The Toff and the Deadly Priest (6 page)

Stupefaction reigned among the church workers, and astonishment showed on Billy the Bull's bovine countenance.

The silence was broken by a piping voice from behind Billy. A man who did not come up to his shoulder, and was thin, bald-headed and dressed in a dirty sweater with a polo collar in spite of the heat, pushed his way in to stand by Billy.

“I wouldn't let him git away wiv'
that,
Billy. I wouldn't let no one say he'd bash
my
face in!”

Billy the Bull licked his lips.

“Take that back!” There was menace in his manner.

“If you haven't the guts to admit that you helped to smash this place up, you're not worth wasting time on,” said Kemp. “If you did, I'll—”

“'It him, Billy!” urged the little man, indignantly.

“I don't fight hinfants,” declared Billy, scowling. “But I wouldn't mind knocking the grin orf yer face, parson. Talk, that's all you're good for. Standin' up in the poolpit an' shouting yer marf orf – that's all yer can do. ‘Please Gawd, make me an' all me flock good lickle boys an' gels,'” continued Billy, in a fair imitation of the worst type of clerical drawl. “Please Gawd—”

Kemp said quietly: “Don't say that again.”

Billy broke off, looking at the curate in surprise. Kemp had gone pale, and his fists were clenched.

It was the little man who broke the silence again, piping: “Strewth! Have yer gorn sorft, Billy?
‘It
‘im.”

“I don't like knockin' hinfants about,” repeated Billy. Something in Kemp's expression had stopped him, and he was obviously on edge. It was Rollison's cue, and he moved forward.

“You do a bit of boxing, Billy, don't you?”

“A bit!” squeaked the little man. “Why there ain't a man in London can stand a round against ‘im!”

“I can use me mits,” declared Billy the Bull, on safer ground. “But this apology fer a parson only shoots ‘is mouth orf, that's all. Cissy-boy!” he added. “You ought to be back ‘ome, wiv' yer muvver!”

“I'll fight you anywhere you like, under the Queensberry Rules,” Kemp said, tense-voiced.

“Coo, ‘ear that?” squeaked the little man, dancing up and down. ‘”E's ‘eard o' Lord Queensb'ry. Coo!

Ain't ‘e a proper little man! Why yer don't know wot fightin' is!”

“Don't be rash,” Rollison advised Kemp, looking now as if he wished he had not mentioned boxing. “Billy's an old campaigner.”

“I'll fight him anywhere he likes,” Kemp said again. “You mean that?” demanded the little man, coming forward and peering up into Kemp's face. “You mean that – no, o' corse yer don't! There's a ring not a hundred miles from ‘ere, I'll fix yer up a match ‘ere an' now, for tonight. Pound aside, one quid per man, but you don't mean it.”

“I'm not a—” began Kemp.

“The stakes to go to charity,” Rollison put in hastily. “Suits me,” said the little man, loftily. “I managed Billy the Bull all his life, I ain't above doin' a bit for charity.”

“Does
he mean it?” demanded Billy the Bull, incredulously. “Try to make them understand that I'm not afraid of his size, will you?” Kemp asked Rollison, earnestly.

Rollison nodded, and fixed the details quickly.

Billy the Bull and his companion stalked off, the sound of the little man's squeaky voice drifting back into the hall. The woman helper looked troubled, but the three men eyed Kemp with a new respect. Kemp himself seemed unperturbed. One by one, the others left the hall.

“Do you think. . .” Kemp began, when they had gone, and talked almost without stopping for twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, the grapevine of the East End, that remarkable information system rivalling the drums of Africa, began to work at high pressure. It played one refrain only.
“Kemp's fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt's – nine o'clock. Kemp's fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt's – nine o'clock.”

News reached many unexpected places. It amazed most who heard it, it alarmed the Whitings, it brought church members post haste to try to dissuade Kemp from going on with it – all to no purpose – it brought protests from the more influential church members; and it put Kemp's stock up to undreamed of heights, although he did not realise it.

It reached Keller.

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

 

 

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 M.C. There was another roar of approval. The M.C. concluded after lauding Billy the Bull, and doing his best for the unknown contender.

At five to nine, one of Bill's men sought out Rollison, 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 A.Z. 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.”

“Ml 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 riveted 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!”

The little man in Billy's corner was shrill and vociferous. Kemp's seconds, including Whiting, behaved as if they could not believe what they had seen, and they settled down to see their man through. Kemp glanced once towards Rollison's corner, and his gaze lingered on Isobel. Then the gong went, and he began to fight well, still keeping out of range of Billy's murderous left swing, which was the punch which had scored most of his knockouts. Kemp used his feet as if he were remembering the textbook all the time. The round was even.

The change in the temper of the crowd was even more noticeable. Chumley shot a shrewd glance at Rollison, and Isobel sat back as if enjoying herself.

