The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

by Leonard Gribble

  “My track?”

  Her voice rose a few notes.

  “Of course. I understand they radioed an SOS for a girl—you. Well, what have you done about it? Nothing. They want to question you—about Doyce. I tell you, Pat, you can’t play with the police like this. You’ve got to watch your step.”

  “Why me?”

  Her question brought him up short.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aren’t you getting just a bit scared, Phil, that the police will ask me questions about—you?”

  The directness of this new attack took him aback.

  “Me? They don’t want me. I told Inspector Slade all I knew yesterday.”

  “I see. You thought of everything very nicely.”

  “Why, Pat, what do you mean?”

  Her glance sharpened. She moved nearer him.

  “You’ve seen to-day’s papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know how they’ve spread themselves about the case. The missing girl. Oh, I know the rotten suggestion behind it all! The partner who gets ten thousand pounds. But I didn’t know the police had found out we were engaged.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  She searched his face, found him honestly puzzled.

  “How long do you think it’ll be before a smart detective finds out about your quarrel with Doyce—and because he was paying too much attention to me? Add that to ten thousand pounds—”

  “Pat!”

  Morring’s cry was one of outrage. He caught her by the arms, and felt how relaxed she stood. There was a mocking look about her as she stared up at him, realizing more than he realized, seeing more than he saw, and concealing from him—what?

  He was filled with distrust. It suddenly seemed that he had never really known her, that she was a stranger whose thoughts he did not share, whose life was utterly outside his own.

  “I’m just trying to face up to things, Phil. Trying not to be scared. We’ve got to be smart if we’re going to side-step a lot of publicity—”

  “Smart!”

  He released her, fell back.

  “That’s what I said. Publicity of the wrong sort wouldn’t do you any good. As for me”—animation suddenly flowed through her, a vibrant note echoed in her voice—“I can’t afford that kind if I’m going to keep my job. Don’t you see, Phil? We’ve got to—to be not—engaged. The police wouldn’t understand. You and John—that money—me. They mustn’t be told, Phil. You mustn’t tell them we’re engaged. You mustn’t!”

  She was close against him now, arms lifted to fold round his neck.

  He caught her wrists.

  “I’m beginning to see things clearly,” he said.

  She caught at the words.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded. “Phil”—with a gesture of tired exasperation—“why try to blunder about at the wrong time? Can’t you see—”

  He picked up his hat.

  “I think—perfectly. Good-bye.”

  Before she could stop him he had reached the door and opened it. He stopped abruptly. On the landing, conversing in low tones, were Slade and Clinton. At sound of the door opening both Yard men turned round.

  “Ah, Mr Morring,” said Slade, smiling.

  Morring gulped.

  “What the devil—” he began, stopped.

  “We would just like to ask you a few more questions, and also Miss—er—Laruce, is it?” said Slade pleasantly, turning his smile to the blonde woman standing behind Morring.

  VII

  Not the Whole Truth

  Jill stood in the centre of the sitting-room. She watched Clinton close the door.

  “I didn’t know we were having company, Pat. You might have told me.”

  Pat forced a smile.

  “Friends of Phil’s, I think, dear.”

  Morring’s head jerked up. He had been staring at Pat’s left hand. His engagement ring had disappeared from her third finger. He had the feeling that Pat was far too capable—in looking after herself.

  “Allow me to introduce Inspector Slade and Sergeant—Sorry, I didn’t catch the name yesterday.”

  “Clinton,” said the sergeant dourly.

  “Oh!” Pat sounded as though she had made a discovery. “I know. You’re investigating John Doyce’s death. I saw your names in the paper this morning. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Slade nodded. “Yes. You knew Doyce rather well, didn’t you, Miss Laruce?”

  She appeared surprised.

  “I knew him as Phil—er—Mr Morring’s business partner. Did you expect me to know him well?”

  Slade admired her cool counter-attack. She was very self-assured.

  “To be frank, I did. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you would be able to tell me something that might be useful in my investigation.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Inspector,” she said with a too-sweet smile. “But what are you investigating—exactly?”

  Slade studied her carefully.

  “I expect to know later. Just now I am investigating a death in somewhat strange circumstances.” He turned his head as a chair scraped along the floor. The other girl had sat down. “Can you help me?”

  Pat shook her head with pretty bewilderment.

  “Why, of course, if I could, I’d be delighted. But, really, what makes you think I know anything about—I mean anything that could help you?”

  Morring was standing with mouth shut tight, a brooding look on his face. He made no motion to interrupt the verbal duel between the Yard man and the girl.

  “You called at the Stadium after the match. You asked to see Doyce?”

  “What makes you so certain, Inspector?”

  “You were recognized.”

  She caught her lip. “True I did ask. It was only natural, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A slow flush crept into her face.

  “I mean in the circumstances.”

  “Which circumstances?”

  “Well—John being Phil’s partner—and my knowing them both. Being friends, I mean. Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  Slade glanced at Jill. The other girl was sitting still, staring at the floor as though puzzled by the pattern of the carpet.

