“Yes. I’ve got a suggestion.”
“What is it?”
“I believe the murderer took the aconitine from Setchley’s lab. When I find that person I’ll have the murderer. But I’ve got to make him show himself. One way of doing that is to give that sealed treatment room publicity. The inquest is to-morrow morning. I think we could have the coroner make an announcement about an impending arrest, and then bring in an adjournment, in the public interest.”
“Why say anything about an arrest?”
“I want to give the murderer food for thought. I want him to think he’s slipped up somewhere. We can put the information in such a way that he will work out his danger for himself.”
“You think that’ll send him to the treatment room in double quick time?”
“I’ll go over it first—every inch. Also the visitors’ dressing-room.”
“You’ve been over them once.”
“Yes, on Saturday. But this will be a longer job.”
“I see. And the murderer gets his chance to put the noose round his neck when?”
“Wednesday morning. He’ll be well worked up by then, with Press statements and another day to get restive in.”
“And suppose he’s not such a fool, Slade?”
“I don’t think he’s a fool. But equally I don’t think he’ll let another man take the blame for himself. Whoever he is, I think he considers himself morally justified in what he’s done. Probably considers himself an arbiter of justice.”
“What are you driving at? Come to the point. I won’t bite.”
Slade smiled. “If in the course of the next thirty-six hours Morring is subjected to special attention that will be all that’s wanted to make sure.”
The A.C. stared.
“Morring! But he’s—” He broke off, regarded Slade severely. “Then you’re convinced Morring isn’t guilty?”
“If he was engaged to Mary Kindilett, as I said, we’ll have to arrest him. The case against him can’t be broken, if he was the girl’s fiancé. If he wasn’t, then I’m certain he isn’t guilty. I can’t bring myself to believe in so much coincidence as stands out in the case against him.”
Again the A.C. got to his feet.
“This is asking rather much, Slade.”
“It is an unusual case,” the detective pointed out. “We haven’t a husband who’s killed his wife and buried her in the garden. This murder was done openly. No attempt to make it look like accident. No cover-up. Just murder, with the murderer showing his crime and concealing himself. That reveals a state of mind. It’s the state of mind I’m trying to alter. Then I’ll be able to get my real proof.”
“If it doesn’t come off we’ve lost valuable time. It’s a gamble.”
“That’s the very reason why our man will be inveigled into doing something. This whole affair has been a moral gamble on his part.”
For a couple of minutes the A.C. tramped the carpet. Finally he came to a pause opposite the detective.
“Very well, I’ll get the Commissioner on the ’phone and fix things. For all our sakes, Slade, I hope you’re right.”
Slade went thoughtfully back to his own office. Clinton had gone. He ’phoned Kindilett’s hotel.
“I’d like to see you for a few minutes, Mr Kindilett,” he explained. “I’ve one or two things to show you.”
“Show me?”
The Trojan manager sounded interested.
“Yes. I want your advice.”
“Then you’ve been digging up things in Ryechester? I saw the notice in the evening paper.”
The football manager’s tone was faintly accusatory.
“I quite understand how you must feel about this, Mr Kindilett,” said the Yard man diplomatically, “but I have a direct lead that makes this interview to-night rather imperative.”
“Can’t it wait until after the inquest? I’m very tired.”
“It could,” Slade replied cautiously, realizing that the other man’s manner was now somewhat hostile, “but your help now might obviate unpleasant publicity to-morrow.”
That left Kindilett in two minds. There was a pause, then he said, “Very well, I’ll wait up. When are you coming?”
“Immediately,” said Slade and hung up.
XII
A Conspiracy of Circumstances
Francis Kindilett was staying in a small Bloomsbury hotel that catered well for its guests and gave them, in addition, the seclusion of an ancient tree-lined thoroughfare. Slade found the Trojan manager in a room near the top of the building, from the window of which he could watch the crimson gleam of distant neon lighting.
“You certainly lost no time,” said Kindilett when the Yard man appeared.
He seemed, to Slade, to have recovered somewhat from his hostile reception on the telephone. The Yard man noticed fresh lines in the other’s face, and shrewdly guessed that what he had read in the evening papers had been a shock to the man.
“I’m afraid my mission isn’t altogether a pleasant one, Mr Kindilett. I must ask you to tell me the circumstances surrounding your daughter’s death four years ago.”
Kindilett took it well.
“This course is necessary, Inspector?” he asked, his voice betraying no emotion.
“I’m sorry, yes,” Slade said.
They sat down. Slade took a cigarette from Kindilett’s proffered case.
“Very well.” Kindilett blew out the match he had struck. “How do I start?”
“First, you recognize this photograph, I suppose.”
Slade produced the photograph the editor of the Ryechester Chronicle had given him. Kindilett looked at it, nodded.
“I recognize the players—at least, some of them. I can’t say I remember the photograph. There were quite a number taken in the old days, of course. Also, quite a few players came into the team and left, with each season.”
“Naturally. That is your daughter?”
