’ll be taken in hand by other people.”
They began walking back towards the concert hall. On the way, Paul Perry remarked:
“Talking of clues, Mr. Thistlethwaite, how did you know that a certain piece of wire was found underneath my chalet last night? I didn’t realise you were in Strangeways’ confidence to that extent.”
“My dear sir, you forget that your chalet is only a matter of twenty yards or so from mine. I could hear almost every word of the conversation that occurred.”
“Oh hell! Everyone seems to be a detective in this damned place!” Paul exclaimed, and flung himself off.
“Tck, tck, tck. The young gentleman is very much on edge, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Nigel thoughtfully. “Yes, he is … Tell me, now; how long have you known Mr. Morley?”
They had met him first on their visit to Wonderland last year, Mr. Thistlethwaite said. He had attached himself to them rather as a lost dog attaches itself to the first human being who gives it a kind word, Nigel imagined. Not that he was an unhappy man. He just had that air of being lost, eager for some human attachment; and no doubt it was this which found a response in Sally’s warm heart. He worked at a shipping office, and lived alone in rooms, said Mr. Thistlethwaite. He was the kind, thought Nigel, whom a landlady would either mother or fleece abominably; it depended on the landlady.
“Always taking up some new hobby, and then dropping it, I gather,” said Mr. Thistlethwaite. “One time it was chemistry. Then he started to learn Esperanto. Now he’s all for astronomy—only the other day he said he wished he could afford a telescope.”
“It’s typical of the romantic, that, isn’t it? Always starting something new, and giving it up because they don’t become perfect at it in a few days. The ineffectual day-dreamer.”
“Ineffectual, sir? I wonder. Still waters run deep.”
“Some still waters don’t run at all.” If Mr. Thistlethwaite was hinting anything, Nigel did not appear to realise it.
On their left, they could see the fairy lights strung like Wool-worth jewellery above a crescent of chalets. The trees seemed as if cut out of black cardboard. Over there, a member of the staff, conspicuous in his white trousers, was strolling around, flashing an electric torch; it was about this time last night that the Mad Hatter had acted; but surely he would not repeat himself here, now the place was so carefully patrolled. From the concert hall they could hear the strains of a sea-shanty. The interval was over. Nigel left Mr. Thistlethwaite at the door of the big building, and went off by himself to do the rounds of the camp. Three times, at different points, he was challenged; the watchers were certainly on the qui vive to-night. If nothing happened before midnight, Nigel reflected, this would have been the Mad Hatter’s first blank day. Was it just that he dared do nothing further, or had his object now been achieved?
Nigel went to his own chalet, turned on the light, and settled down to read Paul Perry’s gossip note-book. There was a good deal more of it than Nigel had expected. Perry had a good verbal memory and was painstaking to a degree; he must have put down extracts from all the conversations he had heard; certain of these were underlined neatly in red ink—extracts, Nigel presumed, which revealed the viewpoints, characteristics, habits, special reactions of camp residents. It was not these, however, which engaged Nigel’s attention so much as one or two others, scattered about in the book, apparently irrelevant, but underlining and bringing into high relief Nigel’s own tentative theory. He believed he now knew the identity and motive of the Mad Hatter. Yet it would still be as difficult as ever to present valid proofs. And there was still a great deal to be done.
Nigel we
nt out again, in search of Teddy Wise. The vaudeville performance had been over for nearly an hour, and Teddy was recuperating at the bar.
“Cheerio, Sherlock, what’s yours?” he said.
Nigel said a whisky and soda, and Teddy threw a ten-shilling note down on the bar. He was evidently a bit more even than his usual expansive self. An empty stomach, Nigel reflected, is not the only empty thing you can get drunk on: the stage artist, keyed up, filled with nervous tension before he goes on, is emptied by his performance and becomes eminently vulnerable to alcohol. Teddy, for all his hearty, obtuse exterior, was a genuine artist in his way. Neurotic too, suspected Nigel, who had often contemplated writing a monograph on the neurotic tendencies of the athlete.
“You don’t get your drinks free, then?” he said.
“No fear, old boy. Luckily for my morale.”
“Your brother does, though, he told me.”