  “Why didn’t you come forward when the request for you was broadcast last night?”

  “I didn’t hear the broadcast, Inspector. I didn’t know until a short while ago, when I saw about the police SOS in the paper. I had intended getting in touch with the police when I was dressed, though there’s nothing I can tell that could possibly be of any use.”

  Slade accepted this for what he considered it was worth, which wasn’t a great deal.

  “Miss Laruce,” said the detective, with an air of coming to the point, “tell me, please, why you went to Doyce’s flat as soon as you left the Stadium.”

  Pat gasped, looked from Slade to Clinton, and shook her head.

  “But I don’t understand. Do you mean you think I went to his flat—alone?”

  “I do.”

  She drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t much more than five foot five, but she managed somehow to make the movement censorious.

  “Then I can tell you, Inspector, you are mistaken—very much mistaken. I did not go to Doyce’s flat. I came straight back here—didn’t I, Jill?”

  Thus appealed to, the other girl started. She threw one wild glance round, found Morring’s puzzled gaze on her, met Slade’s hard stare, crossed Clinton’s unwavering scowl, and lastly looked at Pat. The blonde girl stood in the centre of the room waiting for her roommate’s confirmation, expecting it, as her attitude showed.

  Jill swallowed quickly.

  “Why, of course, Pat. We came back together.”

  “Straight from th
e Stadium?” snapped Slade.

  “Straight back from the Stadium,” said Jill, more colour in her tone.

  Slade sighed.

  “Strange. The porter at the flats must have been mistaken, Clinton.”

  “Must have been. But I don’t see how,” said the sergeant, taking out his notebook and producing a pencil.

  “What are you putting down?” asked Pat sharply.

  “Notes—just notes,” said Clinton, without bothering to look up.

  “I may have to ask you to make an official statement later,” said Slade.

  “About what?”

  “About what you’ve just told me.”

  “Oh.”

  There was an awkward pause. Clinton went on with his writing, Morring fidgeted, and Jill sat crouching in her chair, watching them all rather fearfully.

  “Miss Laruce is your fiancée, I believe, Mr Morring,” said Slade, turning to the footballer.

  “That’s—” began Morring.

  “Really, Inspector, you are embarrassing me,” put in the girl quickly. “If Phil wants to ask me to become engaged to him I don’t want to have to thank Scotland Yard for prompting him.”

  Over by the door Clinton choked.

  “I’m sorry,” said Slade, but he was looking at Morring. Surprise was mingled with anger in the man’s face. “Then you are not engaged to him?”

  She carried it off exceedingly well. She said, “We are excellent friends of long standing, but now you have made such a suggestion—Well.”

  A slow flush burned in Morring’s face. The man’s eyes were glassy, masking a low-tension fury.

  “It seems I have been getting some wrong ideas about people,” said Slade dryly.

  “It certainly does,” Pat agreed warmly.

  The Yard man turned to Jill.

  “Did you know John Doyce well, Miss—”

  “Howard—Jill Howard. No, I have seen him only once or twice.”

  “Then you were not friends?”

  “No, I am rather particular about my friends.”

  There was a wealth of contempt in her tone. Pat’s lips compressed. She gave no other sign that the shaft had struck home.

  “Then you did not like him?”

  “I did not think anything about him.”

  “What did you know about him?”

  “He was Phil’s partner, that’s all.”

  “But his reputation—social reputation?”

  “He was a good footballer, of course.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. Had he a reputation that would interest a woman?”

  “Surely that would depend on the woman, Inspector?”

  Slade was getting no change from this slim dark-haired girl with the bright hostile eyes.

  “Listen, Inspector,” said Morring, coming forward, “you don’t have to plague Miss Howard like this. I told you about my partner yesterday.”

  “For which I was very grateful,” returned Slade easily. “But I am open to receive every one’s opinion. Opinions differ, you know. You agree, Miss Laruce?”

  “Naturally.”

  Pat sat down, crossed one leg over the other. She was undeniably pretty.

  “What was your opinion of Mr Doyce?” Slade asked her.

  She wriggled in the chair.

  “Why, I always found him very pleasant. I—er—”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t find anything else to say. People always will talk.”

  Slade didn’t ask what she meant. He could see that, without any aid from himself, Morring was working into a furious temper about something. With great difficulty the man kept check on his temper.

  “You are a photographer’s model, I believe?”

  “I am.”

  “Mind letting me have your firm’s address?”

  “I can’t think why you want it, but I don’t mind. Why should I? The Commer-Photo Agency, Ltd., 10 Langdale House, Regent Street.”

  Clinton noted the information.

  “And you, Miss Howard?”

  “My daily bread comes much more prosaically,” smiled the dark girl. “I’m behind the counter in the gift department of Farnham and Macey’s.”

  Clinton noted that too.

  Slade turned to Morring. “You came here rather suddenly, Mr Morring.”

