The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

by Leonard Gribble

  “For God’s sake snap out of it!” he said. “Don’t go on the field carrying a chip on your shoulder.”

  For a moment the two men eyed each other with acknowledged bitterness.

  “Go to hell!” muttered Doyce, turning away.

  Morring went back to his seat and took his shirt from the peg. There was a hard, inscrutable look in his eyes.

  Six minutes later the crowd of more than seventy thousand roared itself hoarse as the teams ran on to the field.

  “Here they come!”

  “Up the Gunners!”

  “Come on the Trojans! Troy! Troy!”

  The shouting died, wavered like surf dragging on a shingly beach, then swelled to the roar of foaming breakers as Chulley and Hapgood, the two captains, bent over a coin spun by the referee and the former pointed to the southern goal. Troy had won the toss.

  The teams lined up. Drake stood with the ball at rest against his right foot. The referee glanced up the field, taking in the crowded stands, the positioned players, the hovering linesmen, and raised the whistle to his mouth.

  As its shrill note swept across the field the Arsenal centre-forward lifted the ball to his right, and Bremner pounced on it, turned, and raced forward. As the blue-shirted Smith ran in to tackle close the ball ran truly to Kirchen, who paused only to steady it, then was away.

  The quick-moving, progressive advance brought a shout from the crowd. The game was on.

  Every eye watched as Arsenal made that first lunge goalwards, clean, deft, sure, as though they were going to hammer flat the Trojan defence.

  But that defence was malleable. The hammer-blow was hard, calculated and timed, but it made no impression. Clever co-ordination of Crieff and Chulley left Torburn free to strut between his posts, swinging his long arms.

  The crowd had received their first clear impression of the play. Professional and amateur, the teams were evenly matched. There was every prospect of the struggle becoming Olympic.

  Then happened one of those hazards of football that frequently upset form and players. With Troy returning the pressure, and Bredge and Setchley giving Hapgood and Joy plenty of work, the ball suddenly ran loose in mid-field, where the watchful Bryn Jones snapped it up, like a gift from the soccer gods. Five foot six of scheming wizardry retained possession of the ball, swept it back towards the Trojan half, and released it in a long cross-drive to the waiting Drake.

  Chulley was alive to the danger, and rushed to do battle, but the Arsenal centre-forward had secured a valuable half-second, due to Bryn Jones’s perfect timing, and had raced through, with the Trojan centre-half in close pursuit.

  Another roar rose from the thousands of throats, ringed the field.

  Torburn came out of his goal, hunched like a fighter, elbows back and braced, reducing the shooting angle offered to the Arsenal forward. Chulley appeared to leap in the air, but Drake’s right foot had pushed out suddenly, lifting the ball, and sending it flying across the goal, with the racing Morring unable to do anything to impede him.

  Valiantly the Trojan goalkeeper flung himself upward and sideways in a desperate effort to get his fingers to the catapulted ball, but his hand was inches from it as it shot past him and landed just inside the far goal-post.

  “Goal!”

  “Good old Ted!”

  Bredge kicked off, and the game went on. But somehow that quick, snap goal seemed to upset the Trojan machine, slowed it down. Good football was played, but the play always returned to a mid-field scramble. The remainder of that first half never attained the playing peak of those early minutes. Raids by both sides were broken up, smothered, Doyce playing a strong defensive game for the Trojans, Hapgood and Joy allowing no roving forward scope in the Arsenal area. When the whistle blew, at half-past three, the score was still 1–0 in Arsenal’s favour.

  As the teams filed through the glass-enclosed trainers’ stand and along the corridor to their respective dressing-rooms one of the commissionaires caught the Trojan trainer’s attention.

  “This package was brought by District Messenger about a quarter of an hour ago,” he said, handing Raille a brown-paper parcel addressed to Doyce.

  “All right,” said the trainer. “I’ll take it in. Thanks.”

  In the dressing-room he gave the package to Doyce, who was sucking a piece of lemon.

  “For you. Came by District Messenger.”

