Slade turned back to Allison.
“Well,” he said, “I think that winds up what I can do with them just now. There’s just one point I’d like you to explain if you would—”
“Anything I can, Inspector.”
“Sergeant Clinton is gathering up all sharp-pointed obstacles, tie-pins, drawing-pins—yes, we’re going to take precautions. There’s a chance that Doyce met his death by a prick of some sort. We don’t want a repetition.”
Allison’s face revealed his amazement.
“Good God, Inspector! Then that means Doyce was—”
“We’d better wait for the post-mortem examination before we make up our minds,” said Slade quietly.
Allison nodded. “I’ll have a word with the boys before they leave. Er”—he fingered his own tie-pin—“does that mean Sergeant Clinton will want this?”
Slade smiled faintly. “If I know Clinton, he will.”
Allison grinned. “I see. Very well, Inspector. Ah, here is the sergeant.”
Slade turned, to find Clinton behind him. A glance at the sergeant’s face revealed that he had something he wanted to tell his superior. Slade drew him aside.
“What is it, Clinton?”
“We haven’t got much from the finger-printing,” the sergeant announced. “Irvin’s been all over the place, but there’s not a clear set in the room. Every one’s smeared. It struck me we might get some shots of how Doyce fell on the ground before the crowd here goes.”
Slade nodded.
“That’s an idea. I’ll have a word with the trainers.”
Whittaker and Raille agreed to go on the field with several players and reconstruct the play just before Doyce fell, marking the various positions. The players, the two trainers, and the sergeant went off. Slade approached Kindilett.
“I’d like to have a word upstairs with Morring,” said the Yard man. “And who did you say was responsible for Doyce’s joining the team?”
“Setchley, our outside right. That’s him over there, with Hapgood—the man with the darkish-red hair.”
Slade looked in the direction in which the Trojan manager indicated, and saw a slim man of medium height and rather surprisingly pale face crowned with dark auburn hair.
“Has he any connexion with the Morring-Doyce insurance business?” asked the detective.
“No,” said Kindilett. “Setchley is, in some respects, the strangest of my bunch.”
“In what way?”
“As a footballer. By profession he’s a research chemist.”
With difficulty Slade repressed a start of surprise. But he was aware that Kindilett was watching him with cold eyes.
“That’s very interesting,” he said.
“Why?” demanded the Trojan manager.
There was a trace of something hostile about Kindilett’s manner. Slade marked it, and was puzzled to account for it.
“Oh, just that he may be able to help me with a few details,” he said smoothly. “The analytical mind, you know.”
Kindilett nodded abruptly, and turned away. Slade stood looking after him. The Yard man was convinced from what he had seen and heard that Doyce’s death had been premeditated, that it had been very carefully arranged, and that he had died from some form of poisoning. So far as his preliminary examination allowed him to give any opinion at all, that was what Dr Meadows had confirmed. And Meadows, as Slade knew, was a knowing bird. He had been writing reports on police cases long enough to know a murder when he saw it.
His suggestion in the present case was that Doyce had been murdered by a subcutaneous injection of one of the less common, but more potent, alkaloid poisons.
Now, on top of this, Kindilett had gratuitously offered the information that a member of the Trojan team was a research chemist, a man who could procure, quite readily, such a deadly poison.
And the man who presumably was something of a poison expert was the member of the team who had sponsored the dead man’s membership.
Did that add up to anything?
A touch on his arm dragged Slade’s thoughts back to his immediate surroundings. A pleasant-faced man of square build was regarding him with a pair of troubled grey eyes.
“Yes?” said Slade.
“My name’s Morring, Inspector. I’d rather like to have a word with you.”
Slade gave the other a keen look. Here was the man he was anxious to interview coming to meet him more than half-way. However, it was no part of his plan to appear anxious for information from the dead man’s partner.
“Very well, if it’s important.”
“It’s important,” said Morring.
His tone conveyed the impression that he spoke the truth. Whatever Morring had to tell Slade was important—to Philip Morring.
“Very well, let’s go upstairs.”
Morring followed the Yard man up to Allison’s office. Slade closed the door. They had the room to themselves.
“Sit down,” he invited.
Morring drew a chair up to the centre of the room. From a ceiling lamp soft light fell on the footballer’s dark head. There was a brief silence, broken by the ticking of the grandfather clock trying to outpace the painted wall-clock over the mantelpiece behind the desk. From outside in the street below various noises drifted up—the roar of a car’s engine, the cry of a newsboy, a sudden fading laugh.
Slade spoke. “You have something to tell me, I believe?”
The words roused Morring. He sat up, the light shining full on his troubled face.
“Frankly, I don’t know how to begin,” he said.
Slade, who always tried to put a witness at his ease, relaxed visibly.
“The beginning’s as good a place to start as any other,” he said lightly. “Often better. Smoke?”
Morring shook his head.
