The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

by Leonard Gribble

  “You haven’t been disappointed. A pale overcoat and a hat. Not even a trilby or a bowler or a pork-pie or a Homburg or a velour or a—a—”

  “Topper?”

  Clinton scowled. “Just a hat,” he complained. “My God! What do people use their eyes for?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Slade told him. He picked up a ’phone and was put through to the Police Laboratory. For a couple of minutes he asked questions, then hung up. “Well, Clinton, a few other wheels are turning. They’ve already started work on Doyce and those pins you collected. I don’t think we can do much till to-morrow. We’ll get down to the golf club early.”

  Clinton picked up a paper and handed it to Slade.

  “Meadows’ report.”

  Slade glanced over the sheet of small handwriting. It all boiled down to confirmation of what the police surgeon had told Slade in the Arsenal dressing-room. Meadows was of the opinion that Doyce had died from alkaloid poisoning, and that the poison had been introduced into his system subcutaneously.

  “All right, slip it in the file.”

  Slade passed the sheet back to his assistant. Clinton dropped it into a folder on which he had already printed in large letters “Arsenal Stadium Case.”

  “No news of the girl?”

  “Not yet. Give her time.”

  “My idea,” said Clinton, “is that she won’t come forward.”

  “You gave me that idea at the flat.”

  “Girls seem to be mixed up in this affair pretty—”

  “The cutting?” Slade interrupted.

  “Yes,” nodded the sergeant, “that’s what I was thinking of. That was about a girl—a dead girl.”

  Slade took a turn across the room.

  “I’ve arranged with the A.C.,” he told his assistant, “to have that cutting circulated in the provinces. It’ll be photographed and printed and sent to every police station. There’s a chance we can find the paper—a slim one, but a chance.”

  Clinton rose. “I suppose that does cover everything,” he said. “Well, I can do with some sleep. You coming?”

  “Not for half an hour. I want to go through those notes you’ve taken. Where’s the book?”

  Clinton took his notebook from his pocket and dropped it on Slade’s desk.

  “Then I’ll say good night.”

  “Good night,” said Slade.

  The door closed after the sergeant. Slade took out his pipe and lit it. He sat down and from the “Arsenal Stadium Case” file took the red-covered programme. He turned to “Our Visitors” and again read the notes on Morring, Doyce, and Setchley.

  There was a connecting thread between them, he knew. They had all played in the same team previously, and—

  But he was going over old ground, and he found nothing new, nothing he had not seen before. On a fresh page of Clinton’s notebook he found the addresses and telephone numbers of the Trojan team, taken by the sergeant at the Stadium. He picked up the ’phone and asked the operator to get him Morring’s number. A few minutes later he heard Morring’s voice.

  “Sorry to bother you at this hour,” said Slade, “but there was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Well?”

  The word was vaguely truculent.

  “Was Doyce engaged?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Had he any special lady friend of the moment?”

  “Probably a dozen. Does that answer your question?”

  Slade sighed.

  “Since you ask—no. Good night.”

  The line went dead.

  VI

  Cherchez La Femme

  A car climbed over the Downs and joined a steady stream of traffic. Slade, who was driving, changed down.

  “We haven’t got the place to ourselves,” he remarked.

  Clinton stared at the traffic.

  “Amazing where cars get to these days. You’d think they’d all be in Brighton.”

  “Perhaps these are inhabitants, not Londoners,” Slade suggested. “Just giving over the town to the invader.”

  The column of cars picked up speed. Slade turned off to the right and climbed a road that led to a cleared parking-space. Opposite, built on higher ground, was the club-house of the Dyke Golf Club.

  George Allison and Francis Kindilett were seated inside. They rose as the two Yard men entered.

  “Nice morning,” said Kindilett.

  “Bit of a breeze,” Clinton thought.

  Allison took Slade aside.

  “I’ve fixed up that game for you with Morring,” he said.

  “Good,” nodded the Yard man. “Where is he?”

  “Outside. Come with me.”

  The Arsenal manager led Slade to where Morring sat reading a magazine. The Trojan back rose, nodded, and picked up his clubs. Allison looked questioningly at Slade, who grinned and made off after the footballer.

  They teed off. Slade, talking about conventional trivialities, strove to thaw his companion’s cold moroseness. By the time they had reached the third green Slade’s tactics were beginning to show some slight result.

  “You know,” said the detective, “I know a man who can never make up his mind whether it’s possible to have too much life insurance or too little. I was wondering how you, as an insurance broker, felt. Of course, your job is to sell insurance, so—”

  “Oh, I don’t advocate anyone getting in too deep,” said Morring. “It all depends upon the individual’s circumstances. Life insurance can be an excellent form of investment, locking up capital that can appreciate until such time as it’s required.”

  “Now take this man I mentioned…”

  Slade, having got his man started, saw to it that he didn’t run down like a piece of clockwork. Subtly he swung from insurance to football, keeping away from yesterday’s tragedy, and from football to men who followed the game. Another switch to men who combined football and an everyday job introduced the Trojans, as examples, and Doyce was mentioned incidentally.