“Yes.” Kindilett’s face was a mask. “That is Mary. And that is Hodgson and Barnes. And there is Setchley. He’s changed a bit. Those are Saxon Rovers, as you probably are aware, Inspector.”
“The man at the opposite end from your daughter. Do you recognize him, Mr Kindilett?”
“No, I can’t say I do. But then I don’t recall that player second from the left in the front row. And that man with the bushy hair at the back escapes me.”
Slade took the photograph, put it on one side. He offered Kindilett the Press cutting found in Doyce’s pocket.
“I found this in John Doyce’s clothes when I searched them on Saturday.”
Kindilett started as he read the few words.
“But I don’t understand. You mean—”
“Here is a report on the inquest. I need not say any more, I know. You will see that this cutting is taken from that report—from a copy some one had presumably kept.”
The Trojan manager’s hands trembled.
“This is incredible!” he murmured. “I can’t believe it, Inspector.”
“Nevertheless, it is true. In the package that came for Doyce was this cutting. It was obviously intended to refresh his memory. Whoever killed him, Mr Kindilett, was well aware of what happened in Ryechester four years ago, and presumably wished to remind Doyce just before he died.”
There was silence for some moments while Kindilett’s eyes travelled the columns of print.
“Well,” he said, “what do you wish me to say? I—I can assure you I don’t know what to say. This is beyond me. I can’t fathom it at all.”
“Did you know to whom your daughter was engaged?”
Kindilett looked up.
“No,” he said, very quietly, but his voice was not quite even.
“Mr Kindilett,” said Slade gravely, “I must ask you to tell me the truth concerning your daughter’s
death. After careful consideration of the facts, as I know them, I believe that the circumstances of her death have a definite bearing on the murder of John Doyce.”
The room was warm, but Kindilett shivered as he lifted his gaze.
“You really believe that?”
“I do,” the Yard man said. “I’ll be more explicit. I believe Doyce was murdered by means of a ring that was sent to him. A ring with one of its claws prised up, and that claw smeared with poison. It pricked Doyce’s thumb as he opened the envelope containing it. He died within an hour of pricking his thumb. With the ring was the Press cutting alluding to your daughter’s death. Now you’ll understand why I must learn the truth about your daughter. It may be the vital link in a chain of evidence that will convict Doyce’s murderer.”
Kindilett ran a hand over his grey head. While Slade had been talking he had slumped farther down in his chair. It seemed as though he had not heard the detective’s words. Slade, knowing how hard he was taking this, gave him time. Finally, as Slade did not continue, Kindilett roused himself and spoke.
“I understand—now,” he said. There was a great weariness in his voice, a weariness not of the body only. He appeared to brace himself before continuing. “Mary was a vivacious girl, ‘modern’ in the best sense of the word. She was independent by nature, and like a lot of girls in these days thought she was at the same time emotionally independent of every one and everything. She had her feet on the ground, however, and her brain was clear-thinking.” He paused. “Another cigarette, Inspector?”
“No, thank you.”
“A drink, perhaps?”
“Not just now, thanks.”
Kindilett nodded, and without further preamble resumed. “Naturally, as I was a member of the Saxon Rovers’ board, Mary attended many of the games with me. She knew all about the team, liked talking to the players, and was keen on soccer. The players liked her. I know that some of them rather admired her. She was a good-looking girl, with poise and a smile that for me was always charming. I was proud of her, Inspector.”
The simple statement rang with sincerity. But Slade, watching the man’s pale face, saw fresh lines of strain. He knew that Kindilett was opening spiritual wounds.
When he resumed the Trojan manager seemed oblivious of the detective’s presence. He neither looked at Slade nor appeared to be addressing him. Slade had the uncanny feeling that the man was soliloquizing. He spoke his feelings rather than his thoughts.
“One day,” he went on, “Mary came to me and told me she was in love. I shall never forget the look in her eyes at that moment or the light in her face. I didn’t question the truth of what she told me. I could see it. I told her I was glad, and asked her who was the lucky man. And that was where my girl ran true to form, Inspector. She would have her little joke. She wouldn’t tell me. I had to find out for myself, she said. Well, a few days later she had a solitaire engagement ring on her finger. She was more proud of it than she would have been of the Koh-i-Noor. But still she wouldn’t tell me the name of her fiancé.”
As he paused Slade said, “You guessed?”
Kindilett shook his head.
“Frankly, Inspector, I couldn’t. I had a feeling that he might be a footballer—”
“One of the Saxon Rovers?”
The grey head nodded.
“Yes,” Kindilett admitted.
“Doyce?” probed Slade.
Kindilett’s shoulders squared. For a moment he looked angry, but when he spoke his voice was controlled.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Morring?”
Kindilett took a deep breath, his lips twitched.