“Oh, you’ve seen his little private bar? That’s technically for entertainment purposes only. Well, there’s nothing to stop him entertaining himself now and then. Considering the mingy salary he gets, I’m surprised he doesn’t take more advantage of his little extras.”
Teddy Wise was sober enough to talk in lowered tones, for the bar was being well patronised to-night.
“What do they pay him? £1000 a year? That sort of thing?”
“Not by a longish chalk. Look here, can’t go on all night talking in stage whispers—bad for the uvula. Let’s go and have a yarn in my luxury apartment.”
This was exactly what Nigel wanted. Presently they were sitting over a bottle of whisky in Teddy’s room, which was at the top of the Wonderland building—a floor above the manager’s office. Luxury apartment was just the word for it. With its built-in cupboards and electric fire, its moss-thick carpet, chromium writing-table and strip lights, it was all luxury and no comfort. Teddy Wise, who looked so very far from at home in it, had done nothing to make it look more homely. Noticing Nigel’s politely dismayed expression as he surveyed the room, Teddy Wise said:
“Pretty awful, isn’t it? Any visitors who trot along to see me are meant to be impressed by the room and tell everyone how well the company looks after its employees.”
But that scarcely explains its anonymous appearance, thought Nigel: not even a photograph on the mantelpiece or a rugger cap hung up on a picture. He said:
“I’ve never been in one of these camps before. It’s extraordinarily interesting. Your brother must be a first-rate organiser. I suppose he’s had a good deal of experience.”
“Well, he was secretary of a golf club before he came in here. That, and the army, were all the organising he’d done. But Mortie always falls on his feet.”
Nigel detected some bitterness beneath the young man’s tone. Jealousy, was it—of a brother who had always taken the limelight? Of set purpose, he continued to praise Mortimer Wise. Presently Teddy, who had been making further inroads upon the whisky, interrupted.
“Yes, that’s what everyone says. I don’t mind telling you, though, old man, he’d be nowhere without Esmeralda. She’s the live wire, believe you me.”
“Surprising to find a girl with her looks and talents in a job like this. You’d have thought she’d have done better for herself.”
“How d’you mean, ‘done better’?”
“Well, made a rich marriage, for instance.”
There was a rather tortured look on Teddy’s handsome face. He said:
“Rich marriage? Yes, she’d like her bit of luxury. She was born to it. But she likes my esteemed brother even better.”
There was no question now of the bitterness in his voice. So Teddy’s bitten, too, thought Nigel.
“He’s a good deal older than you, isn’t he?”
“What are you getting at?” Teddy said.
“I mean’s he’s rather old for her, isn’t he?” Nigel replied obliquely.
“You know, old boy, I’m sure you’re the sleuth of the century and all that: but you can’t fool Teddy Wise. Have a spot more? Say when. I can see you’re leading up to the big moment. Why doesn’t Esmeralda prefer the eligible young Teddy to the doddering old Mortie—that’s the ruddy rub, isn’t it?”
“Well——”
“Don’t apologise, my dear fellow. No offence taken. You’ve got your job to do. The answer is, I don’t know. But she does. And where do we go from there? Burning with jealousy and frustrated passion, the younger brother sets out to ruin the elder. Damn you, he hissed, I’ll get even with you yet. And so the Mad Hatter was born. Bring out your handcuffs.”
Nigel laughed. “That’s a very spectacular confession. You ought to be on the stage. By the way, I enjoyed your turn tonight. I hope Albert Morley did, too.”
“Oh, he doesn’t mind. He’s used to it. Cheery little chap—you can’t keep him down.”
“Does dramatic talent run in your family?”
“Aha! Sherlock on the job again. I suppose it does. Mortie used to be pretty hot on impersonations. I say—you’re very inquisitive about the old boy, aren’t you? If you’ve got the idea that he’s the Mad Hatter, you’ll have to think again. Oh, I know the gag—it was just a routine question. But seriously, if this camp goes down it’ll be the finish of Mortie. You can count him out.”
Nigel changed the subject to Old Ishmael. He learnt that about this time last year the recluse had disappeared from his usual haunts for several weeks.
