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!”
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.