“How about the rest of the poison—” Allison began, when the ’phone rang stridently.
He unhooked it.
“Hallo. Yes? Oh. For you, Inspector.”
Slade moved round the desk and took the receiver.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Clinton,” said a voice he recognized. “I’ve got some news.”
The sergeant’s excited tones crackled in the receiver, so that Slade had to hold it farther from his ear. But the sergeant could be forgiven his excitement. He really had news.
Slade put down the receiver, and turned to Kindilett.
“That story won’t be told in court, Mr Kindilett,” he said.
Kindilett started.
“I—What, Inspector? Won’t be told? But you said—”
Slade shook his head.
“I’m afraid George Raille himself won’t be appearing in court,” he added. “He’s dead. And there is a fresh pin-prick in his right wrist.”
“Good God!” Allison exclaimed.
Kindilett stood very still. Slade watched him.
“So he meant it. He meant it,” he repeated to himself. “That was the last thing he could do for her.”
There was a great wonder in his voice.
Slade turned to the Arsenal manager. “There is no more mystery, Mr Allison, and I think your last question is answered—at least, in part.”
Allison nodded.
“Yes, I agree, Inspector,” he said. He glanced inquiringly at the Yard man, who nodded.
They went out of the room, leaving Kindilett staring out of the window and seeing nothing, a grey-haired man alone with his thoughts.
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The Arsenal Stadium Mystery Page 22