“I used to clock in once a week at the Mariner’s Compass,” Teddy said, “and they told me he’d not been showing up there.”
After a little more conversation, Nigel said good-night and went off to his chalet. It was a moonless, velvety summer night, surprisingly dark now that the fairy lights had been extinguished. Looking at his wrist-watch as he took off his coat, he saw that it was nearly one o’clock. He put the watch down on the dressing-table. The next instant he was startled out of his skin by a loud explosion.
Sally Thistlethwaite, who had not yet been able to go to sleep, started out of bed. For a moment she thought the explosion had taken place in the chalet, so violently did it break into her drowsy senses. She ran outside, her father close behind her. Everyone seemed to be tumbling out of the chalets nearby: the Mad Hatter’s outrages had keyed up people’s nerves, so that they hardly knew what to expect next. There was a confused hubbub, which was suddenly drowned by a whoosh, a noise like an escape of steam at high pressure. It was all over in a second, though the second was long enough for everyone to feel the icy lash of panic. There was the whoosh, and from the trees at the near end of the crescent something that whished and flared came straight at the group between the chalets. It seemed to be coming straight at them, but before anyone had time to duck it had passed just over their heads and was gone flaring into the night.
A hand seized Sally’s wrist and dragged her into cover. Women screamed again. They were all trying to get behind the chalets.
“A rocket!” exclaimed Paul, his hand still round Sally’s wrist. “The bloody swine! Did you hear that first bang? It was right underneath my chalet. I——”
“Get indoors, turn on the lights and open the curtains!” shouted Nigel, who had arrived on the scene. “Where did that rocket come from?”
“Those trees,” said Paul, emerging from cover. “I’ll go and find out——”
“No, stay where you are, both of you,” Nigel ordered.
The crescent was blazing with lights as he ran towards the trees. The Mad Hatter would surely not attempt any more fireworks. Amongst the trees, there was nothing but shadows—shadows, and on the edge of the trees, stuck into the grass, a small fork of wood on which the forepart of the rocket stick must have rested. It had evidently been aimed deliberately so as to pass the left-hand edge of the nearest hut, shoot just over the heads of those who would be brought out into the crescent by the sound of the first explosion, and clear the top of the chalets beyond them on the right.
By the time the staff-attendant arrived, Nigel had pocketed the woode
n fork. The attendant had been at the far end of the crescent and seen nothing but the rocket. Indeed the flare had been so blindingly close that no one could have seen anything for a few moments after. But the Mad Hatter had not relied upon this to aid his escape. For Nigel, carefully scrutinising the grass around the spot, found there the remains of a burnt-out fuse.
He left the staff-attendant to guard the place, and returned to the crescent.
“Something went off underneath my chalet,” Paul told him. “I think it must have been one of those firework bombs. They make the hell of a noise. I thought it was the I.R.A. at first.”
Nigel flashed his torch under the chalet. Yes, a charred cardboard container. This, too, he could see, had been set off by a fuse.
“Now what’s been happening?” came the exasperated voice of Captain Wise. His thin hair was rumpled, he wore a silk dressing-gown, and his artificial teeth had not been replaced for the occasion. Nigel began to tell him; but it was difficult in the group of residents that had come milling around them. He took the manager into Paul’s chalet and firmly closed the door. Sitting on the bed, Nigel gave a brief account.
“Presumably he lit the fuse of the firework bomb first, then stuck the rocket in position and lit its fuse, and he could have had time to go home and solve the Times crossword if he’d wanted—the fuses were long enough.”
“It lets me out, anyway.” Paul Perry’s voice was still a little shaky. Neither Nigel nor Captain Wise made any comment. “Well, damn it, I wouldn’t have set off a bomb under my own chalet, would I?”
“Besides, you must have heard something when the chap put it there,” suggested Captain Wise, kindly.
Shock, doubt, anguish, passed over Paul’s face—clear enough for anyone to read. Half to himself, he muttered:
“That’s funny. I don’t remember hearing anything. Oh God! Surely I’d never do a thing like that! Not that rocket. Sally was there.” Suddenly he turned upon them both. “Get out! Get out of here! I’m sick of being badgered!”