Free The Toff and the Deadly Priest by John Creasey Page A

Rollison advised Kemp, looking now as if he wished he had not mentioned boxing. “Billy’s an old campaigner.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI’m not a—” began Kemp.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œDoes 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.
    â€œDo 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.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
The Parson With A Punch
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    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.
    â€œDo you see that crowd near the Whitings, Rolly?”
    â€œWhat about them?” asked Rollison.
    â€œThey’re from the church,” Kemp said, dazedly. “They – Great Scott, what’s brought them here?”
    â€œYou 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!”
    â€œAre they charging?” asked