The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

by Leonard Gribble

  “Sore’s the word, Raille.” Setchley propped himself up on his elbows as Whittaker began dabbing with iodine. “Good job it didn’t happen Saturday.”

  There was no comment on this.

  “That ought to fix you,” said Whittaker, drawing back and surveying his handiwork. “It’ll come up dark after a few hours, but it shouldn’t trouble you too much.”

  “How did you get the bruise?” asked Slade casually.

  Setchley looked at the Yard man, grinned. “Not playing soccer, as you might imagine.”

  “Thought it wasn’t the result of a smack with a ball,” Whittaker nodded, wiping his stained fingers on a towel. “Banged yourself against something sharp, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Of all things, against the bench in my lab.,” admitted the red-haired Trojan ruefully. “Week ago—yes, last Monday. Nasty knock. I was reaching over to take some papers from Morring and my foot slipped.”

  “From Morring?” Slade echoed.

  Setchley nodded, pulled down his practice shirt, and jumped off the table.

  “That’s right. He’d been lecturing me some time about taking out an insurance policy. Well, he’d finally got me to the acquiescent stage. I said I’d look over his suggestions, and he took me at my word. Came out to the lab. and made me sign on the dotted line.”

  “Where is your lab.?”

  “Great West Road. Small place, but we get through quite a bit of work.”

  “All research work?”

  “Mostly.” Setchley looked up suddenly, aware that the detective’s questions were no longer casual. “Experimental, certainly,” he added guardedly.

  “Must be interesting,” Slade mused. “Keep any aconitine handy?”

  “Of course. Matter of fact—” The red-headed man caught his breath, and his greeny-blue eyes lit with sharpened interest. “So that was it—aconitine. Alkaloid. Explains a lot.”

  “I hope it’ll explain everything,” said Slade dryly, following the trend of the other’s thoughts. “In due course.”

  Setchley ran his hands over his head.

  “Nice work isolating it so soon,” he said appreciatively. “Can never tell with the alkaloids. Might waste a lot of time if one—”

  Again he stopped short. A worried look crossed his face.

  “Come to think of it, doesn’t look too good for me, does it?” he challenged Slade.

  “A coincidence is rarely conclusive,” Slade smiled.

  Setchley’s head jerked. “Nice to hear you say so, Inspector. But just for the minute—”

  He shuddered dramatically.

  “You were going to say something about aconitine a few moments ago,” Slade reminded him. “You said, ‘matter of fact,’ and stopped. Remember?”

  Setchley pinched his nose between finger and thumb.

  “That’s right. When you mentioned the stuff. I was going to say that six months ago we were using aconitine in the lab. We were experimenting with heart stimulants. Aconitine and the antidote digitalin. Interesting—on paper.” He glanced at Slade. “You don’t need me to tell you it’s pretty fierce stuff.”

  “So I’ve gathered,” Slade nodded. “What’s the record?”

  He was watching the Trojan player closely, but Setchley now seemed unperturbed, interested only in an academic problem.

  “One-sixteenth of a grain has been known to prove lethal,” he reflected. “A man has died within eight minutes of it entering his bloodstream. That would depend upon his condition.”

  “Doyce was fit.”

  Setchley’s lips compressed. “Yes, there would be more resistance. But he was exercising. His circulation was speeded up. That would tend to accelerate the action.”

  “So that it would be sudden?”

  “Certainly.” Setchley took a deep breath. “Now, if you don’t mind, Inspector, I’ll get under the shower.”

  “Of course. Thanks for the information.”

  Followed by Allison and Clinton, Slade left the dressing-room.

  “That must be coincidence,” Allison said, rattling loose change in a trousers pocket.

  “We’ll see,” returned Slade non-committally. “I want those seals kept on the treatment room door, Mr Allison, and—er—I’ve got your tie-pin in my case.”

  Allison smiled wryly. “Your people found no aconitine on that.”

  “Nor on any of the other pins we took on Saturday. I’ve brought them all back. By the way, Mr Allison, if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a rather unique pin of yours. A double pearl shaped like a death’s head.”

  “I’ve had it some years now,” Allison explained. “It’s a kind of mascot. Certainly I’ve never seen another like it. As you say, it’s a double pearl shaped like a death’s head. The eyes are ruby chips, and the nose is a sapphire, and the mouth is a diamond chip. It has a unique history, too, beginning with King Ferdinand of Bulgaria. I was thinking Saturday night that it was a rather grim emblem, in the circumstances,” he added ruefully.

  Conversation became more general, and not long afterwards Slade and Clinton left the Stadium. As they drove back to the Yard Clinton said, “Well, we’ve got somewhere at last. Setchley with the actual stuff on tap, and proof that Morring had a chance to get it. I didn’t think it would pan out as easily as this.”

  Slade shook his head.

  “Clinton,” he said, “it’s beginning to look too good to be true.”

  “I don’t see why. This isn’t a clever murder.”

  “I’m not so sure. We haven’t found the weapon yet,” Slade reminded him. “Anyway, what I meant was everything’s turning out too pat in the case against Morring.”

  “You’ve got three pointers,” Clinton ruminated. “The money, the girl—who’s a liar and looks it—and now the poison. There’s a case in that much.”

