The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

by Leonard Gribble

  Blank looks masked the faces of his two visitors.

  “I told you—” began the girl, only to stop again.

  But Slade’s intimation produced a subtle change in Morring. The footballer accepted the implication and took up its challenge.

  “I see. She has corrected a few wrong impressions she gave you on Sunday.”

  “Such was her intention, as she gave me to understand,” said Slade.

  “In that case,” Morring continued, “I can get straight to the point. I did quarrel with Doyce about my fiancée. I considered his conduct objectionable, and told him so—er—in no uncertain terms is the customary cliché, I believe.”

  “I take it you told him to be careful or next time he’d have more painful reason to regret his—um—interference?”

  The two men grinned, while the girl looked from one to the other, wide-eyed, unable to appreciate a humour that was essentially masculine.

  “I told him I’d knock his face in—or worse.”

  “What I meant,” nodded Slade. “And one can’t insure smashed faces.”

  “Film stars can,” Morring pointed out.

  Slade nodded again. “I was forgetting them. It must be the late hour. Is there anything else to tell me?”

  “Only that I would have kept my word had I known about Friday and—and the rest of it. But I didn’t know. On Sunday I broke off my engagement to Miss Laruce. We were engaged, despite any ‘impression’ you received at the flat. And now—er—I don’t think I’ll keep you any longer from your bed, Inspector. You must have had a long day, with the trip to Ryechester, and—”

  “But, Phil,” the girl protested, “you haven’t told the Inspector about calling at Mr Setchley’s laboratory, and—”

  She stopped. There was a grim look on Morring’s face.

  “I think he knows all about that, Jill,” he said quietly. “Anyway, we’re a bit late with that sort of explanation.”

  Slade looked from one to the other. He saw that this dark-haired girl was alive to any danger threatening the man, and keen to warn him, protect him if she could. It was not difficult for Slade to read into this the truth of the girl’s affection for Morring.

  “There is something you can help me about, I think,” said the detective, abruptly changing the subject. “I’ve been trying to get a line on Mary Kindilett’s fiancé. Can you help me, Morring?”

  Morring’s head shook.

  “No. I don’t know who he was.”

  “That’s what every one says.”

  Morring’s mouth twisted at one side.

  “They could be telling the truth,” he suggested.

  It was a point to him. Slade acknowledged this with a grin.

  “That’s the devil of it,” he admitted. Then with great casualness, “But wait a minute. There’s something else. You might still be able to help me. Take a look at this.”

  He showed Morring the photograph.

  “That’s Mary Kindilett?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the man at the end? The one in ordinary clothes. Recognize him?”

  There was a pause.

  “No,” said Morring, when his mind seemed made up.

  “You can’t place him?” Slade pressed.

  “No. I won’t say I haven’t seen him before. But four years ago, and I might have seen him only once—you know how it is.”

  Slade nodded heavily.

  “Yes, I know how it is,” he echoed, and his tone brought a flush to the footballer’s face.

  “What does this picture mean?” asked the girl, determined not to be left out of anything that affected Morring in the eyes of the police.

  “I don’t know, Jill—”

  “I’ll tell you, Miss Howard,” said Slade, turning to the girl. “Four years ago Mary Kindilett was found drowned. She had been engaged and she broke off the engagement suddenly, without explanation. The night before her body was discovered she went to a dance with John Doyce.”

  While he was speaking Slade watched Morring’s face. The footballer was frowning, but he did not reveal any deep emotion, as Slade had half hoped.

  “How terrible!” said the girl. “Then you think Mary Kindilett’s fiancé—whoever he is—”

  “He may have been dead for years,” said Morring flatly, interrupting her.

  “I don’t think so,” said Slade.

  That ended the interview. He got no more out of them, and they found him unprepared to talk about the morrow’s inquest.

  Shortly after they had gone Slade sought the comfort of his own bed. He did not sleep well.

  XIII

  Bait

  The well of the court was crowded for the inquest on John Doyce. The Press seats were full, and Slade, glancing round at the sea of faces, made out the Trojan and Arsenal teams, Patricia Laruce, some distance away Jill Howard, and in one corner of the court the spectacled face of the editor of the Ryechester Chronicle, Whittaker and Raille he saw there together, chatting in low tones. There was a good number of women present.

  He turned an eye to the jury, sitting there with contented looks on their faces. The foreman was constantly throwing a quick glance at George Allison, where the Arsenal manager sat with Francis Kindilett. Slade could well understand what was in the man’s mind. Here was a fine opportunity to probe into the affairs of the Arsenal Club, under the guise of asking pertinent questions.

  There were quite a few people in that court, Slade felt, who were going to be disappointed, including the foreman of the jury. The coroner, a bald-headed ex-Army surgeon who knew how to handle recalcitrant jurymen, came in and took his seat, and proceedings started. The formalities were quickly run through. The jury filed out and viewed the body. Francis Kindilett officially identified the corpse, and Dr Meadows came forward and gave his evidence.

