The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

by Leonard Gribble

  The Arsenal

  Stadium

  Mystery

  With an Introduction

  by Martin Edwards

  Leonard Gribble

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Originally published in 1939 by George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd., London ©Leonard Gribble 1939

  Introduction Copyright © 2018 by Martin Edwards

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with

  the British Library

  First U.S. Edition 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018949431

  ISBN: 9781464210839 Trade Paperback

  ISBN: 9781464210846 Ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

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  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Dedication

  History Is Made at Highbury

  George Allison ’Phones the Yard

  Inspector Slade Arrives

  Morring Makes a Request

  Belloge Court

  Cherchez La Femme

  Not the Whole Truth

  Like Yeast Working

  The Laboratory Report

  Out of the Past

  Who Stole the Poison?

  A Conspiracy of Circumstances

  Bait

  The Other Woman

  After Office Hours

  Highbury Nocturne

  A Pair of Stained Hands

  Mystery No Longer

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Introduction

  The Arsenal Stadium Mystery is an unusual and historically significant whodunit first published in 1939. The story features Leonard Gribble’s series detective Inspector Slade, and in some respects is a typical “fair play” mystery of the type so popular during the Golden Age of Murder between the two world wars. But it’s highly distinctive, for three reasons. First, the storyline focuses on professional football, a sport seldom featured, or even mentioned, in crime novels of the era. Second, it features a large supporting cast of characters well-known from real life—the manager and players of Arsenal Football Club. And third, it began life as a serial in the Daily Express, with the book version treated from the outset as a “film tie-in”.

  The dust jacket blurb for the first edition hailed the book as Gribble’s “most original detective story… With the co-operation of Mr George Allison, secretary-manager of the Arsenal F.C., and of the players… Leonard Gribble has been given facilities for writing an entirely new kind of mystery—one which takes the reader behind the scenes of the most famous football club in the world. Here is big-time football as seen from the inside; here are the national Soccer stars introduced as they really are. A well-known footballer drops dead… murdered before 70,000 witnesses…” The victim, one hastens to add, is not an Arsenal player, but a member of a fictitious team of amateurs called the Trojans.

  The front cover and spine of the dust jacket was devoted to a photograph of George Allison and his players discussing tactics with the aid of a football board game.The rear cover of the jacket featured a photograph of Gribble and the actor Leslie Banks, and recounted a supposed conversation between them about the film of the book, in which Banks played Inspector Slade. The film, light-hearted and pacy, was directed by Thorold Dickinson, whom Martin Scorsese described as “one of the most ambitious and talented film-makers of his time”; Scorsese admired the film, and was quoted by Philip Horne in an article for The Daily Telegraph in 2005 as saying “even as someone who can’t stand sports—soccer, anything with a ball—I find the soccer scenes exhilarating”. Graham Greene was another fan of the film, praising Dickinson’s “wit of cutting and wit of angle”.

  Banks plays Slade as something of an eccentric, who wears a different hat in every scene. In Gribble’s books, Slade is a less striking character, no doubt intended as a more realistic figure than Great Detectives such as Hercule Poirot, Lord Peter Wimsey, and the Oxford-educated gentlemanly cops created by authors including Ngaio Marsh and Michael Innes. In the film, George Allison has a speaking part, unlike the Arsenal players. The football action scenes were mostly shot on the ground of Brentford Football Club, while the music was written by a composer at the start of his film career. Miklos Rosza would in later years receive three Academy Awards, and compose soundtracks for films such as Ben Hur and El Cid.

  The book, like the film, can be enjoyed even by football-phobic mystery fans who don’t know their Arsenal Stadium from their Elland Road. This is because Gribble switches suspicion quite effectively between members of a small group of people who might have a motive to kill the victim, a businessman and notorious philanderer. For the modern soccer enthusiast, part of the fascination of the story is that it shines a light on “the beautiful game” during a very different time, long before Arsenal finally decamped from Highbury Stadium, and marketed the naming rights of their majestic new ground to Emirates Airlines.

  It was an era when the central conceit of the story, that a team of English amateurs could compete on more or less equal terms with Arsenal, did not require excessive suspension of disbelief. Indeed, Bernard Joy, Arsenal’s centre half, who appears in the story, was a school teacher by profession, and the last amateur to play football for England’s national side. In 1939, the idea of footballers becoming pampered multi-millionaires, and football teams being so dominated by overseas stars that the ruling bodies would find themselves forced to legislate to require a minimum quota of “homegrown” players in each club squad would have seemed absurd.

  In the age of Twitter frenzies and blog tours, it’s tempting to assume that an unashamedly commercial approach to marketing a book is a modern phenomenon. But The Arsenal Stadium Mystery is an example (and by no means the only one) of a Golden Age detective novel that benefited from a shrewd and imaginative approach to the business of bookselling. The page facing the first page of Chapter One was even devoted to facsimiles of the autographs of the Arsenal players.