  He handed over the package and passed on. The right half frowned, scrutinized the inked address, and tore off the wrapping-paper. No one paid any attention to him. Raille was rubbing Setchley’s leg with liniment and advising Bredge on how to scheme a successful raid on the Arsenal goal immediately after the kick-off.

  In the Arsenal dressing-room Tom Whittaker was giving his charges some advice. But he was smiling, and there was a good measure of chaff with his seeded words. There had been no first-half débâcle. The amateurs had been held.

  “Hold them after the kick-off, lads,” he wound up. “Ten to one they’ll start off with a rush. But hold them.”

  He was right. When Troy kicked off there was no mistaking their purpose. They were out to raid the Arsenal goal and put the count level.

  Wellock, the fast-moving inside left, came up from playing a defensive game, kicked the ball away from a scramble, and ran forward with it. Beating his man, he drove the ball hard across to Setchley, on the far wing. The winger, with clever anticipation, had placed himself well. As the ball shot across to him he alighted on it with the precision of a gull snatching a crumb. A twist of his foot, and the ball was steadied. A touch, and he was away.

  But the watchful Leslie Jones was not idle. The Arsenal left half rushed forward to encounter, only to find Setchley ready for him. With a beautiful body swerve he avoided the wing stopper, and turned in. Bredge, who had moved up, was also ready, hovering for a pass.

  A low, grass-cutting drive sent the ball to the centre-forward’s waiting feet. Bredge turned to the right, advancing, well aware that Bernard Joy was bearing down on him, prepared to wreck a fine forward movement and to smother his advance. But Bredge was a schemer. He had held that forward line together for months, and he worked like part of a perfectly timed machine. He appeared to dawdle, and the crowd caught its breath.

  Shouts of “Get on with it!” rose.

  Then a swift side-swerve carried the nimble centre-forward round the Arsenal centre-half. Clear of that looming menace, Bredge did not hesitate.

  He sent in a smashing first-timer.

  It was a beautiful shot, but Swindin’s keen eyes saw its flight, and the goalkeeper’s hands got to the ball, but he could not hold it. Hapgood, playing his customary back-on-the-line defence, dropped back as the goalkeeper made an effort to retrieve the still travelling ball.

  But the luck was Troy’s.

  Bredge, following up his first shot, got his foot to the ball again, with Swindin out of position. Again the ball sailed towards the yawning net. It would have been a certain goal but for Hapgood’s right fist. Unable to get head or foot to the ball, the left back punched it over the cross-bar.

  As the whistle blew for the penalty kick the shouts of the crowd were deafening.

  “Come on the Trojans!”

  “Troy! Troy!”

  But there was sudden silence as Chulley, the Trojan captain, placed the ball for Doyce to take the penalty kick. Between the goal-posts Swindin crouched, tense as a cougar, eyes on the ball.

  Doyce took a short run, and the ball rose as though released by a powerful spring. Swindin leapt like a salmon from a stream, but he had no real chance against a ball that was travelling with eye-defeating speed from the instant it left the Trojan sharp-shooter’s foot.

  “Goal!”

  “It is!”

  “Troy! Troy!”

  One all.

  The crowd was roused. The amateurs had staved off a threateni
ng rot. They were now fighting like worthy challengers of champions. The crowd was reassured. This was going to be a full ninety-minute game.

  The teams lined up again. As the whistle blew Drake flicked the ball to Bryn Jones, who sent it sharply across to Bremner. The Arsenal forward line went goalwards with a bound, forced a breach in the Trojan half-back line, only to find the amateurs’ rearguard sound, dependable. A long kick from Crieff sent the ball dropping to the feet of a Trojan forward, who trapped it neatly, and shot away.

  Necks in the stands craned eagerly forward. It was a break-away. Would it be a second Trojan goal? Had the amateurs really found their match-winning form?

  However, before the Trojan forwards could position themselves for another raiding swoop on the Arsenal defence the referee’s whistle shrilled.

  Back in mid-field Doyce, the Trojan right half who had shot the penalty goal, lay doubled up.

