Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  “Nothink like a nice clean scrap, there ain’t,” one of the men was saying. “Mind you, it’s boxin’ I wants to see. None o’ these sluggin’ heavyweights what moves around each other like a couple of elephants and ties theirselves up in clinches all the time.”

  The man next to him nodded heavily.

  “I agree,” he said. “Give me the quick and clever ones. Boys with science and skill.”

  “Like this one ’ere,” the first man gestured with his pipe towards the ring, where in the corner nearest them two seconds were ministering to a young boxer.

  One of the white-sweatered men was grizzle-haired, but this seemed to be the only evidence that he was past middle age, for he was slim and as active looking as the youngster he was attending and to whom he bore a strong resemblance.

  “That person is William Royston,” Doctor Morelle informed Miss Frayle. “The younger man will be his son. Rather an exceptionally finely developed youth, do you not agree?”

  “He looks awfully strong,” she nodded. She saw the young man smiling across to some friends. “He’s good-looking, too. I hope he doesn’t get hurt.”

  The Doctor again switched his attention from Miss Frayle’s verbal commonplaces to his neighbours’ more colourful comments.

  “Yes, he’s a smart kid, all right,” one of them said. “A case of like father like son—though, of course, he’s a long way off what the old man was in his prime.”

  “Only just twenty the boy is, y’know,” the other was saying. “His dad’s bringin’ him along slow and easy-like. Got great ’opes in ’im, ’is dad ’as.”

  “He certainly has the makings of a champ,” observed the other. “And he couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “No more ’e couldn’t, and that’s a fact.” The first man agreed. He glanced sharply at Doctor Morelle, and whispered loud enough for him to hear, “’Ere, I say oo’s this nosey geezer ’oo keeps staring at us? Is ’e a friend o’ yourn?”

  The second man glanced at Doctor Morelle:

  “Strewth, no bloomin’ fear!”

  Quickly the Doctor diverted his gaze across the ropes to the man in the sweater who was busily engaged in massaging the boy’s legs.

  The Doctor knew that it was the elder man’s dream that one day his youngster would hold the middleweight title as he himself had once held it. Royston had often spoken about the boy to patrons of the Fencing Club. Carefully he had nursed the boy along, mindful of the disaster which overtakes many a promising young boxer through being matched with men for whom they are too inexperienced and raw.

  Bill Royston wisely kept his boy back, picking each opponent for him with a shrewd eye as to his value as a “trial horse.”

  Thus for tonight’s fight, Sonny Royston was matched against one “Iron” Kelly, a battle-scarred veteran possessed of little real boxing skill, but wily and cunning through the bitter experience of scores of fights, and full of all the cruder tricks of his trade.

  Against such an antagonist, a young boxer, provided he knew enough to keep out of the way of the other’s destructive but erratic punches, could learn much in ring generalship and ringcraft, and at the same time stand a good chance of scoring enough points to gain him the verdict.

  The seconds were out and the boxers were limbering up in their corners. The referee gave them instructions; they touched gloves and the fight was on. It was uneventful enough for the first few rounds, though the fourth round was lively, and ended to roars of applause from the spectators whom young Royston had delighted with his skill and speed. “Iron” Kelly, on the other hand, having earned a number of cautions from the referee for holding and shady tactics generally, had received the crowd’s heartily expressed disapprobation.

  Sonny Royston had clearly shown he was a true chip off the old block by his cleverness and boxing ability. His attractive style, together with his fair hair and smiling blue eyes, as compared with the rushing, reckless methods of his heavy-featured opponent, had caught the imagination of the crowd.

  He had been scoring repeatedly with a beautifully timed left and was ahead on points. Provided he continued to evade the other’s vicious, but ill-aimed blows—and his foot-work had so far kept him out of danger—the fight was his.

  Doctor Morelle again eavesdropped. He heard his neighbour saying:

  “His style’s very reminiscent of his father’s. I remember when I saw the old chap fight the foreign chap—what’s his name?—”

  The man went off into a reminiscence of one of Bill Royston’s famous fights.

