“Well, well!” exclaimed Rollison, “so Ronald Kemp has a way with him!”
“You know about it?” asked Isobel, incredulously.
“I’ve heard about it,” said Rollison. “And you can set your mind at rest. If the great Richard R can turn the scales, the scales are in the process of being turned. How did Kemp win you to his side?”
“He doesn’t even know my name,” Isobel told him. “I heard him preach in Mayfair some time ago and he came to the depot the other day, to see if we had a few odds and ends that he needed for a rummage sale. Have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“No one should have allowed him to go down there,” declared Isobel. “He’s hopelessly out of place. I felt sorry for him the moment I saw him and in the last day or two I’ve heard rumours that he’s being persecuted. But you probably know all about that?”
“A lot about it,” said Rollison.
“Then I needn’t worry any more.”
“I call that praise indeed,” smiled Rollison. “I say, my sweet,” he went on anxiously, “you haven’t been campaigning on Kemp’s behalf, have you? I know that crusading heart of yours might have tempted you.”
“I’ve learned not to interfere with anything that happens, unless it’s right under my nose,” said Isobel. “The East Enders take me on sufferance as it is but if I started to throw my weight about, they’d boycott me. I just felt terribly sorry for Kemp.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy,” advised Rollison. “He is either just the man for the district and is getting the corners smoothed off, or else he’s a misfit and he’ll find that out soon enough.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Isobel, looking at him curiously. “You’re much deeper than I realise, sometimes.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison, wryly. “Now—I hate throwing advice about but don’t line yourself up with Kemp just yet on any account. I don’t mean that you mustn’t be sympathetic if he should come and pour out his troubles, which isn’t likely, but don’t let yourself be persuaded to take an active interest in the affairs of the parish.”
Isobel’s eyes were calm.
“So it’s dangerous?” she observed.
“It might be.”
“Look after him,” pleaded Isobel. “He’s only a child.”
When she left, Rollison watched her tall graceful figure as she walked towards Piccadilly. She was about Kemp’s age and her: “He’s only a child,” echoed ironically in his ears.
He left the flat ten minutes later.
One pressing need was to see Bill Ebbutt, to find out what Bill knew of Keller and why he had been so silent on the telephone. It was a little after half-past six and he hoped to finish with Bill and spend half an hour with Kemp before getting back for a late dinner and, he hoped, Jolly’s report.
He went by tube, got out at Whitechapel Station and walked along Whitechapel Road. Bill’s pub, the Blue Dog, was on a corner. Behind it was a large, corrugated iron shed which served as the gymnasium. The pub was closed but the gymnasium doors were open. Rollison bunched his fists, thinking that it would do him good to spend half an hour sparring with one of the younger men, or else on the medicine ball, but he quickly cast all thought of such frivolities out of his mind.
Near the door, he was aware of loud noises.
His smile broadened; it sounded as if half a dozen of Bill’s “lads’ were having a set-to at one and the same time, probably a free-for-all show which Bill had introduced at the urgent request of youths who were looking forward to joining the Commandos and wanted to be able to teach the Army its job.
As he reached the door, a man somersaulted backwards into the street and not of his own accord. He fell heavily but picked himself up and scuttled away, towards the docks. He was thoroughly frightened—a little, wizened man who did not look like one of Bill’s faithfuls.
Rollison pushed aside a tarpaulin which was used for blackout and stepped inside. A man fell against him but recovered quickly and his fist cracked into the face of a grizzled veteran of the ring whose head went back but whose right arm shot out to land a punch which rattled his opponent’s teeth. Everywhere, there was the wildest of free-for-alls. A dozen individual bouts were in progress, the battering of fists on faces and bodies and the harsh breathing of the fighters filled the big room; but no one was wearing gloves and at least two men were using knuckle-dusters.
In the centre of the room, on the floor with two men kneeling on him and battering his face and head, was Bill Ebbutt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Round To Club Members
Rollison moved forward but had to side-step two couples engaged in furious battle and, as he passed a man whose right fist wore the ugly, spiked knuckle-duster characteristic of the East End mobsman, he clouted him on the side of the head. The fellow’s opponent, a much older man whose right cheek was opened and bleeding, did not appear to see Rollison but went in furiously with both fists.
Rollison tried to reach Bill who was fighting back fiercely. They were using coshes on him but he was avoiding many of the blows.
A little, thin-faced fellow stood up from a man who was gasping on the ground, saw Rollison and jumped at him. Rollison shot out his foot and sent the man reeling backwards. His victim banged into one of Bill’s men who tore into him. Next moment, Rollison was hauling one assailant off Bill, using his elbow against a bony chin. The other man was smashing at Bill’s head and Rollison gripped him about the waist and hauled him into the air. He put his knee into the small of his back and shot him forward; he hit the ground and lay still.
Bruised but not bloody, Bill blinked up.
“Gaw blimey O’Reilly!” he gasped. “Ta—Mr Ar! Look aht!”
Rollison turned to see a man coming towards him brandishing a knife. He used his foot again and toppled the man over. The fighting was savage and desperate with the members of the club heavily outnumbered. Since none of them had weapons—except two who were swinging Indian clubs—the odds were against them. Rollison rushed across to the wall, picked up two more Indian clubs and began to swing them. The odds were still heavy but suddenly there was a clatter of footsteps outside and half a dozen men burst in, three of them in khaki. They were reinforcements for the “club” and they weighed in with a violence which altered the whole course of the struggle.
Realising that their chance had gone, the assailants escaped as and when they could, running the gauntlet towards the door. A massive veteran stood by it and clouted each man as he dodged out.
Rollison put down his clubs, smoothed his hair and went over to Bill Ebbutt who was now standing in the middle of the room and directing operations like a guerrilla leader. He said nothing until only three of the attacking party remained, all unconscious.
“I could do with a pint, I could,” Ebbutt declared, looking at Rollison with one eye closed up and already swelling to huge proportions. “You come just at the right time, Mr Ar. You know ‘ow to work it, donclia.”
Must luck,” said Rollison. “I’d no idea what was happening.”
“I noo it was bound to come,” said Ebbutt, philosophically. He was a large man, running to fat but still very powerful. His features were rugged and battered, for he had spent thirty years in the ring, but his ears were curiously small and well-shaped; it was his dictum that a boxer who allowed himself to get cauliflower ears should take up stone-breaking. “Ho, yes, I noo,” he went on, trying to grin although his mouth was nearly as swollen as his eyes and he uttered the words with great difficulty. “Charlie!”
“Callin’ me?” demanded a little man with enormously wide shoulders.
“Who’d yer think I’m callin’?” growled Ebbutt. “Fetch some beer and glasses, mate, an’ be quick about it. An’ fetch me a coupla pound o’ beefsteak!” he added. “Strewth, Mr Ar, wartime’s a bad time to get a black eye, ain’t it? I don’t know wot my missus will say when she sees me.” He made a brave attempt to wink. “I’d better tell ‘er it was your fault, that’ll keep ‘er quiet!”