by John Creasey
“Not yet, thanks,” said Rollison. “Don’t you know anything about Keller’s game?”
“I only knows that he’s got a mob and is runnin’ a racket,” declared Bill. “I dunno what the racket is. Tell yer somefing, Mr. Ar.”
Rollison waited.
“Tell yer somefing wot will surprise yer,” declared Ebbutt. “’E’s ‘ad a go at arf-a-dozen other swine. Blokes I wouldn’t-a’ minded bashin’ meself. Mr. Ar, that’s a fact. No business o’ mine, then, seein’ as he was goin’ fer swine. But some of the things ‘e did to them – it would make yer scalp crawl, Mr. Ar. It would reely. There was one fella – Tiny Blow, you know Tiny Blow? ‘E was inside fer lootin’.” Rollison nodded. “Well, Tiny come out about four munce ago,” went on Ebbutt. ‘”E started thro win’s weight about. Keller hadn’t started, it was the first time I ‘eard of ‘im. I did hear that Tiny started a fight in the Docker, and waited fer Lucy – been at the Docker ten yers, Lucy has.” Ebbutt sniffed. “Don’t know that I think much of her, but Tiny didn’t ought to ‘ave waited for ‘er. Bad thing for ‘im he did, because four of Keller’s mob was waiting for him. He’s still in the ‘orspital. If it ‘ad been anyone else but Tiny, I woulda’ bin sorry for ’im.”
“And the other cases have been as bad?”
“More or less,” assented Ebbutt. “Except that I thought he was goin’ too far when he started on this parson bloke, Kemp.” Ebbutt sniffed again. “I got nothin’ against Kemp, but he oughta know that he didn’t oughta come down to a place like this. He’s a torf. Don’t take me wrong, Mr. Ar!” exclaimed Ebbutt, hurriedly. “I never meant nothin’ personal!”
“No offence taken, Bill!”
“Then that’s all right,” went on Ebbutt, but elaborated the point. “I wouldn’t like yer ter think I was bein’ personal; there are torfs an’ torfs.” On the first utterance, he managed to give the word an astonishingly contemptuous ring; on the second, one of unveiled admiration. “Well, there you are! When you ask me to lend a ‘and, I was only too ‘appy, Mr. Ar. Funny thing,” he added, reflectively, “I wouldn’t ‘ave expected Kemp to come to you, ‘e looks the kind to run to the dicks.”
“What do you know about Joe Craik?” asked Rollison.
Ebbutt finished his beer, summoned Charlie and demanded a refill, wiped his lips gingerly, and then turned his one open eye on Rollison.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Ar. There’s persons an’ persons. Goin’ to church never did no one any ‘arm wot I can see, except it made hypocrites aht’ve some o’ them. But I’ve ‘ad some good boys, very good boys, from the church clubs, scouts an’ boys’ brigades an’ things. I don’t hold wiv goin’ to church meself, though I don’t mind a good Army meeting sometimes; they’ve got a bit of go, the Army. If it wasn’t for them always ‘alley uya4ng an’ arskin’ you to confess yer sins up in front’ve everyone, I wouldn’t mind the Army. My own missus wears the uniform,” he added, somewhat shamefacedly.
“She’s got to keep you in line somehow,” said Rollison, lightly.
Ebbutt grinned, then winced.
“Doan ‘arf sting,” he complained, absently. “Yes, I agree, Mr. Ar. She has somefink ter put up wiv’, but wot I was saying is, I’m not perjudiced against churches an’ things. Some persons is sincere, some isn’t, and I ‘aven’t got no time for them that isn’t. But I never bin able to make up me mind about Craik.”
Sooner or later, Bill always got to the point.
‘”E’s gotta good business,” he declared, “and he gives his customers fair doos. Ain’t never ‘eard that he’s in the market, ‘e don’t seem ter touch undercover stuff. But between you an’ me, Mr. Ar, I don’t like his face!”
Rollison grinned.