  Raille, in his hand a dripping sponge and a clean towel, ran out. The crowd, silent, wondering, watched as a brief consultation was held over the prone player. But something serious had happened. Doyce made no attempt to get up. He lay there, making no movement.

  The crowd realized that he was out of the game, and a murmur like a new-sprung breeze wafted round the ground.

  A stretcher was brought on to the field. Players crowded round as Doyce was lifted on to it. When the stretcher-bearers moved away with the game’s casualty a sudden wave of hand-clapping circled the field. Doyce had played strongly in the first half, and he had scored for the amateurs.

  The crowd, sporty, fair in its judgment, was giving the injured man his due.

  The referee’s whistle returned the remaining players to the game, and again the ball rose in a swift arc. But the murmur of the crowd did not die. Heads leaned together and chins wagged. Throughout the great throng one question was being asked.

  What had happened?

  No one had tackled Doyce. He had been alone when he fell. He had simply folded up like a jack-knife and slipped to the ground.

  What had happened?

  II

  George Allison ’Phones the Yard

  High in C Block, in the Stadium’s East Stand, sat two girls who were a study in contrasts. One, blonde, fresh-looking, with an obvious flair for clothes and a symmetry of feature more usually associated with faces on chocolate boxes, pursed cyclamen lips and stared across the field of play with frowning grey eyes.

  “I wonder—” she began, hesitated, then tried again, “I’m afraid something’s—”

  She stopped, aware that her companion was regarding her levelly. She turned to meet the gaze of the warm brown eyes. Jill Howard might have been considered good-looking had she not been a foil for her friend, Pat Laruce. She had medium-coloured brown hair that shone with lights and tints of its own, a generous mouth, a clear complexion, and a good figure.

  “What’s the matter, Pat?”

  There was a faint, almost imperceptible challenge to the query.

  “Nothing, Jill. I was just wondering what—what had happened?”

  “You seem more interested in Jack Doyce than in your fiancé.”

  Again the challenge sounded, not quite so subdued. The blonde girl lifted her chin. Her eyes narrowed as they surveyed the field. When she spoke her voice was controlled.

  “Don’t imagine things, Jill. It’s just—well, he was injured. That’s all. Phil’s down there playing strongly.”

  The brown eyes turned to Phil Morring, playing a sound rearguard action against Cliff Bastin.

  “Phil’s wonderful to-day.” It was honest acclaim. “He’s holding up the Arsenal attack.”

  The cyclamen lips twitched mockingly.

  “You were always the perfect little hero-worshipper, Jill.”

  A warm flush crept into the other girl’s cheeks, and a new brightness kindled in her eyes. The hand lying in her lap moved nervously.

  “Will you tell me something, Pat?”

  “Depends, darling.”

  “It’s just—something…”

  “Very well.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring?”

  The blonde girl’s lips compressed. She watched the game steadily for a few moments before saying, “Oh, I just put it down somewhere and forgot to put it on again. Why”—with an edge of mockery—“does its absence worry you?”

  Jill affected a tiny laugh.

  “Of course not, silly. I just… wondered.”

  “Well, don’t,” came the ready advice. “And don’t ask pointless questions—if you don’t like getting pointless answers.”

  If it was a snub it was cleverly delivered. The slurred tone, the quick smile, robbed the words of sting, but did not disturb their meaning.

  “Oh—good!”

  The blonde girl was clapping her hands, joining in the applause showered on Chulley, the Trojan captain, who had broken up a determined raid by the Arsenal inside forwards.

  “Corner!” yelled a spectator behind the girls, as the ball went over the line. The referee glanced at the linesman, and gave a goal kick.

  “Open your eyes, ref!” cried the same voice.

  Pat Laruce fumbled with the clasp of her handbag, took out a cigarette-case.

  “Smoke?” she asked Jill.

  “Not just now, thanks. I find the game still interesting—without Doyce.”

  “Meaning, darling?”

  “Why, what should I mean, Pat?”