  Morring was called, and said a brief piece. The foreman of the jury was ready to prolong Morring’s ordeal, but the coroner dealt drastically with him. Morring left his seat.

  As he did so Clinton, timing his interruption with clockwork precision, pushed forward and placed a piece of paper in front of the coroner, who put on his glasses and read it carefully through, as though he had not already been told on the ’phone what it was about and what was expected of him.

  The court fidgeted. The foreman of the jury—a butcher in ordinary life—resentful of the treatment meted out by the coroner, gave vocal effect to his resentment by a series of rasping coughs which resounded throughout the court.

  The coroner went on reading.

  Finally he looked up and said, “Ah!”

  Every one sat forward, expecting a dramatic development.

  “I have just had notice from the police,” said the coroner. “I understand that they have very recently come by an important piece of evidence which will enable them to secure—” He hesitated, waved a hand. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go into all that. The point is this.”

  He paused, and the fidgeting recommenced.

  “The point is,” he went on, “that I have a special request from the police for this inquest to be adjourned in the public interest.”

  The foreman was on his feet, his fleshy face mottled with indignation.

  “But—but—” he got out, with seeming difficulty.

  “This court will most certainly accede to this official request. The inquest on John Doyce is adjourned for a fortnight.”

  The coroner’s gavel came down. Chairs creaked, people got up. A hubbub of talk broke out. Slade, catching Clinton’s eye, motioned towards the exit. The two Yard men met.

  “Nicely timed,” Slade approved. “Get Raille. The papers will be sure to seize on the fact that Morring was the last one allowed to speak.”

  Clinton nodded, drifted away. He came back with the Trojan trainer in tow.

  “You wanted me, Inspector?”
asked the trainer.

  “Can you spare a few minutes to come along to the Yard, Raille?”

  “Why, certainly. As a matter of fact, there’s no training to-day at the Arsenal Stadium. It was expected that the inquest would last—”

  His spread hands might have been suggesting any time up to a full week.

  “Think we surprised them all?”

  Slade sounded friendly.

  “Yes, I think so. Finding a clue—I mean—”

  “Oh, we’ve dug up a few things,” said Slade. “That’s the reason why I want you to come along to the Yard.”

  They spoke about trivialities until they were in Slade’s office, half an hour later. Clinton got down to a pile of papers piled up on his desk. He gave no sign that his ears were working harder than his eyes. Slade produced the Ryechester photograph.

  “You’ve seen this morning’s papers, I take it, Raille?”

  “Yes, a couple of them.”

  “Then you know about my trip down to Ryechester?”

  “Yes.”

  “You feel very loyal towards Kindilett?”

  Raille considered the question before replying.

  “We’ve discussed this before, I think, Inspector.”

  “True, we have. But I’ve another reason for asking now. I want to get to the bottom of what happened in Ryechester four years ago. You know to what I refer?”

  Raille inclined his head. His eyes were blank.

  “It isn’t a subject—” he began.

  Slade waved an arm.

  “I know. That’s the tale I get from all of you who were associated with Kindilett and the Saxon Rovers. The subject is painful. So nobody will talk. That helps me a lot.”

  He sounded sarcastic.

  “It’s understandable,” Raille murmured.

  “That doesn’t concern me. I want you, Raille, to tell me the truth of what happened. Here—look at this paper—the Ryechester Chronicle. There’s the same trouble that I’m suffering from now, lack of personal evidence. The coroner at that inquest had something to say about it. I’m not in a position to complain. All I can do is make an appeal. And I do—to you. You’re the Trojan trainer. You’re in a position to help me. You want Doyce’s murderer found, don’t you?”

  Clinton, sitting with his hands full of loose sheets of paper, first wondered if his chief was suffering from a heat wave he himself had not noticed, then arrived at the conclusion that Slade must be playing a part. The sergeant listened even more attentively. Slade, he realized, was trying to work on the other’s emotions.

  “You do?” persisted the detective, as Raille remained silent.

  “I want the team—cleared. But—”

  “That’s what I meant,” put in Slade quickly. “Kindilett’s got you all so keen on the team spirit that none of you can think of anything else. You’re every one of you just a member of a team. A digit, as it were, in a larger number. You’ve lost your individuality—”

  “Perhaps you don’t understand, Inspector, just what the Trojans signify?” said Raille mildly.

  Slade looked up.

  “Perhaps I don’t. But are you going to help me, Raille? I want some one to be candid. I think you’re the one to open up, in the interest of your club—in your own interest.”

  Raille smiled.

  “That’s a queer way of putting it,” he said.

  “It’s what it comes down to in the end,” Slade asseverated.

  The trainer sat back in a chair that was not very comfortable however one sat in it.

  “All right, I’ll try to help you, Inspector.”

  Slade brightened.

  “Good! That’s what I wanted to hear from you. I’ll be candid, we have practically solved the case—”

  Raille jerked upright again.