  Much of the credit for this was surely due to the author himself. Leonard Reginald Gribble (1908–85) is not perhaps a name to conjure with, although it prompted the distinguished critic H.R.F. Keating to feature him in an essay about prolific crime writers titled “Scribble, Scribble, Mr Gribble”. Certainly, Gribble’s fame does not match that of illustrious contemporaries such as Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, or even Freeman Wills Crofts. But he was a capable writer with a highly professional approach to his craft, and he knew how to make the most of his talents.

  Born in Barnstaple, he started publishing detective stories—the first was The Case of the Marsden Rubies (1929)—in his early twenties, and kept writing for rather more than half a century. A hard-working author, he produced so many books that he found it necessary to adopt a host of pen-names: Leo Grex, Sterry Browning, James Gannett, Louis Grey, Piers Marlowe, Dexter Muir, and Bruce Sanders. Although his main focus was on mysteries, his varied output included westerns and non-fiction. Gribble’s energy matched that of another highly prolific novelist, John Creasey, who established the Crime Writers’ Associa
tion in 1953. Gribble was an obvious choice to become a founder member, and he and Creasey became good friends.

  The Arsenal Stadium Mystery remains his most celebrated book. Ironically, the Government commandeered Highbury Stadium during the Second World War, and Nancy Frost (daughter of one of the club’s directors, Ralph Fielder) recalled many years later watching “home” games at White Hart Lane, the ground of Arsenal’s rivals, Tottenham Hotspur. She prized her copy of the first edition which included a page of actual (rather than facsimile) autographs of the Arsenal team of 1942, with elegant calligraphy courtesy of Bernard Joy.

  In 1950 (when he also produced They Kidnapped Stanley Matthews, featuring an English soccer legend), Gribble published an updated version of his most popular book—The Arsenal Stadium Mystery: a Replay. The first edition came complete with a wrap-around promotional band bearing an encomium from Bernard Joy (who was by then a journalist) and is in itself now a sought-after collector’s item. Both books have long been out of print, but the appearance of the British Library edition means that modern readers now have a chance to enjoy a slice of sporting nostalgia as well as pitting their wits against Inspector Slade’s.

  Martin Edwards

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  Dedication

  To

  GEORGE ALLISON

  without whose co-operation there

  would have been no kick-off

  I

  History Is Made at Highbury

  There was a sudden, expectant hush as Tom Whittaker walked into the dressing-room of the Arsenal team at Highbury, that same hush he has been greeted with for years, on every Arsenal home-match day.

  “The boss wants to see you all upstairs in a quarter of an hour,” he announced.

  “O.K., Tom.”

  “Sure.”

  “Righto, Tom.”

  Life, suspended for a few moments for the almost traditional announcement, flowed again. The eleven first-team players idling in the dressing-room, waiting for the time when they can start changing, picked up the scraps of conversation they had let fall when the trainer entered.

  One of the trainer’s assistants, standing by a table near the door into the main corridor, continued with his task of quartering a lemon. He let the knife he was using rattle against the table’s top. On to a cracked plate he poured a pile of sugar-coated squares of chewing gum.

  “Just what I was looking for,” said a soft Welsh voice.

  A couple of the chewing-gum squares disappeared behind Bryn Jones’s white teeth.

  The assistant might not have heard or noticed. He was whistling under his breath and seemed intent on the tune.

  “Hey, Bryn, what did you draw in the sweep?”

  Britain’s highest-priced soccer star turned to satisfy the curiosity of his namesake from Aberdare. Leslie Jones’s round face was frowning reflectively. Beside him sat Bremner, on a seat that extended round three of the white-tiled walls. The forward was watching Swindin as the goalkeeper sat contemplating the green squares of the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” he called, causing the goalkeeper to look up and grin.

  “He’s looking for the double six,” said Ted Drake, his full-toned Hampshire voice pleasant to the ear.

  “And looks like he’s only got the double blank,” chimed in Jack Crayston, brushing his curly hair with his left hand.

  There was a general laugh from those in earshot. The speakers were well known for the strong domino school they formed on the journeys to away matches.

  Light banter was flung to and fro, like a practice ball, but it was all on the surface, concealing each man’s true thoughts, masking his real feelings; and somehow it did not quite rob the atmosphere of tension, which was reflected in the earnestness on Cliff Bastin’s face as he read the team lists on the notice-board, in the slightly nervous gesture of Bernard Joy’s hands as he fingered his “lucky” tie, in the springy motions of Eddie Hapgood as he argued some point with his team partner George Male, and turned to throw a word at Alf Kirchen, the muscular winger.

  The droning whistle of the assistant at the table near the door changed key as he set out a dozen cups and piled loaf sugar on to a plate.