“No, thanks.” For a moment a smile touched his strongly chiselled mouth, but when he spoke again it was gone. “Let me say, then, first of all, Inspector, that Doyce and I were in the same school team, and we always got on fairly well. When we left school we had similar ideas about how to make a living. Quite a drop of water has passed under the bridge since those days, but the upshot was we started a joint business.”
“In London?” asked Slade, as though this were news.
“Yes, in the City. We opened our own office as insurance brokers. As you may suppose, neither of us was particularly flush with coin. We had the prospect of hard work and small profits. But we weren’t deterred. We were both bachelors, and had no ties. However, very early in our business arrangement we came to one definite decision. That was to safeguard the firm.”
“How?” probed Slade when the other man hesitated.
“We took out a dual insurance policy. It was, I assure you, only as protection for the firm, in case something happened to one of us. The other would then be able to continue unhampered.”
“How much was the amount?” asked Slade.
The blunt question caused the footballer to straighten in his chair.
“Ten thousand pounds,” he said.
“I see. A tidy sum.” Slade saw Morring’s fists clench, but the man kept his feelings in check. “Did any conditions of the policy prevent payment being made in the event of death of one of you by violence?”
Morring’s face went bleak. A glaze froze the expression in his eyes.
“No, there was no cancelling murder clause in the policy,” he said throatily.
“So that through your partner’s death this afternoon you will benefit to the extent of ten thousand pounds?”
Morring got to his feet. He leaned towards Slade over Allison’s large desk.
“You think that a good motive, Inspector?” he said bitterly.
“Motive for what?” Slade parried.
Morring breathed hard. He waved a hand, as though t
o rid himself of something cluttering his mind.
“Oh, don’t stall, man!” he said testily. “I know you’re not here because John Doyce fell down and broke his neck. You’re here because Doyce was murdered, and—and that ten thousand pounds is going to make things look sweet for me. I could see where I was getting. I had to speak to you.”
“Sit down, try to relax,” suggested Slade to the other.
“Relax!”
“Nevertheless, try. You sound as though you’re ready to go off at half-cock—”
“Well, how would you feel, sitting around and knowing Doyce has got what he asked for, and probably—”
“Just a minute,” said the Yard man, leaning forward. “So Doyce had been making enemies?”
Morring got himself in hand, sat down.
“He was a great lad with the ladies. Luckily, it didn’t injure business. Another thing, we kept our private lives strictly separate. What I did was my business. What he did was his. It worked out very well for the office. We were, in a way, complementary partners. The other supplied what the one lacked.”
“But some of his private life overflowed?”
“That’s one way of putting it. He was always getting mixed up with some woman or other, and then getting untangled again. I’ll give him full credit for being the world’s champion wriggler—in that regard.”
“You sound as though he might have upset you?”
Morring sat still, trying to control his breathing. When he spoke his temper was still in check.
“Let’s not beat about the bush,” he said. “Doyce and I kept our distance—socially. It suited us. You’ll probably learn that I wasn’t keen to have him in the Trojan Club. I wasn’t—that’s all. But being his partner, I’d sooner tell you all this voluntarily, than leave you to find it out. That understandable?”
“Certainly.” Slade, watching the other closely, saw his mouth shut firmly. The detective knew that he would get no more real information without probing deeply. Morring had said his piece. “Would you mind giving me Doyce’s address?”
“Flat 17, Belloge Court. It’s in Baker Street.”
“Thanks. One last question. You don’t know of anyone who had threatened your partner?”
A smile touched Morring’s thin lips. “A murderous threat? No. But I myself have in the past threatened to black his eye.”
“And did you?”
The directness of the question threw the man a little off guard. “Why, no, I—” His glance narrowed. “Sorry, Inspector. I should have been prepared for a sense of humour.”
He went out, leaving the Yard man staring at a large griffin, fashioned in silver and horn. A gift to George Allison from the Welsh Football Association. Slade reached for a telephone near his hand.
“Get me Scotland Yard,” he requested the operator.
A few seconds later he was talking to the Assistant-Commissioner in charge of the C.I.D. He gave a very brief report of what he had found, and made a request for the Yard to cover the District Messenger lead.
“When I leave here I’m going to the Baker Street flat,” Slade added.
He dropped the receiver in its cradle as the door opened, and Allison entered, accompanied by the commissionaire who had announced the detective’s arrival.
“I thought you were free, Inspector,” said the Arsenal manager, glancing at the ’phone. “I saw Morring just now—”
“I was admiring this griffin,” said Slade.
Allison ran his finger over the griffin’s head.
“They gave me that to mark an occasion when they had three of my players in a Welsh international team.” His hand drew back. “I came to tell you, Inspector, that the commissionaire has reminded me that a young lady called to see Doyce shortly after the match. I had just ’phoned the Yard and come downstairs. She was speaking to him.”
Slade turned to the man.
“She wanted to see Doyce?”
“She wanted to know what had happened to him, first. When I said I didn’t know she became kind of agitated, and asked if she could see him. Mr Allison came up just then.”
