The Toff And The Curate - John Creasey

“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!”

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 knock-outs. Kemp used his feet as if he were remembering the text book 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 knock-out 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 anil her hands clenched.

Kemp jabbed again and the Hull concentrated on keeping away from thai 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 Kemp, sitting up in his corner with Billy standing over him and towels flapping, seht 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.

Kemp looked at Rollison.

“You’ll do,” he said drily.

We’ll do!” said Rollison.

“What abaht the gite?” demanded the bald-headed man, shrilly. “What abaht it, Billy-boy; Two hundred and forty-nine pounds eight an’ thruppence, I dunno ‘ow the thruppence come in, must’a been a miscount. That’s less tax. Wot about it, Billyboy? Goes to charity, don’t it? Charity begins at home, don’t it?” He grinned, expectantly.

Billy the Bull came in with his gay dressing-gown tight about him.

“Shut your silly marf, Tike,” Billy said, stepping to Kemp’s side. “I decided what to do with the gite. That’s if Mr Kemp won’t mind assepting it.”

Kemp eyed him in surprise.

“It must go to charity,” he said. “That was a condition, wasn’t it?”

“S’right,” said Billy. “You’ve got a relief fund down at St Guys, ain’t-cher? And you’ve “ad a lot o’ espense lately’—Billy the Bull grew tongue-tied’ and the others fell silent. “Just seed the management, I ‘ave,” he went on at last. “They’ve agreed that they doan want no espenses fer ter-night, so it’s all going to charity. Will yer assept it for the church, Mr Kemp?”

Kemp slid from the table and held out his hand.

“I will, Billy. It isn’t easy to say thanks.” His one open eye was smiling and he seemed to have become much more mature in the past few hours. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I once thought you knew something about the damage to the hall. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t menchon it,” said Billy, bluffly. “Only my little joke, I—” he caught Rollison’s eye and went on hastily: “I just fought I’d pull your leg, that was all. Never guessed you packed a punch like that. All okey-doke, then?”

“All okey-doke,” affirmed Kemp.

“Gawd save the King!” gasped the bald-headed man. “Who’d ‘a believed it?”

*     *     *

Rollison left the big hall just after eleven o’clock. It was not quite dark. Two of Ebbutt’s men were standing outside, taking no chances. Kemp had been put to bed with a cold compress over a swollen eye. He had said nothing about Rollison’s part in fixing the contest but obviously he knew.

Rollison smiled, as he remembered the curate’s last words. “I suppose you are going to do something about Joe Craik, Rolly—or is this reputation of yours just wool over the eyes?”

“I’ll try to see him tonight,” Rollison had promised.

He was not followed from the hall but was wary as he walked to the main road and then to the headquarters of AZ Division. He had telephoned the flat but Jolly had not returned and his curiosity about his man’s activities was at fever heat. He showed no sign of that when, at half-past eleven, he was ushered in to Chumley’s office. The Inspector looked relieved to see him.

“I was afraid you were going to play one of your tricks, Rollison. Sit down—and have a cigarette? If you’d like a drink—”

“No thanks,” said Rollison. “Tricks?” He looked aggrieved. “Now would I ever try to put anything across a policeman?”

Chumley chuckled.

“As a matter of fact, I think you would! What do you know about O’Hara’s murder?”

“I thought you were sure it was Craik,” said Rollison.

“We thought we had him, all right,” said Chumley, looking owlish, “but I’m afraid we made a mistake, Rollison. He’s been released.”

CHAPTER NINE

THE RELEASE OF JOE CRAIK

“Why did you let him go?” asked Rollison.

“Lack of evidence,” said Chumley.

“I thought his knife was used.”

“It was—but it had been stolen. We caught the man who stole it,” Chumley added. “We heard a whisper and went to see him. He denied it but broke down under questioning. He told us that you had been talking to him— in fact, even allowing for exaggeration, what he said you said is enough to make us reprimand you!”

Rollison sat on the corner of the inspector’s desk and lit a cigarette.

“Spike Adams or Harris?” he asked.

“Harris.”

“And he admits having picked Craik’s pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well! He wasn’t at the scene of the murder, was he?”

“No,” said Chumley, regretfully. “We can’t get him for that. He tells a fantastic story of being told that someone else owned the knife, which Craik had stolen—I don’t believe a word of it but I’ve got to believe the confession and, without evidence that Craik used the knife,