  Suddenly Doctor Morelle’s attention was diverted by a man who rose from his seat by the ringside and with a smile at his blonde companion, made his way towards the exit.

  “A singularly cretinous type—both the man and the woman companion,” the Doctor diagnosed. “Typical of the unhealthy section of the parasitic community who watch sport and never participate.”

  He noted with distaste that the man was short and wasp-waisted, that his wide shoulders in his too slickly cut suit gave him a deformed appearance. Hatchet-faced and of a greyish pallor, the man pulled on a pearl-grey trilby, slanting it over one eye.

  As the man swaggered past, Doctor Morelle noticed that two pink ticket counterfoils were stuck incongruously in the hat band. Although the weather was warm and the atmosphere in the Ringland was stifling, the man, strangely enough, was wearing gloves which were buttoned round his wrists.

  The man next to Doctor Morelle said in awed tones: “That’s Joe Girotti—one of the Girotti boys. A proper race-course crook!”

  All this was singularly interesting to the Doctor. Already in his index-like mind he was formulating the meticulously worded notes which he would dictate to Miss Frayle on their return that evening.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder and he looked up to see Detective-Inspector Hood of Scotland Yard smiling down at him in his homely way.

  “So this is where the great Doctor seeks his recreation,” the Inspector grinned widely. “I’ve heard about cabinet ministers bricklaying, and poets planting potatoes, and I guess you too—”

  “My presence here is solely in the interest of sociological research,” Doctor Morelle interjected with a cold smile.

  The other winked at Miss Frayle. “That’s what the vicar said when he was caught talking to a coupla girls in Piccadilly!” He shook the Doctor’s hand warmly. “It’s nice to see you again.” He foraged in his pocket for his pipe, and drew out a slab of candy which he presented gallantly to Miss Frayle.

  “Last time we met was at Telbury Halt, if you remember,” he reminisced. “I was chasing a gang of house-breakers, and you and the Doctor were of invaluable assistance.”

  Doctor Morelle lit a Le Sphinx. “It was I who elucidated the mystery for you, was it not?” he remarked innocently, and he added with a smile: “Am I to assume that since you are wearing your cylindrical head-gear, sartorially known as a bowler, that you are here on official business?”

  “I’m just keeping my eyes on the boys,” the Inspector replied, sucking noisily at his acrid-smelling briar. “You get all sorts at a prize fight.”

  “Would you be particularly maintaining a watch upon one Mr. Joseph Girotti?”

  “Well, I was,” Hood admitted with a smile. “Seems I can’t keep anything from you, Doctor! Girotti’s a pick-pocket among other things. He’s fly enough to wear gloves as an alibi whenever he spies any of the police. Nasty bit of work he is!”

  He raised his bowler affably. “Hope to see you again; must get back to my seat before the next round starts. Enjoy yourselves!”

  At that moment the bell rang for the fifth round. With a nod as his father gave him a last-minute word of counsel, young Royston came out of his corner to meet a devastating onslaught from “Iron” Kelly.

  Leastways, the attack was intended to be devastating, but Sonny slipped away from the whirl of fists like a shadow, poking his left hand into the other’s face with irritating frequency as he did so. Kelly paused for a moment, baffled, the
n with a ferocious scowl, he charged in again.

  This time he slipped and fell upon one knee. With a cheery grin Royston moved forward and helped him to his feet, stepping back to give the man time to steady himself.

  The sporting action brought a roar of approval from the fans. Kelly, however, seemed strongly to resent the friendly gesture, for he immediately rushed forward and swung a mighty right which caught the youngster well below the belt. There was a howl of rage from the crowd. “Foul! Dirty! Kick him out, ref!”

  The referee seemed to have been unsighted, however, and the fight continued, Kelly doing his utmost to barge in close to the shaken youngster and administer a knock-out.