  “All the same, let’s hear the report on that cutting. I was told on the ’phone that one’s come through.”

  The report was on Slade’s desk when they arrived at the Yard. It was from the police at Ryechester. They had traced the cutting from a copy of the Ryechester Chronicle of four years before. The word “fosse” had given them the needed clue. Attached to the report was a summary of a coroner’s inquest, the subject of the cutting.

  “Good God!” breathed Clinton, reading over Slade’s shoulder. “Kindilett’s daughter! Found drowned after going to a dance. Verdict of death by misadventure.”

  Slade dropped the report on to his desk.

  “This certainly alters things,” he agreed gravely.

  “It doesn’t alter anything,” Clinton maintained stoutly. “Ryechester—Kindilett—the Saxon Rovers. It all ties in neat as a sailor’s knot. Morring again. He was in the Rovers four years ago. He must have known all about that case down in Ryechester. He—This is what copper-bottoms the case against him.”

  Although he didn’t admit it to the sergeant, Slade felt suddenly depressed. The case against Morring, as he saw it, was suspiciously complete. It could hardly be more conclusive if it had been specially prepared to implicate the dead man’s partner. Stage by stage it had grown, in a strangely natural sequence, each additional discovery the result of routine investigation.

  Further, Morring’s own actions had done nothing to lessen suspicion. True, he had come forward with a story, but not a complete story. He had acted with suspicion on Sunday, suddenly leaving the golf club-house and driving to London. Followed, Slade had been presented by a suspect plainly angry with a girl who claimed she was not engaged to him. To-day Morring had kept clear of the Yard men. Slade had seen him on the training-ground. But he had not rushed up to Setchley when the old Saxon Rover had fallen.

  Morring had certainly not helped himself by his actions. He was the number one logical suspect, and the evidence was piling up logically against him.

  “Another thing,” Clinton
went on, cutting across Slade’s reflection, “he’s the only one who fits every condition. It’s always been your contention in the past that that’s a fair test of the case against any suspect.”

  “You think we should arrest him, Clinton?”

  “I think we ought to give him another going-over. With what we’ve got to play with he might crack, and we’d finish the case with a confession. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Slade lit his pipe, considered the sergeant’s words.

  “There’s a lot to be said for your argument, Clinton, but”—he shook his head—“somehow I’m not convinced. Not utterly. I’ve a feeling that this crime was cleverly planned. It is full of interesting psychological factors—the cutting, the package, the time, the setting—I’m certain all these have a human value, if we could find it. I think the murderer has used considerable foresight. More, I think he has been too clever to be trapped by simple progressive developments—”

  “Simple!” Clinton scouted the idea.

  “Nevertheless, considered in sequence, that case against Morring is simple.”

  Clinton frowned at his chief. He had been following Slade’s reasoning, and he knew there was a great deal in what Slade said.

  “You think Morring is being framed—cleverly framed?”

  Slade sat down.

  “That’s the devil of it, I can’t tell. I can’t even begin to satisfy myself. It may all be circumstance—”

  “Coincidence!” Clinton scoffed.

  “If you prefer,” Slade said, undeterred. “But the possibility must be considered—”

  “Don’t forget the possibility of guilt,” grunted the sergeant, still persistent.

  Slade cleared his lungs of smoke. “Tell you what, Clinton,” he said. “We’ll run down to Ryechester and see just what goes to this angle—this death by misadventure of Kindilett’s daughter Mary. It may throw some light on the whole problem.”

  “It’s certainly an angle we must cover. That cutting was intended to mean something.”

  “Yes—to Doyce.”

  At this stage they were interrupted by a rap on the door. A uniformed constable looked in.

  “Miss Patricia Laruce to see you, Inspector,” he announced.

  Slade glanced at Clinton. “Maybe our yeast did work, after all,” he commented dryly.

  “Show her in,” he told the constable.

  X

  Out of the Past

  The blonde girl took the seat Slade placed for her, crossed her legs, and patted the end of her dress. She held up a newspaper.

  “I bought this half an hour ago,” she told them. “It says the poison that killed John Doyce was aconitine.”

  “That’s quite right. You have something to tell us about it?” Slade inquired.

  “I’ve decided I had better be frank with you,” she said. “Put my cards on the table.”

  “An excellent idea,” Slade commended. “But what has made you change your mind?”

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” she said quickly. “I was quite willing to help you yesterday, but you made things very awkward for me, in front of Phil and Miss Howard.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Slade shot a glance at Clinton. The sergeant was hiding a grin in a large hand.

  “But now it’s different,” she went on. “I realized I could talk more freely here, and—well, the truth is I don’t want to get mixed up in a murder case. I’ve got myself to think of, haven’t I?”

  “Of course,” Slade murmured. “What do you want to tell me?”

  “First, I was at John Doyce’s flat on Saturday. I’m afraid I deceived you about that. But Phil’s temper is something I fear. I just couldn’t admit to it in front of him. I went to the flat to get some things. Silly of me, but I did. You see, I’d fallen in love with John, and he—well, we felt the same way about each other. Phil wouldn’t understand. As he saw it we were engaged—”

  “You told me you weren’t engaged,” Slade pointed out.

