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
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
“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.”
“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.