  “You find that interesting?” countered the footballer, wary and on his guard.

  “Frankly, I do.”

  “Then I’m sorry. I can’t satisfy your interest, Inspector.”

  “Perhaps you will reconsider that, Mr Morring, when you sign a statement for me. But I shan’t be pressing you for that until to-morrow.”

  There was an ironic curve to Morring’s mouth as he asked, “Why wait?”

  “I think it better that I get a report from the experts performing the post-mortem—first.”

  Morring had dropped his guard, and Slade had given him one right between the eyes. The footballer looked staggered.

  “Then you think—you really do—I mean, what I said to you yesterday—”

  He floundered to a stop.

  Pat said, “You look as though you could do with a cup of coffee, Phil. It’s the excitement. Jill, won’t you be an angel?”

  Jill retired to the kitchen to perform her requested heavenly duties.

  “And won’t you both sit down?” Pat invited the detectives sweetly.

  Slade, quite prepared to see how this rather clever young woman was going to continue what he was sure was nothing but a big bluff, selected a chair. Morring slumped into another, opposite.

  “And you, sergeant?”

  Clinton stowed his notebook in his pocket.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stand, miss. It’s a long run from Brighton, and I can do with stretching my legs.”

  “Brighton?”

  “We were there this morning,” said Slade. “Mr Morring and I played golf.”

  “But what fun! You like golf, Inspector?”

  Clinton cleared his throat noisily. He could see all this developing into a social call of the kind he detested. Slade grinned.

  “I’m afraid neither Mr Morring nor I had all our mind on the game,” he said bluntly.

  Morring squirmed.

  “Pat,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll wait for that coffee. There’s something I’ve just thought of—”

  “Well, just forget it again, there’s a darling.” A white hand with pink shellaced nails pressed him down into his seat. “You can’t run out on us after coming all the way from Brighton just to keep a date with Jill and me.”

  “I—” Morring gulped.

  “I’m sorry,” Slade apologized. “I wouldn’t have kept you to that game, Mr Morring, if I’d known.”

  It was Clinton’s turn to grin. The sergeant made no attempt to hide his amusement. Morring flushed, ran a finger round the inside of his collar, and nodded.

  “Oh, it was all right. I had plenty of time—”

  “You certainly got here before the lady was dressed,” Clinton pointed out.

  The situation was deteriorating. It was saved from disaster by the entry of Jill with a tray of steaming coffee-cups.

  “Now, who takes sugar?”

  “Were you in the Saxon Rovers at the same time as Setchley and Doyce?” asked Slade, while Clinton played at legerdemain with a pair of patent sugar-tongs.

  “Yes. That was four years ago, though.”

  “So I understand. Any others of the Trojan team in the Rovers?”

  “Kindilett was a member of the Committee. That’s how he knew about us when he started the Trojans. He turned to some of his old players, got us interested.”

  “Setchley been a player long?”

  “As long as I have, I should say. He’s a queer fellow. Scie
ntific outlook. Doesn’t give a fig for human values. Much more concerned with the result than the game.” Morring set his cup in its saucer. “If it’s news to you, he was the one who rooted for Doyce. Said the team really needed him as right half.”

  Slade didn’t say whether it was news or not. He nodded and asked, “Setchley married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  Morring frowned. “No. Any reason for asking?”

  “I’ve always a reason,” Slade explained mildly.

  “Sorry. But—” Morring hesitated, unsure of himself.

  “Inspector Slade’s very interested in the ladies,” said Pat, “if you know what I mean.”

  Jill’s cup smacked loudly against its saucer.

  “I’m not sure I do,” said Slade.

  Pat smiled provocatively. “The great big detective wouldn’t fool a poor little girl, would he?” she purred, completely at ease.

  Slade grinned, quite aware of her effort to sidetrack him, but not sure just why. He didn’t think she was helping Morring. He didn’t think she really cared much for anybody except herself.

  Probably even Doyce had been…

  He didn’t allow speculation to wander far in that direction. It was too risky, and he had to see exactly where he was getting.

  “I’m hoping the poor little girl won’t turn the tables on the detective,” he said.

  Something went wrong with the smile she gave him, but her tone was light when she said, “Just to show you what a wrong idea you’ve got of me, Inspector, I’ll be perfectly frank with you.”

  Slade sat back, wondering what verbal trick she would try to pull.

  “You think John Doyce was murdered—poisoned. Oh, never mind! I can read between the lines of the Sunday Press. When I say you I mean the police, naturally.” In that way she brushed aside his quick but cautious denial. “You think a woman is mixed up in this business because you’ve heard some rumours about Doyce—rumours you were bound to run into, because no one would try to whiten his reputation when he is dead.”

  “Pat!”

  The cry came from Jill. But the blonde girl swept on, warmth in her voice.

  “You’ve tried to connect me with the case. You’ve considered Jill. Now you want to drag in Setchley—if he has a girl friend. Because, like every one else, you think Doyce was murdered for only one reason. Women liked him.”