Three rounds of hard fighting followed, with Billy doing most of the attacking but gaining no noticeable advantage, and certainly not gaining ascendancy. Watching closely, Rollison thought that Kemp was beginning to tire; there were red blotches on his fair skin. Billy the Bull showed only one or two, although Kemp had drawn blood first, by a slight cut on Billy's lips. At the start of the sixth round, Billy went in as if he meant to finish it off once and for all. In the first minute, it looked as though he would succeed. He brought out a pace which surprised Kemp, who backed swiftly but could not ride the punches. One of those famous lefts took him on the side of the jaw, and staggered him. The crowd jumped to its feet. How Kemp fended off the follow-up, Rollison did not know. He felt as excited as the others.

Kemp kept the knockout away, but towards the end of the round he was groggy. He staggered into his corner as the gong went.

“That's about it,” said Chumley. “But he's put up a damned good show, Rollison.”

“He can't lose now!” exclaimed Isobel.

Rollison smiled. “He's not quite finished,” he said. “If Billy can keep that up next round, though—” He shrugged and broke off.

Money was already changing hands, for dozens had wagered that the curate would not last halfway through the bout. The odds, although more even, were still on Billy, who remained smiling in his corner, but was breathing with greater deliberation. For the first time, Rollison thought that Kemp might possibly pull it off.

The gong went.

The crowd gasped, for Kemp moved from his corner with unexpected speed and landed two powerful punches on Billy's jaw. Before the man could hit back, he danced away, came in again and jabbed the professional with three straight lefts, each of which pushed Billy's head back. The crowd was on its feet again, Chumley had forgotten himself and was exclaiming: “You've got him! You've got him!”

Isobel stared, her eyes glistening and her hands clenched.

Kemp jabbed again, and the Bull concentrated on keeping away from that waspish left, but left himself open for a right swing; Kemp had not used one before; now, he flashed it round and landed with a crack! which sounded clearly through the hall. Billy staggered, lost his footing, and went down. Kemp backed away and stood with his hands down, unsmiling, but with an expression of contentment which showed his satisfaction.

“. . . six – seven,” intoned the referee.

On “eight,” Billy rose cautiously to his feet.

Had Kemp gone straight in, he might have finished him off, but Kemp waited just too long. What chance he had, was lost in Billy's determined covering-up, and Chumley shot a meaning glance at Rollison as the round ended.

Isobel said nothing.

“Give you six-ter-four on the parson,” muttered a little fellow behind them, one who had been shortening the odds for a long time. “Six-to-four on the parson!”

He hedged when he was taken up by a dozen eager backers of Billy the Bull, and was in the midst of a heated altercation when the gong rang. He sat down and snapped: “Watch the fight, can't yer?”

Rollison smiled, but felt a tenseness which surprised him. If Kemp could repeat his performance of the last round, he would yet beat the professional, but in a few seconds Rollison saw that Kemp had spent himself on his great effort. If Billy had been less wary, he might have made an end to it that round, but he waited until the ninth. A spark of energy came back to Kemp, but as he swung a right which connected too near the end of the swing, he left himself wide open. Billy sent in three killer punches right – left – right! Kemp's mouth sagged, he staggered and bent at the knees.

“Get ‘im, Billy!”

“You got ‘im, Billy!”

“Don't wait, you fool!”

Billy the Bull, still smiling, stood back from the curate, who tried to pull himself together. He managed to raise his hands, but then crumpled up. There was a tense moment of silence, followed by an uproar which drowned the referee's voice, but Rollison knew it was all over.

The referee turned to Billy the Bull to acclaim him the winner, but Billy stepped past him and went down on one knee beside the curate.

The crowd loved it.

Rollison looked at Isobel and saw a film of tears over her eyes. She fought against them and was smiling when Kem – sitting up in his corner with Billy standing over him and towels flapping – sent another glance towards her.

Rollison put a hand on Isobel's.

“It's all right,” he said, “Kemp's paid his entrance fee. Will you come to the dressing room with me?”

“No,” she said, hastily, “I must get back, I shouldn't have stayed so long.”

“I'll find you an escort,” Rollison said. Watching her go, he smiled thoughtfully. Then a man bumped against him and he looked round – to see Keller.

“You damned fool!” Keller growled. “I warned you.”

“What's that?” snapped Chumley.

As if he realised that he had made a mistake, Keller turned and was lost in the crowd. Chumley was about to follow him, but drew back.

“What did he say, Rollison? Did he threaten you?”

“It sounded like it,” said Rollison, perfunctorily.

“Who was it?”

Rollison hesitated.

“I know you like to go your own way, but there are times when you can't,” Chumley said. “If you know that man, and he's connected with Kemp's trouble, you must tell me his name.”

“Perhaps you're right,” said Rollison. “But not here – I'll come to the station in about an hour's time.”

“All right,” said Chumley.

Rollison went through the thinning crowd to the dressing rooms. Kemp was on a table, being pummelled enthusiastically by his seconds, with Whiting standing by and smiling widely. Ebbutt had successfully overcome the handicap of his swollen lips and was smiling as if the world had fallen into his lap, the bald-headed man who had been with Billy the Bull was here, there and everywhere.