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

Kemp, surprised.
    â€œThe money is for charity,” Rollison said, and added: “To be chosen by the winner – shall we make that a condition?”
    â€œCan you lay down any laws?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThere’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.”
    â€œDid she give her name?” asked Rollison.
    â€œYus. Miss Crine.”
    â€œIsobel!” 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.
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œRolly, you can’t let this go on!” exclaimed Isobel.
    â€œOh, my dear,” said Rollison, smiling. “It’s Kemp’s biggest chance. He’ll never get another like it.”
    â€œYou’ve arranged it, haven’t you?”
    â€œI did set the wheels in motion,” admitted Rollison.
    She eyed him without smiling.
    â€œIt isn’t fair,” she said at last. “He can’t win!”
    â€œDon’t take anything for granted,” advised Rollison. “But come in and see it yourself. You’ve seen a fight before.”
    â€œDo you really think he stands a chance?”
    â€œI don’t think it will be slaughter,” said Rollison. “Will you come?”
    â€œYes.” 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.
    â€œOne of your little games, Mr. Rollison?”
    â€œIf you care to think so,” said Rollison.
    â€œI want a word with you, about O’Hara’s murder.”
    â€œCome and see the fight,” said Rollison, “and talk to me about O’Hara afterwards.”
    â€œMl 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 riveted on Isobel, who smiled, then looked away.
    â€˜â€E ain’t gotta chance,” someone said, nearby.
    â€œWon’t