  But the Yard man, watching his man closely, saw that he was not ready to talk freely about Doyce. Morring shied from mention of his dead partner, changed the conversation quickly.

  “Look,” he pointed ahead. “Hapgood, the Arsenal captain, playing Chulley, our captain. Getting back to your friend who is worried about insurance, Inspector…”

  Slade found himself where he had started. They were on the home stretch when Slade saw a figure hurrying towards them. Allison came up, flourishing a magazine.

  “Look!” he said excitedly. “I’ve found her.”

  He pointed to a page of the magazine. It held the picture of a girl sitting up in bed reaching for a cigarette. She was a pretty girl, and the pose she had struck was calculatedly alluring.

  “The girl—the girl!” said Allison, as Slade stared at the picture, making no comment. “The girl who called to see Doyce at the Stadium.”

  “This is her?”

  “Absolutely positive. Couldn’t be mistaken.”

  Slade continued to stare at the picture.

  “A photographer’s model, and she hasn’t come forward yet.”

  “Did you expect her to?” asked Morring.

  Slade faced the speaker. Morring’s face looked flushed and his eyes were narrowed.

  “There was a police SOS for her on the radio last night,” said Slade. “Usually people come forward in response to such appeals—if they’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “What could she have to hide?” Morring demanded.

  “I don’t know,” said Slade. “She called at the Stadium, asked for Doyce, and ran off when she heard the police were on the way. I later discovered that she had visited Doyce at his flat the night before.”

  Morring turned quickly away, but not before Slade had caught the sudden wild gleam under his down-dra
wn lids.

  “How can you be sure it’s the same girl?” he asked gruffly.

  “Mr Allison recognizes her. The porter at Doyce’s flat described her. You didn’t by any chance know her?”

  It was a direct challenge. Morring had to face it.

  “Me? Good Lord, I didn’t know any of—of the women Doyce favoured! Are we going to finish the game?”

  “Of course. See you back at the club-house,” Slade nodded to Allison.

  The Arsenal manager glanced from one man to the other.

  “I’ll be there,” he said, slipping the magazine into his pocket.

  When they reached the eighteenth hole Morring made his excuses and hurried away. Slade followed more slowly to the club-house.

  “Morring come in here?” he asked Allison, who was seated next to Kindilett, drinking a whisky.

  “No.” Allison took out his magazine, opened it to the page showing the girl. “You’d better take this, Inspector. You can check up on her.”

  “Who?” inquired Kindilett.

  “This girl,” said Slade. “She called at the Stadium yesterday, asked for Doyce, and then ran off. I later found she’d visited Doyce at his flat.”

  “May I see?”

  Slade held out the magazine.

  Kindilett gave the picture one glance and sat upright. “There must be some mistake. That’s Morring’s fiancée—Pat Laruce!”

  “You’re sure?” said the Yard man, recovering quickly from this startling announcement.

  “Why, of course I am!” said Kindilett testily. “Everyone in the team knows Pat.”

  Slade’s glance found Allison’s. The Yard man’s eyes flashed warning signals. The Arsenal manager nodded in understanding.

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t stop for a drink, gentlemen,” said the Yard man. “I’ve got a call to make.”

  “The telephone’s that way,” said Kindilett, pointing.

  “Thanks.”

  Slade was in time to see Morring leave the club’s ’phone-booth. The footballer ran out of the club-house and made for the car-park.

  Clinton appeared as from nowhere.

  “You look in a hurry.”

  “I am. Morring’s just put through a call, and unless I miss my guess he’s ready to lead us straight to the girl we want to see.”

  “How do you figure that out?” asked the sergeant.

  “He’s engaged to her. Come on. Keep behind this row of cars. I don’t want him to see us.”

  They reached their own car as another car moved out of the row and turned down the road. Seated at the wheel was Morring. His face was set, his eyes stared straight ahead.

  “Certainly looks as though he’s got something on his mind,” grunted Clinton.

  “It hit him between the eyes when Allison produced the girl’s photo and I said she’d been at Doyce’s flat. But the reason didn’t register till Kindilett saw the picture and recognized her.”

  “Which picture?”

  “Here.”

  Slade pushed the magazine, opened at the page showing the girl reaching for a cigarette, into Clinton’s hands, and started the car. He drove out of the row and turned down the road, a hundred yards behind Morring.

  “She’s a good looker,” Clinton decided. “So she’s been playing tricks, eh?”

  “Looks like it.” Slade braked and gave way to an oncoming car. “Morring’s steamed up.”

  “Because we know.”

  Slade was silent for some moments. Finally he said, “Perhaps.”

  “He knew about her and Doyce. Bet your boots on that.” Clinton saw no two ways about the thing. “This just about fixes him.”

  The sergeant settled back, lit a cigarette.

  “Ten thousand quid plus a girl. He’ll have to be good to talk himself out of that set-up.” Clinton’s exhaled smoke mushroomed against the windscreen. “Somehow I don’t think he’s that good,” he added, a doleful note in his voice.