“It’s no use,” he said. “I don’t know and I can’t tell you, Inspector. It might have been anyone in the team. But that is only my—my feeling. It might have been no one in the team. She never told me. I have never known. Two days after I first saw the ring on her finger it was gone. That light, too, had gone from her eyes. But she would not tell me of her trouble. Her pride refused to let her. That, again, was Mary running true to form. I remember once when she was a child of six or seven, and some one accidentally broke a favourite doll—But no matter,” he broke off, gesturing with a hand. “I could see she had been hurt deeply. But I knew that she was determined not to let anyone know, not even me. That made me very sad, Inspector. I knew then that she would never tell me the name of the man.”
Kindilett rose, walked to the window, and for some moments stared at the red haze in the distant sky. When he resumed his back remained towards the detective.
“She went to a dance one night with John Doyce. She did not come back. You know what happened.”
The voice was the voice of a broken man.
“Who do you think killed Doyce?” asked Slade, speaking very quietly.
The man at the window trembled.
“I don’t know.”
The words were complete negation. Slade studied the man’s back, the droop of the square shoulders.
“You never liked Doyce, did you?” he asked.
“I am not aware that I ever evinced any animosity towards him.”
“That doesn’t alter the fact that you never liked him, as, say, you liked Morring?”
Kindilett half turned.
“Why keep alluding to Morring?”
“Do I?”
“I—Perhaps I was mistaken. I appreciated Doyce’s qualities as a footballer, but—”
“You know something of his reputation with women?”
“Inspector, must we continue in this strain? I find it decidedly unpleasant.”
Kindilett was himself again. He came back to his chair, manner cool, eyes alert, watchful, the creases still deep round his eyes and at the sides of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Slade apologized, a little too easily. “But as controller of the team I took it that you could help me place the individuals in it—”
“Inspector,” said Kindilett, “what are you trying to get me to say? Out with it, please.”
Slade considered his man.
“Mind if I light my pipe?” he asked.
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
Slade lit his pipe, cradled the bowl in the fingers of his left hand. By the time he spoke he had carefully trimmed what he was about to say.
“You could tell me if anyone in the team had a grudge against Doyce.”
“You asked that same question of Raille this morning, if I am not mistaken.”
“I did. And I got the impression that Raille was withholding facts he could have told me. I realized his position, employed by the club. He could believe that a somewhat binding loyalty was expected of him.”
“Yet not of me?”
There was a faintly ironic smile on Kindilett’s face.
“I must get the truth somewhere, Mr Kindilett. You are the man to tell me. I believe Doyce was hated by some one in the team, some one who knew your daughter well—”
Slade hesitated. Kindilett, in the same ironic mood, was quick to point out what Slade had left unsaid.
“That could very well suggest me,” he said.
“You did not kill Doyce?”
It was a plain question, simply asked.
“Would you believe me,” countered Kindilett, “if I said no and circumstances conspired to make it seem that I lied?”
Slade acknowledged this riposte with a tight smile.
“That is a shrewd thrust. One it is not quite fair to expect me to answer.”
“I see.” Kindilett was openly mocking now. “Very well, I’ll give you a categorical answer to your own question, Inspector—no.”
Slade rose. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you rather longer than I had anticipated, Mr Kindilett. I’m sorry—”
“Please don’t apologize, Inspector. I understand your position, and it is one I do
not envy you. Now, a drink before you leave?”
Slade looked into the pale eyes with the hint of mockery still in their depths and revised his decision.
“Thank you,” he said.
Kindilett produced whisky and glasses. They drank solemnly, and Slade took his departure, feeling that perhaps he had not had altogether the best of the encounter.
He called back at the Yard, to leave the photograph and Press extracts, and found a surprise awaiting him in the persons of Philip Morring and Jill Howard. He glanced at his watch.
“I know it’s awfully late, Inspector,” said the girl, “but this is important.”
The detective glanced at Morring. The footballer’s dinner jacket fitted him perfectly, and he made a handsome companion for the girl, who was plainly responsible for the visit. It did not take a detective to deduce that they had been out somewhere and had been discussing the general situation, and the girl had persuaded Morring to call at the Yard without delay.
“Very well, let’s hear what it’s all about.”
They sat down in Slade’s office, and the tired detective tried afresh to bring an unblunted intelligence to the understanding of this new situation. This was the second time, he reflected, that Morring had voluntarily come forward.
“First of all,” said the girl, “I’m responsible for this late visit.”
The admission brought a smile to Slade’s face.
“I had suspected that, Miss Howard.”
The girl blushed, but went on, undaunted.
“Miss Laruce threatened to come to you and try to make things look black for Mr Morring—”
“Jill, I say,” Morring protested, shamefaced at this outright championing.
“Why should she do that?” asked Slade, keeping a straight face.
“Because—” The girl stopped, suddenly embarrassed under the detective’s frank scrutiny. “Phil, you’ll have to tell him—but tell him everything,” she added hurriedly.
Unhappily Morring took up his tale.
“I’m afraid Miss Laruce was not quite candid with you, Inspector—”
“When do you mean?” Slade inquired blandly, now enjoying himself. “Yesterday or when she called upon me to-day?”
The Arsenal Stadium Mystery Page 14
