John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

It reached Keller.

It also reached the dockside canteen where Isobel Crayne was working.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Parson With A Punch

By a quarter-past eight, there was room for neither man nor boy in Bill’s gymnasium. By half-past, there was a great exodus for Bill had made hurried arrangements with the management of a nearby indoor stadium for the fight to be staged there. When Rollison heard about that he telephoned Bill who hardly finished speaking before he was roaring to his men:

“Mr Ar says a bob a time. Charge ‘em a bob-a-time-money fer charity. See to it, a bob a time.”

The entrance fee made no difference to the crowd. The stadium could hold four thousand and was packed when Rollison and Kemp arrived. Kemp showed no sign of nerves but was anxious to slip in unobserved. Rollison promised that he would try to arrange it but, by a deliberate mistake, took the curate through the crowded hall. There were roars of interest, not so much of applause as of excited comment.

A sprinkling of women were present and in one corner, near the ring, were the Whitings and a body of people at whom Kemp stared in astonishment.

“Do you see that crowd near the Whitings, Rolly?”

“What about them?” asked Rollison.

“They’re from the church,” Kemp said, dazedly. “They—Great Scott, what’s brought them here?”

“You want some fans, don’t you?” asked Rollison.

Kemp shot him a sideways glance then forced his way through the narrow gangway towards the dressing-rooms. Bill Ebbutt was in his element, his right eye so swollen that it almost doubled the size of his face and his mouth was puffed out but grinning. “You oughta see the gate!” he chortled. “You oughta see it!”

“Are they charging?” asked Kemp, surprised.

“The money is for charity,” Rollison said, and added: “To be chosen by the winner—shall we make that a condition?”

“Can you lay down any laws?”

“I can try,” said Rollison.

The master of ceremonies, a tall, portly man who had hastily donned his tail-suit, entered the ring at ten minutes to nine and announced through the microphone that there was to be a ten-round contest between heavyweights, Billy the Bull and the Parson with a Punch. That new nickname brought down the house. All the profits from the engagement were to go to any charity named by the winner, continued the MC. There was another roar of approval.

The MC concluded after lauding Billy the Hull and doing his best for the unknown contender.

At five to nine, one of Bill’s men sought out Kollison who was in Kemp’s dressing-room.

“There’s a lady arstin’ for you, Mr Ar. She can’t git in, the stadium’s overcrowded already. If we ain’t careful the cops will be arstin’ what about it.”

“Did she give her name?” asked Rollison.

“Yus. Miss Crine.”

“Isobel!” exclaimed Rollison. He glanced at Kemp who was having his hands bandaged. The curate looked in fine condition,although he was puny compared With Billy the Bull. The other Bill had appointed seconds who were fussing round the curate as if he had been in their charge for years. Whiting had come to join them and his thin cheeks were flushed with excitement.

“All right, I’ll come,” said Rollison.

Isobel was standing at the head of a crowd at least two hundred strong, who were shouting to be admitted. Three policemen were on duty by the door, refusing to admit another spectator. On the fringes of the crowd a red-faced man smiled as he saw Rollison.

“Rolly, you can’t let this go on!” exclaimed Isobel.

“Oh, my dear,” said Rollison, smiling. “It’s Kemp’s biggest chance. He’ll never get another like it.”

“You’ve arranged it, haven’t you?”

“I did set the wheels in motion,” admitted Rollison.

She eyed him without smiling.

“It isn’t fair,” she said at last. “He can’t win!”

“Don’t take anything for granted,” advised Rollison. “But come in and see it yourself. You’ve seen a fight before.”

“Do you really think he stands a chance?”

“I don’t think it will be slaughter,” said Rollison. “Will you come?”

“Yes.” Isobel remained unsmiling although there was a brighter look in her eyes.

As Rollison was about to force his way past the turnstile, the man with the red face touched his arm. He looked round to see Inspector Chumley of the AZ Division, Metropolitan Police. Chumley was still smiling; he looked a genial man.

“One of your little games, Mr Rollison?”

“If you care to think so,” said Rollison.

“I want a word with you about O’Hara’s murder.”

“Come and see the fight,” said Rollison, “and talk to me about O’Hara afterwards.”

“All right,” said Chumley. “Be glad to.”

He followed as Rollison led Isobel into the stadium.

The crowd was on its feet, roaring as Billy the Bull stepped through the ropes. He was a colossal, impressive figure and, when stripped, he looked even more massive than he did when clothed. The bald-headed little man was hopping about at his side, squeaking advice.

Another roar, friendly if not enthusiastic, greeted the arrival of Kemp who looked a stripling beside the professional. The only time he showed any expression was when he caught sight of Rollison, Chumley and Isobel sitting on camp stools at the ringside. His gaze was rivetted on Isobel, who smiled then looked away.

“ ‘e ain’t gotta chance,” someone said, nearby.

“Won’t last a round,” said another.

“ ‘e don’t strip bad,” conceded a third, grudgingly.

“Has he done any boxing to speak of?” Chumley asked, leaning across Isobel.

“He says he’s done a bit at Oxford,” answered Rollison. “I’m told he was in the finals three years running but he struck good years.”

“He can’t compete with Billy,” Chumley said. “The man’s made of rock.”

Isobel looked at him sharply and then turned reproachfully to the Toff.

The fight started ten minutes late, to roars which echoed up and down the street and were taken up by the hundreds who could not gain admission. As they touched hands in the centre of the ring and Billy danced back, agile for a heavyweight and always surprising his opponents by his footwork, there was a tense, almost a stunned silence.

Kemp went in with a straight left which shook Billy and jabbed a right above the heart, stopping a rush. Kemp danced back and Billy seemed to stand still.

Rollison thought, it’s a pity that Kemp’s started off so well. Until then, Billy the Bull had been inclined to take the bout lightly but, although his smile remained, there was a wary expression in his eyes; the blows had made him realise that he must not be careless. Kemp knew the ring and did not take chances. He kept out of the way of those long arms, only taking two punches of any weight and riding them well. He got in a couple to the ribs, which stung but did no damage, and his footwork was good. He managed to keep the fight away from him without making it a dancing match, sparring rather than fighting but in no way pretentious.

When the gong went, the erstwhile silent crowd let forth; there was a new note in their voices. They knew that they were going to see a real fight, not to gloat over a massacre—for the majority had come to see the complete eclipse of the parson who thought he could punch. The most noticeable change was in the corner where Kemp’s friends were sitting. They were eager and almost elated; the whole party seemed to have been relieved of a great burden.

Rollison glanced at Isobel.

“Enjoying it?” he asked.

“You beast!” she said, half-laughing. “I half believe you were right!”