  Slade turned on to the main road across the Downs. There was still plenty of traffic about, and he couldn’t make a good speed, but he was able to keep the same distance between his car and Morring’s. Traffic lights at a junction let Morring turn to the left and speed away towards the London road, but Slade edged to the front of the grouped cars when the lights turned again. There were four cars between him and Morring when the lights went red at the London road.

  “You’re going to have your work cut out,” said Clinton, throwing away the butt of his cigarette.

  If anything, that was a measure of understatement. Morring drove fast, and he handled his car expertly. Only good luck enabled Slade to remain at his quarry’s heels when Morring swung on to the Purley by-pass. The level crossing at Crawley had been closed after Slade had bumped over the metals. The lights at Redhill had changed as he slipped over the cross-roads.

  Within sight of London, Morring apparently put a restraining hand on his flight. He slackened speed. Through Norbury and Streatham he almost dawdled.

  “Why’s he slowing up?” muttered Clinton. “Losing heart?”

  “Or nerve,” Slade suggested.

  Morring passed through South London, crossed the Thames at Vauxhall, went on through Victoria, by Hyde Park Corner, and turned along the Edgware Road. He led the police-car to a block of flats in Maida Vale.

  Slade drove past as Morring ran into the entrance.

  “I bet he’s just about ready to bite,” said Clinton.

  Which remark only goes to prove that the sergeant hadn’t studied human beings for the years he had without learning something.

  Morring bounded up a broad flight of stairs, sprang across a landing, and rang a door-bell. His face was a graven mask. There was an air of suppressed urgency about him. The fingers of his hands flexed and closed with automatic regularity.

  The door opened, revealing a girl with dark hair and wide eyes.

  “Why, Phil—”

  “Hallo, Jill. Pat’s in?”

  “Of course.”

  He was inside the flat, moving across the sitting-room with springy stride. Another door opened, and a blonde girl in a silk dressing-gown came into the room. She smiled with all the heart-quickening charm of some one trained in the art. Her blonde hair was perfectly set, her make-up was clever, effective. She stood, loosely holding herself together, a picture of studied ease.

  The sudden visitor glanced at the ring on her third finger. It was a half-hoop of diamonds.

  “Pat,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice, “I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve got to get some things straightened out. Jill”—he turned to the dark-haired girl—“perhaps you’d be an angel and—”

  Jill Howard nodded.

  “Sure, Phil. I know when to be scarce.” Her smile was quick, but dubious. “You look as though you’ve brought the news from Ghent to Aix.”

  He met her questioning eyes.

  “I hope I’ve brought false news, Jill.”

  The blonde said, “I could do with a cigarette, Phil, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me in on the secret. After all, it was me you ’phoned.”

  Morring gave her a cigarette, held out his lighter. The inner door closed after Jill.

  “Yes, Pat, I ’phoned you because there’s something I’ve got to get straight.”

  “You’re repeating yourself,” she pointed out.

  “I heard you were at Doyce’s flat Friday night.”

  She stood for a moment smoking, watching the end of her cigarette.

  “Where did you hear that?” she asked quietly.

  Her very calm shook the man.

  “Never mind where!” he shouted. “Is it true? That’s what I want to know, and by heaven, Pat—”

  “Don’t be a fool, Phil.” The cold, level tone was like a stinging douche of ice-water. “There’
s no need to get dramatic about something that has a very simple explanation.”

  “Simple—”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Morring’s mouth screwed up at one side. “All right, I’m listening, Pat.” A vein throbbed visibly in his forehead. “But if you’ve broken your promise—”

  She cut in sharply, a keen, wary look on her face.

  “I had promised to see him long before you two had that quarrel. After all, he was your partner. I—well”—she hedged—“I didn’t think it policy to break the date.”

  “But you went back to his flat.”

  The words were an accusation. Cleverly she avoided their real meaning.

  “Naturally I went back for a drink—there was nothing in that. Or are you suggesting—”

  A new note crept into her voice, one of hesitant anger. Morring watched her from under contracted brows, and didn’t know what to think. Pat was always so damnably clever. She always managed to get him…

  “Listen,” he said, “I didn’t come here to suggest anything. I came to get the truth. The police know you’re engaged to me—”

  “Who told them?” she flashed.

  “Well—” He hesitated. “I don’t know quite—”

  “Phil”—she threw the cigarette away—“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, but I can’t see how the police know I exist, unless you yourself told them.”

  She waited.

  “I didn’t tell them,” he denied.

  “Then how can they know?”

  He shook his head. “That’s what puzzles me. They know you visited Doyce’s flat. That Yard detective—what’s his name?—Slade had a magazine with a photo of you which George Allison recognized. Slade said—”

  “How does George Allison come into it?” she demanded thinly.

  “You spoke to him at the Stadium. You went in and asked after Doyce.”

  “I see. But none of this connects with—your fiancée.”

  She looked at him, eyes wild, lips slightly parted. And she knew just how the sight of her hurt him, left him unsure of himself and the thoughts whirling in his mind.

  He shook his head as though to clear it.

  “Don’t you see, Pat, the police are on your track?”