  Jill’s surprise was cleverly simulated. The blonde girl chose a cigarette from her case, lit it, and snapped shut her handbag, but not before her companion had caught the gleam of a diamond ring in the bottom of the bag.

  “I was never good at mind-reading, dear.”

  “I didn’t misjudge you to that extent, Pat. Oh, look at Phil now!”

  Again the Trojan right back served his side valiantly, and the crowd roared its appreciation. But there were now long intervals between the shouts. With the removal of Doyce from the field a change had come over the game, a change that, in some intangible way, seemed to affect both teams alike.

  It was as though with Arsenal storming the ramparts of a Troy defended by only ten men the game lost balance. The spectators in the massed stands could not have described how, but they were conscious that the razor keenness of the Trojan attack was blunted. Troy fought, but defensively. Slowly Arsenal became the dictators of the play.

  In the Press box, to the left of the Directors’ seats, a couple of sports writers lamented Troy’s half-back weakness.

  “Pity they had to lose that man,” said one. “Their forwards can’t seem to get going now. They’ve got to go back for the ball every time. They aren’t being fed as they should be.”

  The other smoked his cigarette and ruminated.

  “Bit of bad luck. Unforeseen and damned unfortunate. These Trojans are a fighting side. They’re lacking the extra speed Doyce gave the right wing. They’re too—lopsided.”

  The first man grunted, and returned to his notes. “Don’t know if Doyce was under the doctor, do you?”

  The other man shook his head.

  “Kindilett wouldn’t have played him had that been the case. The old boy’s got too much respect for the game.” He glanced at his watch. “Doyce has been off eleven minutes. Must have sprained himself some way. Hallo, Allison’s leaving his seat.”

  They looked towards the Directors’ stand. George Allison had risen from his seat at the end of the top row, and was about to pass through the exit.

  As a matter of fact, George Allison was wondering what had kept Francis Kindilett from returning to his seat. He wanted to know. The collapse of Doyce was strange, and the Arsenal manager, who in his time had witnessed hundreds of football accidents, had never seen one quite like this. He had an uneasy feeling that everything was not as it appeared on the surface. He cou
ldn’t explain the feeling or justify it. It was just a “football hunch.” And Kindilett’s continued absence did nothing to ease his mind.

  He walked down the wide staircase to the entrance hall, where the bronze head of Herbert Chapman regarded all comers with an inscrutable expression, and turned right through a swing-door marked “Private.” A sign along the stone corridor read “Visitors’ Dressing-room.” He turned the handle and entered.

  John Doyce lay on a heap of towels, and his naked body gleamed with sweat. Over him stood Francis Kindilett and Tom Whittaker, the Arsenal trainer. Raille, the Trojan trainer, was applying artificial respiration.

  “What is it, Francis?”

  “God knows, George!” Kindilett’s voice was threaded with anxiety. “We can’t make it out—none of us. He just doesn’t respond.”

  “Here, let me have a turn.”

  Whittaker stepped forward and took Raille’s place. The Trojan trainer picked up a towel and mopped his streaming face. He said nothing, but he was frowning, as though perplexed.

  “What about his heart?” asked Allison.

  “He was given a clean bill by the doctor, when we signed him up. That was less than a fortnight ago, so it can’t be anything—”

  He stopped, aware that the implication was full of dangerous suggestion.

  “Better get him into the treatment room, Tom,” said Allison to Whittaker.

  The two trainers carried the prone player into the treatment room, farther along the corridor, and Raille closed the doors.

  “All right, Whittaker, I’ll have another go.”

  Allison turned to Kindilett. “We can’t do any good here, Francis. We might as well see the end of the game. They’ll probably pull him round and have him on the field in time to boot another goal.”

  But despite his light words the Arsenal manager experienced no feeling of assurance as he and Kindilett made their way back to the stand and resumed their seats. There was some mystery surrounding Doyce’s collapse. The man was in a state of coma, breathing hard, perspiring.

  “Is he hurt badly?” asked Mrs Allison as her husband glanced the length of the field, picking up the threads of the play.