  Crowding him hard against the ropes, he threw in punches from every angle and it looked as if only a miracle could save his victim from sinking beneath the storm. Pandemonium broke out in the hall. Doctor Morelle half stood in his seat so that he could watch with better advantage this astonishing display of mass hysteria—unique even in the case-book of Kraft-Ebbing. Miss Frayle clung on to his arm, terrified free fights might break out among the spectators and she might lose the new hat she had bought for the occasion. Meanwhile the two dramatic white figures battled beneath the blazing arc lamps. Doctor Morelle observed poor Bill Royston, his face grey with anxiety, crying out to his son to fall into a clinch, and hang on. A section of the crowd found themselves echoing the trainer’s frantic appeal, with electric suddenness—which the Doctor could only account for as a phenomenon of mass telepathy.

  “Clinch, Sonny!” came the cries. “Clinch!”

  But Sonny appeared unable to follow the advice that was now being offered to him from all sides. He lay across the ropes, his protective left shoulder dropped to expose his vulnerable jaw and his adversary drew back his right glove to administer the coup de grace.

  A mammoth groan came from a hundred throats—and then with a sudden tautening of Sonny Royston’s lithe body, the boy’s left arm straightened out to smash with terrific force against the other’s jaw which he had left exposed in his anxiety to deliver the finishing blow.

  Kelly stood swaying for a second, his eyes glazing over, then dropped flat on his face.

  The voice of the referee, as he began to count, was swamped by the thunder of applause and the ear-piercing whistles of delight which filled the building. The counting-out was, however, a pure formality; “Iron” Kelly never looked like moving inside ten minutes, let alone ten seconds.

  Miss Frayle found herself joining wildly in the cheering. She caught the Doctor’s mocking gaze, and blushed slightly.

  “It would appear that you are quite appreciative of the pugilistic science,” he observed calmly.

  “I got carried away, Doctor,” she smiled. “I’m glad the good-looking young man won. He deserved to.”

  “Indeed, yes. He certainly displayed more science than his adversary.”

  “I bet his father’s proud of him.”

  “And justifiably so.” The Doctor rose, and pushed through a throng of people. So magnetic and compelling was his personality, that they made room for him immediately.

  “Wait for me, Doctor!” called Miss Frayle, fearing she would lose him in the crush.

  “Hurry then!”

  She caught up with him, and breathlessly tried to keep pace.

  “Where are we going to?” she panted.

  “To the dressing-room. Courtesy behoves us to congratulate the victor, and his worthy parent.”

  “Aren’t we going to see the rest of the fights?” she queried eagerly. She had never believed that she would enjoy a boxing match so much.

  “We may later.”

  They pushed down a corridor to a door, on which was chalked the name “Sonny Royston,” and Doctor Morelle rapped sharply. He turned to Miss Frayle:

  “It would be advisable for you to remain outside for the moment,” he told her shortly.

  He pushed inside the door, and was immediately greeted by Bill Royston.

  “Evening, Doctor Morelle,” the trainer smiled genially. “Glad you could get along. My lad wants to meet you. He’s got into his clothes already. It’s a girl he’s rushing off to meet.”

  Doctor Morelle shook hands with the modest young boxer. He then summoned Miss Frayle and presented her to Sonny Royston. Her eyes were limpid with admiration behind her spectacles.

  “He’s courting, is Sonny,” Bill Royston went on proudly. “Not that that’s a bad thing for a boxer when it’s the right girl.” His genial smile faded for a moment. “But it’s a rum business. He has to court on the sly—”

  “Rather restrictive, I should imagine,” the Doctor observed.

  “You’re right! You see, his young lady’s Kitty Burgess—only daughter of Hal Burgess, the man who promotes the boxing here. I suppose Hal has seen so many boxers become punch-drunk or lose their money he doesn’t want his daughter running round with one. Her dad won’t allow ’em to meet now he knows they’re in love with each other. Won’t let her even watch the boy fight.”

  “That’s right, Doctor Morelle,” Sonny put in over his shoulder as he carefully knotted his tie in a cracked mirror. “He told me Kitty wasn’t for a struggling fighter. Yesterday, that was, when I asked him if we could get engaged. Showed me the door and said I wasn’t to see her again.”

  The young boxer laughed amiably.

  “Silly old chump! ’Course it’s made no difference to Kitty and me—only now we have to meet on the sly, which we don’t like really, and she’s not allowed to come and watch me fight. She’s waiting for me now in the café across the road.”