  “You have! Then why ask me—”

  “Now don’t get excited,” Slade soothed. “Solving a case is one thing. Proving is another. I’ve got to go another way to work to prove what I’ve solved. But I don’t want to bother you with routine—”

  “On the contrary, Inspector, it’s no bother.”

  “Never mind, I’m not taking advantage of your willingness to help me in the final stages, Raille,” said Slade warmly.

  Clinton burrowed his face deeper into the papers, to hide a grin. Slade had cleverly worked the man into the position where he wanted him, where he could use him as an easy target at which he could direct his questions. Raille seemed to realize that he had been out-manœuvred. He sat back again, a slight frown on his face.

  “Now, do you know who was engaged to Kindilett’s daughter?” Slade began.

  “I—”

  “No denials,” Slade said quickly. “What you know, man. I want to get somewhere.”

  Raille changed his words.

  “Mary Kindilett, I believe, was engaged to a footballer. I can’t tell you his name.”

  “Well, that’s an advance, anyway,” Slade admitted. “Is it true, do you think, that Kindilett himself doesn’t know her fiancé’s name?”

  “Quite likely.”

  “You yourself knew Mary Kindilett well?”

  “I knew her of course. But I was not in the Saxon Rovers proper. I was—”

  “I know. In the Saxon Amateurs, a sort of nursery club.”

  “You’ve certainly got your information complete from one angle, Inspector.”

  “But because you weren’t in the Rovers,” Slade went on, “it seems to me you might have noticed more than a man in the Rovers—say, Setchley.”

  Raille half smiled.

  “I can’t say about that, Inspector. At the time you speak of I was thinking of getting married myself. You see, I wasn’t a whole-time footballer—not even as much as a player in the Rovers. I was training to be a dentist. I—well, I found it wanted money, and—er—other things, which I hadn’t got.”

  “Thanks,” said Slade. “I wasn’t meaning to pry into your own private life, Raille—”

  “That’s all right, Inspector. It’s in the past. I’m no longer sensitive. Thanks to Kindilett.”

  “He’s been pretty good to you?”

  “In various ways.”

  “He loved his daughter?”

  “He was devoted to her.”

  “You think he would carry a hate with him for a long time?”

  “He is a man of tireless patience, Inspector,” said the trainer, picking his words with great care. “But I don’t think I can answer your question. I don’t know. I haven’t known Francis Kindilett hate anyone.”

  Slade tried a fresh tack.

  “Did he think Doyce morally responsible for his daughter’s death? Can you tell me that?”

  Raille shook his head.

  “No, that’s a question I am utterly unable to answer. But if you want my personal opinion—”

  “Yes?”

  “Then I should say no—emphatically.”

  “I see.”

  Raille glanced at Slade meaningly.

  “I hope you do, Inspector. I will be frank. I think Kindilett utterly incapable of being the murderer of John Doyce.”

  Slade sat back.

  “Well, that takes us some way along the road, Raille. I must admit that. We know where we’re getting, and thanks a lot for clearing ground so rapidly. Let’s take Morring, now.”

  Raille protested.

  “You’re not going through the entire team, man by man?”

  “No. I don’t have to.”

  “You don’t—”

  Raille sounded surprised.

  “That’s what I said—I don’t have to. But Morring—you knew he was engaged?”

  “I’d heard about it.”

  “You knew the girl?”

  “I’d heard of her. Name of Patricia Laruce.
”

  “You told me you called at Doyce’s on Friday night, and you saw no visitor there.”

  “That is quite correct.”

  “No hat or coat lying about?”

  “No. Are you suggesting I should have seen—some one?”

  “I’m suggesting some one was taking good care not to be observed by you.”

  Raille screwed his face up in an expression of distaste.

  “You don’t mean—Patricia Laruce?”

  “No one else. Now, Raille, do you know of anything that would point to enmity between Morring and his partner?”

  Raille shook his head again.

  “Nothing. I saw that they were cool to each other. I believe on Saturday Morring said something to Doyce, to which the other muttered some words I did not catch. But these are at best only impressions. I don’t know of anything between them.”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you that they had already quarrelled over the girl and Morring had threatened his partner?”

  “No, that wouldn’t surprise me. For a long time I had an idea of the type Doyce was.”

  “You knew him for some time?”

  “Quite a few years. But I told you this yesterday.”

  “I know,” said Slade. “I’m just getting impressions right in my own mind. Now, please cast your mind back to your conversation with Doyce on Friday night. Was anything said that might suggest he was worried about anything—anyone?”

  Raille thought back.

  “Can’t say I remember rightly. I went there to run the rule over him lightly. I wanted him in shape. I didn’t want him tiring quickly the next day because he had spent too long up the night before. You’ve heard the others’ opinion of him. Pretty sure of himself, over-confident. You couldn’t tell him much. Had to handle him with tact.”

  “Just what sort of tact did you use?”

  “Oh, played up to his vanity. Said the team expected his best display from him. He took it all in, even showed me his book of Press cuttings. I stayed long enough to find out there was nothing to worry about, then left.”

  “You were in the sitting-room of the flat?”

  “Yes, the whole time.”