“It ain’t because it’s ugly,” Bill assured him, solemnly, ‘”E’s got a face as good as the next man, but I just never took to it. Thassall I got against Craik. My missus thinks he’s okay.”
“I haven’t seen him yet,” said Rollison. “I’ll tell you what I think about his face when I’ve had a look at it! You know nothing else?”
“Ain’t that enough, Mr. Ar?”
“No. I want to find out what Keller is up to.”
Ebbutt deliberated, and then opined that, just as Keller’s mob had beaten up ‘swine’, there was evidence that Keller was putting into effect a widespread but often undeclared antagonism to Ronald Kemp. It was a case of oil and water, Ebbutt declared.
“Does Billy the Bull still come in here?” Rollison asked.
“Every night, faithful. ‘E’ll be ‘ere soon. On the docks, ‘e is. Maybe ‘e is past ‘is prime,” continued the ex-fighter, a little regretfully, “but there still ain’t a dozen men in England could stand five rounds against Billy the Bull. Why’d you want to know?”
Rollison lowered his voice. At intervals during the next five minutes, Ebbutt emitted squeaks of delight and finally managed to part his lips in a smile which showed his discoloured teeth.
Soon afterwards, Rollison left the gymnasium.
He walked to the mission hall, going out of his way to pass 49, Little Lane – named after a benefactor, not because it was any different from a thousand other long, drab, featureless streets in the East End. Front doors were open, women and old men were talking, children were playing on the cobbles, and dirt abounded; but some of the tiny windows looked spotlessly clean and some of the women were as well-dressed as they knew how to be. In spite of every disadvantage, there was an air of prosperity about Little Lane. It revealed itself in new boots on many of the children, in the fact that most of the people were smoking, in the gay splashes of lipstick and rouge on faces which had not known them for years.
A dozen friendly people called out to Rollison, others smiled and nodded, and as he went out of earshot there was much earnest chattering. Outside Number 49 were two of Bill’s stalwarts. He was glad to see them on duty.
Kemp was in the mission hall with three other men and a woman.
The place was fairly ship-shape again. Only a dozen chairs out of two hundred were undamaged, but the men were hammering and knocking them into shape. The walls had been cleaned, but they still bore traces of the paint. The warning remained at the back of the stage – a good touch, thought Rollison. He asked Kemp why he hadn’t removed or covered it.
The curate, dressed in old flannels and an open-necked shirt, which made him look more boyish than ever, grinned widely.
“I’ll take it down when it’s no longer true.”
“Happy thought,” said Rollison. “How are things?”
“There’s nothing fresh to report,” said Kemp. “I told you all about Keller’s offer. I’m a bit worried about that,” he added, frowning. “We could use £500 – I mean, the Relief Fund could. I have wondered whether I ought to resign, and let—”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Rollison. “You can raise the money if you put your mind to it.”
“I suppose I can,” said Kemp, rather lugubriously. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t leave just now for a fortune. I’m beginning to enjoy myself.”
“Yer don’t know what injoyment means,” said a man from the door, in a loud voice.
All six people turned abruptly, to see a giant standing in the doorway, almost filling it. His shoulders were enormous and his chest deep and powerful, and he held his knuckly hands in front of him. He was remarkably ugly, and the most astonishing thing about him was the likeness of his face to a cow’s. His forehead, although broad, receded. He seemed to have no chin, and his lips were very full and wide.
“I don’t think you were invited,” said Kemp, after a pregnant pause.
“You don’t, doncher? ‘Hi don’t think you was hinvited!” mimicked Billy the Bull, with a vast grin – and a shrill burst of laughter came from behind him, the first indication that he was not alone. “Why’n’t yer go ’ome, Kemp?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Kemp advanced towards the man. Rollison and the others watched – Rollison was inwardly smiling, and the three men and the woman obviously anxious.
“I don’t know who you are,” Kemp said, clearly, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if you know who wrecked the hall. Do you?”
“Supposin’ I do?” growled Billy the Bull.
“If I thought you did it,” said Kemp, softly, “I’d smash your silly face in!”
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.
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 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.