  “Good for her!” Miss Frayle said feelingly, and Sonny grinned widely at her. Then he said to his father: “Wonder if her dad saw me win tonight? Might make him change his mind.”

  “Try him and see,” said the elder man with a grim quirk on his lips.

  His son nodded. “Perhaps not,” he said.

  “Better wait till you’re champ,” somebody laughed. There was a number of other happily smiling people in Royston’s dressing-room, “then he’ll give you his daughter—if you’ll agree to fight exclusively at Ringland for him!”

  There was general amusement at this remark, for Hal Burgess was noted for his shrewd business acumen and his ability to strike a hard bargain. After receiving further hearty slaps on the back and renewed congratulations on his praiseworthy victory, the young boxer hurried off to keep his clandestine appointment.

  The dressing-room emptied quickly when he had gone, nearly everybody returning to the auditorium, for there was still some boxing to be seen, until only Doctor Morelle, Miss Frayle, and Bill Royston remained.

  Miss Frayle was on tenterhooks to get back to the bouts.

  “It’s a bit of a worry about Kitty and Sonny,” Bill Royston was saying to Doctor Morelle.

  “It does seem somewhat unsatisfactory.”

  “It is.” Bill Royston scratched his grizzle-head in puzzlement. “You see, I was pleased about him becoming genuinely attached to the girl, who’s a nice kid, and him looking forward to marrying her. After all, the boy’s only human and it was much better for him to be really serious over someone like Kitty, than to be chasing after raggle-taggle no-goods.”

  “Perhaps it’ll all come right in the end, Mr. Royston,” Miss Frayle put in banally.

  “I hope so,” he said feelingly. “If it all fizzles out, as it might with Burgess forbidding her to see him, I’ll be worried Sonny may start running a bit wild.” He scratched his head again despairingly—“I wish his mother was here sometimes to give me a hand,” he said.

  Bill Royston’s wife had died several years previously.

  Doctor Morelle turned to Miss Frayle with a bland smile. “No doubt Miss Frayle would be able to give you sterling advice,” he murmured. “She suffers from repressed maternal instincts.”

  Royston looked at her hopefully.

  “What do you make of it, miss?” he asked.

  She thought for a moment. “Speaking as a woman,” she began, �
��I don’t think Kitty Burgess is going to stop being in love with your son, Mr. Royston, just because her father tells her to. Why, it’ll make her love him all the more. I’m sure of that. Girls of today know their own minds. Sooner or later, Mr. Burgess will have to give in.”

  “I hope so—and without any ill-feeling,” Royston said sincerely.

  The Doctor lit a Le Sphinx casually. He was not to know that at that moment Hal Burgess lay dead in his office not far away. He might possibly have known nothing about it except when the promoter’s death had become news had he not chanced to meet a sturdy, thick-set individual wearing a bowler hat going up to the offices that lay over the main entrance hall. This was a little while later when, deciding not to stay to see the last bout of the evening, he left Royston and was on his way out with Miss Frayle.

  “Doctor Morelle!” the man in the bowler hat hailed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Thought you’d left. I’d appreciate your help.”

  The Doctor recognised again Detective-Inspector Hood of Scotland Yard.

  “Another little mystery you wish me to elucidate?” he queried.

  “Something like that,” the other nodded grimly. “Someone’s stuck a knife into someone else.” He blew a dark cloud of smoke from his strong-smelling briar. “Don’t ask me why, Doctor—I don’t know yet.”

  “Is—is it murder?” Miss Frayle stammered.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. Suicides don’t habitually stab themselves in the back—unless, of course, they happen to be contortionists, or something.”

  Doctor Morelle dropped his cigarette and trod on it.

  “Has the identity of the deceased been established?”

  “Yes—it’s Hal Burgess, the manager of this place.”

  Miss Frayle started. She gulped: “Hal Burgess—Kitty Burgess’s father! Goodness, but this is terrible!”

  The Scotland Yard man gave a grim smile. “Murder usually is,” he remarked, and began to climb up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “the body’s up here, Doctor.”