  That last tense quarter of an hour of inaction passed slowly. There was an audible sigh of relief when Whittaker said, “All right, lads, upstairs.”

  The eleven members of that day’s “first” team filed through a narrow door, trooped up a flight of stairs, passed along a wide corridor, and entered a comfortably furnished room where George Allison—the “boss” to every player on the Arsenal Football Club’s books—was waiting, hands in trousers pockets, keen eyes watchful under contracted brows.

  When the door was closed and the men had ranged themselves before the shining desk, the clear, modulated voice known to millions of sport-lovers all over the British Isles spoke.

  “To-day,” George Allison told the team that only the previous season had won the soccer crown, “you’re going to play an historic match. You’re going to stand representative, as it were, of the best qualities of professional football in this country. You’re going to play the Trojans, the finest amateur side in Great Britain, the team that has captured the national imagination because of its clean, clever play. Now, I’m not going to tell you how to play. You know that. I’m just going to ask you to remember two things.”

  He paused, searched the faces turned towards him.

  “First,” he added, “not to let down the game. Second, not to let down your club. I don’t ask anything else of you.”

  The quiet, measured tones stopped. From an open box on his desk the speaker took a Turkish cigarette and fitted it into a holder.

  Softly, as from a great distance, came the muted strains of a band playing to the thousands of spectators filling the stands. Outside the Stadium it was a bright, keen day, one of those invigorating Saturdays when the lion and the lamb of March seem content with each other’s company. Tawny sunshine, brittle as thin glass in the fresh but not boisterous wind, touched the fresh green of the field’s turf with pale gilt.

  On one or two corners those standing stamped their feet, but more from good-natured impatience than from cold. The seventy-odd thousand that had jam-packed themselves into the Stadium ground were a holiday crowd, and the way they sang the popular choruses played by the band left no doubt as to the altitude of their spirits.

  They had come to see a football game that would make history, the friendly clash between the League Champions and the amateur team that had, in a surprisingly short space, captured for itself much of the glory of the old-time Corinthians. Whatever happened, they would see a keen game, a worthy struggle.

  The crowd knew that, and the knowledge was balm to its impatience.

  Meanwhile, in the visitors’ dressing-room, Francis Kindilett, the proud manager of the Trojans, echoed the feelings expressed by George Allison to the Arsenal players.

  “You’re up against the stiffest proposition you’ve ever tackled,” he told his team. “A professional side with a great record, a great tradition, and, above all, a great spirit to win. Do your best, boys. I can’t ask more of you, but I’m personally confident that your best is good enough. That’s all—and good luck.”

  He nodded to the Trojan trainer, George Raille, to take over, and opened his copy of the red-covered programme. It was a great moment for him as he read the line-up of the teams; in a way, the fulfilment of a dream. For several years he had worked hard, in season and out, to prove that Britain could produce an amateur team capable of ranking with the best of the country’s professional elevens. He had done it. His team of carpenters and electricians, chemists and insurance brokers, clerks and salesmen had justified the boasts he had made.

  And now the men of Troy, in their blue shirts, with the white horse on the chest, were matched against the red-and-white shirts of the Arsenal.

  There w
as a slight mist before his eyes as he read through the teams again:

  He knew in his heart that, whatever the outcome of the day’s battle—and that battle would be spirited, hard-fought—the men of Troy would not be disgraced. Manager Kindilett was comforted by a great confidence in his team’s will-to-win.

  At half-past two the Stadium was a hive of bustle and serious activity.

  In the dressing-rooms freshly laundered shirts, shorts, and socks were taken from pegs. Players tried on boots, kicked the front studs against the heated green-tiled floor, to make them fit comfortably, oiled their limbs, padded their socks with cotton-wool lashed tight with rolls of bandage.

  Tom Whittaker, a serious expression on his face, drew a bandage round Bastin’s left ankle, another round Leslie Jones’s right ankle, and found time to look at Swindin’s arm—that unfortunate left arm that, shortly before Christmas, had been snapped by a kick from Hapgood in a grim tussle with Manchester United.

  George Raille, alert, intent, worked hard in the visitors’ dressing-room, offering a word of advice here, massaging a limb there. He stopped before Doyce, the right half, who had joined the Trojans only a week before, and was the least-known quantity in the team.

  “Don’t forget, Doyce. Feed your forwards. Keep up, and keep attacking.”

  The right half’s face—handsome in an effeminate way—changed expression, became sulky, obdurate.

  “You don’t have to teach me twice times two, Raille.”

  There was a deliberate sneer to the words, but the trainer passed on, his under lip caught between his teeth. Morring, the large-framed right back, who had watched the scene, drew closer to Doyce. He was in socks and shorts, and his hairy chest had the tautness of a drum.