  “I’m afraid that was another little deceit,” she said easily, trying to brush aside the interruption. “I had to be careful in front of Phil. He had already quarrelled with John about me, threatened that if he saw me again—I mean—Oh, it was all so beastly, so awful!”

  She broke off, giving a fair presentation of injured and misunderstood innocence.

  “You suddenly decided to tell me this?” Slade prompted.

  “That’s right. I was tired of being misunderstood.”

  Slade’s brows lifted. “I can assure you there’s no danger of that here, Miss Laruce.”

  She gave him a straight look. “Thank you. I knew I was doing right in coming here. I’m no longer engaged to Phil Morring, and I feel I have no reason now for—for trying to camouflage anything. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Not entirely,” Slade admitted. “The engagement was broken off—when?”

  “Sunday, after you left.”

  Slade risked another glance at Clinton. The sergeant was now grinning behind two hands.

  “I see. You were in love with Doyce, and you were going to tell Morring—”

  “But naturally,” she whispered, in feigned surprise that he should even mention the matter.

  “But you were afraid of his temper?”

  “Yes, that’s it—his temper. That’s just it. I see you do understand.”

  “One other thing, Miss Laruce,” said Slade. “Do you know if Morring visited Setchley at the latter’s laboratory?”

  “Well, Phil didn’t tell me himself, but I remember John told me Setchley was taking out a policy with the firm and Phil had been out to see him to fix things. Early last week, I think it was.”

  She cast wide, innocent, baby eyes round the room.

  “Why, is that helpful?” she asked.

  “It may be,” Slade nodded. “Can you tell me more about the quarrel between Morring and Doyce?”

  “I can, but I’d rather not,” she said, dropping her gaze.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to know, Miss Laruce. It may be important.”

  “But I assure you it isn’t—really.”

  Slade held up a hand, prepared to play the scene through as she wished.

  “You must allow me to judge that.”

  With well-simulated dejection she described a quarrel that almost came to blows between the two men. She contrived to give the impression that she was merely an innocent bystander at the time, afraid of what would happen. But she made it very clear that Morring had been in a towering rage and had threatened physical injury to Doyce if a similar incident occurred.

  Slade took her up immediately.

  “Morring knew you were visiting Doyce’s flat again?”

  She strove to look indignant at the hidden implication, but Slade wasn’t impressed, and she desisted.

  “He may have done. I don’t know.” Her tone was now sullen. The interview had not gone quite as she had planned, yet she could not discover where or how she had made a mistake. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  She rose.

  “Well, it was very good of you, Miss Laruce, to take so much trouble.”

  “I felt I had to let you know the whole truth,” she murmured, with an angelic smile.

  “If we want you we can get you at the same address?” Slade said.

  She frowned, tapped the side of her mouth with a gloved finger.

  “Well, no. I’ve left. I found it impossible to stay under the same roof as Miss Howard after Sunday. But you can get me at Commer-Photos. I’m staying with a friend to-day and to-morrow, and hoping to get a place for myself on Wednesday. Good morning.”

  The door closed after her.

  Clinton dropped his hands. “Nice girl,” he muttered, with heavy sarcasm. “Just walks in to tell us the whole truth and slip a noose round
her fiancé’s neck. I know what I’d like to do with her, the double-crossing little—”

  “Sh! You should be happy, Clinton, to find another piece that fits into the case against Morring. A threat now. Shows premeditation, something this crime needs. How about it?”

  Clinton pulled a wry face. “I’d like to get Morring off just to cheat that little peroxided schemer,” he said savagely. “If there’s one type of woman I can’t stand—”

  “Don’t bother about one,” Slade grinned. “I know several already, including our little photographer’s model. Seems we broke up the happy home on Sunday. It’s Morring’s turn now to come out with something.” Slade became serious. “He’ll have to be quick about it if he’s going to do himself any good,” he added thoughtfully.

  Clinton was already studying a Bradshaw.

  “There’s a train to Ryechester in forty minutes. We’ve got time to get something to eat and catch it.”

  They arrived at the Ryechester police station in the middle of the afternoon. Inspector Dunning, a grey-haired veteran of the local force, was expecting them.

  “The Chronicle people may be able to give you some extra details,” he told them. “We haven’t got the Rovers any more, as you know, and of course that Kindilett affair is forgotten. Four years can be a long time.”

  “You remember the case yourself, Dunning?” Slade asked.

  “Only vaguely. I was away up North at the time, and heard about it when I got back. I know there was some sort of scandal.”

  “What sort?”

  “Well, talk mostly. Old women’s gossip. The verdict at the inquest was death by misadventure, as you saw in the report we sent. But I remember there was a lot of vague hinting at suicide. There had been an unfortunate love affair, which was rather kept in the background. Kindilett had friends, you know, and they rallied round. There wasn’t a lot brought out that could have been.”

  “Then she might have committed suicide?”

  The local man shrugged. “She was found in the fosse. No one could say she didn’t throw herself in. No one came forward to say she did. It’s like that. Take your choice. But, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s all this got to do with your business last Saturday?”