“She then asked me the same questions,” said Allison, “and I told her Doyce was dead and I had just ’phoned the Yard. Her hand flew to her mouth and she cried, ‘Dead!’ as though she couldn’t believe it. Then without another word she turned and ran out of the building. The incident had slipped my mind till the commissionaire reminded me just now.”
Slade digested what he had been told.
“Can you describe the girl?” he asked.
Allison looked at the commissionaire. The man screwed up his face, said, “She was a blonde, pretty too, and she used a light purple lipstick. She wore a light-coloured coat and a hat with a veil. That’s all I can say definitely.”
“Very well,” said the Yard man. “Now while you’re here there’s one other thing. You were in the entrance hall throughout the first half?” he asked the commissionaire.
“Yes,” the man nodded.
“Did you see anyone enter the corridor to the players’ wing?”
“Only one or two of the regular staff.”
“You’re certain?” Slade pressed.
“Absolutely,” the man affirmed. “I stood by the swing door the whole time.”
“What about after the second half had started? Anyone come through then?”
“Only Punch.”
“Punch?”
“Punch McEwan, our laundryman,” Allison enlarged. “The laundry is at the far side of the building.”
“I see,” said Slade slowly. “And there is a way out of the training wing through the laundry?”
“Yes, into the East Stand,” said the Arsenal manager. “I know that some of the players who are not in a team on any particular Saturday often borrow the key from McEwan and go through into the stand. They usually sit behind the Directors’ Box.”
“The door is always locked?”
“Always. That’s a firm rule.”
“I’d like to have a word with McEwan. Then I’ll see the referee and linesmen. They’ll want to get away.”
Allison turned to the commissionaire.
“When you go down find McEwan and ask him to step in here.”
The man went out. Allison turned to a large cupboard facing his desk, and opened a door.
“Care for a drink, Inspector? I can do with a spot myself.”
They had finished their drinks when there was a rap on the door and a short, red-faced man with a level stare entered.
“Oh, Punch,” said Allison, “Inspector Slade wants to ask you a few questions.”
One of McEwan’s hands rubbed along the seam of his leather apron. He looked inquiringly at the Yard man.
“Were you up in the laundry during the first half, McEwan?” asked Slade.
“I was—until about twenty minutes before half-time.”
“When did you return?”
“Must have been just before the whistle went. I saw the lads come back from the game for a quick cup of tea.”
Slade glanced inquiringly at Allison.
“He means the players who were watching the game,” the Arsenal manager explained.
“Yes, I see,” nodded the detective, and turned to the laundryman again. “Now, how long did you remain up there during the second half?”
“Oh, till the game was over. I had plenty to do.”
“Then you would know if anyone came back to the training wing through the laundry, using the door to the main stand?”
Punch McEwan’s square head nodded vigorously.
“Oh, aye. But no one did come through. I know that for sure. The lads went through and locked the door after them. No one came through again until they all came back at the end of the game.”
“You are certain of that?” pressed Sla
de.
“Positive.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to know. Now”—the detective turned again to Allison—“I’ll have a word with the referee and linesmen.”
He interviewed the three officials in Tom Whittaker’s small office, but although they proved willing to help him, none of them had anything to tell that materially added to his knowledge of the case. The referee’s back had been to Doyce when he fell. He was watching the ball, which was travelling into the Trojan half. The linesmen too had been watching the ball.
When Slade rejoined Allison the Arsenal manager was speaking to Kindilett.
“What next, Inspector?”
Slade smiled. He knew that this probing investigation was a real ordeal for George Allison, and he appreciated the cordial co-operation he was receiving.
“I’d like to make a rapid tour of the Stadium, if that is not asking too much.”
“It isn’t, if you mean the East Stand only,” said Allison, with a smile.
“Yes. I was forgetting the West Stand. I think we’d better continue to forget it for the time being,” Slade grinned.
It took nearly twenty-five minutes for Slade to walk over the East Stand, following the main corridors, poking into the restaurants and tea-rooms, the Press rooms and the broadcasting boxes, getting the geography of that vast wing, with offices and boardroom ending a corridor that spanned the top of the main staircase. Slade was shown how the narrow staircase from the dressing-room led up to the gymnasium, on one side, and to the laundry on the other. He was shown how by the same staircase he could enter the boardroom from the farther end. There, on the large table, flanked with tall green-leather chairs, he saw the team’s strategy board, and he followed closely Allison’s explanation of how, before each match, the team work out field problems.
“A pep talk does the boys some good. They go on the field feeling ready to tackle the first problem, and often it is the first problem that counts most.”
From the boardroom Slade was led back to Allison’s office. Outside he found Clinton talking to Irvin, the finger-prints man.
“Well, Clinton?”
The sergeant fingered his jaw.
“I don’t think we’re going to make much out of what Irvin’s got in his bag,” he said.
The Arsenal Stadium Mystery Page 5
