Ukridge Stories · The Return of Battling Billson (2/3)

“Naw!” said Cecil. And there was that in his manner which suggested that when he said “Naw!” it was final.

“Cecil wants to see the sights,” explained his mother. “We can see all the pictures back at home. ’E’s been lookin’ forward to seein’ the sights of London. It’ll be an education for ’im, like, to see all the sights.”

“Westminster Abbey?” I suggested. After all, what could be better for the lad’s growing mind than to inspect the memorials of the great past and, if disposed, pick out a suitable site for his own burial at some later date? Also, I had a fleeting notion, which a moment’s reflection exploded before it could bring me much comfort, that women removed their hats in Westminster Abbey.

“Naw!” said Cecil.

“ ’E wants to see the murders,” explained Flossie’s mother.

She spoke as if it were the most reasonable of boyish desires, but it sounded to me impracticable. Homicides do not publish formal programmes of their intended activities. I had no notion what murders were scheduled for today.

“ ’E always reads up all the murders in the Sunday paper,” went on the parent, throwing light on the matter.

“Oh, I understand,” I said. “Then Madame Tussaud’s is the spot he wants. They’ve got all the murderers.”

“Naw!” said Cecil.

“It’s the places ’e wants to see,” said Flossie’s mother, amiably tolerant of my density. “The places where all them murders was committed. ’E’s clipped out the addresses and ’e wants to be able to tell ’is friends when he gets back that ’e’s seen ’em.”

A profound relief surged over me.

“Why, we can do the whole thing in a cab,” I cried. “We can stay in a cab from start to finish. No need to leave the cab at all.”

“Or a bus?”

“Not a bus,” I said firmly. I was quite decided on a cab⁠—one with blinds that would pull down, if possible.

“ ’Ave it your own way,” said Flossie’s mother, agreeably. “Speaking as far as I’m personally concerned, I’m shaw there’s nothing I would rather prefer than a nice ride in a keb. Jear what the gentleman says, Cecil? You’re goin’ to ride in a keb.”

“Urgh!” said Cecil, as if he would believe it when he saw it. A sceptical boy.

It was not an afternoon to which I look back as among the happiest I have spent. For one thing, the expedition far exceeded my hasty estimates in the matter of expense. Why it should be so I cannot say, but all the best murders appear to take place in remote spots like Stepney and Canning Town, and cab fares to these places run into money. Then, again, Cecil’s was not one of those personalities which become more attractive with familiarity. I should say at a venture that those who liked him best were those who saw the least of him. And, finally, there was a monotony about the entire proceedings which soon began to afflict my nerves. The cab would draw up outside some mouldering house in some desolate street miles from civilisation, Cecil would thrust his unpleasant head out of the window and drink the place in for a few moments of silent ecstasy, and then he would deliver his lecture. He had evidently read well and thoughtfully. He had all the information.

“The Canning Town ’Orror,” he would announce.

“Yes, dearie?” His mother cast a fond glance at him and a proud one at me. “In this very ’ouse, was it?”

“In this very ’ouse,” said Cecil, with the gloomy importance of a confirmed bore about to hold forth on his favourite subject. “Jimes Potter ’is nime was. ’E was found at seven in the morning underneaf the kitchen sink wiv ’is froat cut from ear to ear. It was the landlady’s brother done it. They ’anged ’im at Pentonville.”

Some more data from the child’s inexhaustible store, and then on to the next historic site.

“The Bing Street ’Orror!”

“In this very ’ouse, dearie?”

“In this very ’ouse. Body was found in the cellar in an advanced stige of dee-cawm-po-sition wiv its ’ead bashed in, prezoomably by some blunt instrument.”

At six-forty-six, ignoring the pink hat which protruded from the window of a third-class compartment and the stout hand that waved a rollicking farewell, I turned from the train with a pale, set face, and, passing down the platform of Euston Station, told a cabman to take me with all speed to Ukridge’s lodgings in Arundel Street, Leicester Square. There had never, so far as I knew, been a murder in Arundel Street, but I was strongly of opinion that that time was ripe. Cecil’s society and conversation had done much to neutralise the effects of a gentle upbringing, and I toyed almost luxuriously with the thought of supplying him with an Arundel Street Horror for his next visit to the Metropolis.

“Aha, laddie,” said Ukridge, as I entered. “Come in, old horse. Glad to see you. Been wondering when you would turn up.”

He was in bed, but that did not remove the suspicion which had been growing in me all the afternoon that he was a low malingerer. I refused to believe for a moment in that sprained ankle of his. My view was that he had had the advantage of a first look at Flossie’s mother and her engaging child and had shrewdly passed them on to me.

“I’ve been reading your book, old man,” said Ukridge, breaking a pregnant silence with an overdone carelessness. He brandished winningly the only novel I had ever written, and I can offer no better proof of the black hostility of my soul than the statement that even this did not soften me. “It’s immense, laddie. No other word for it. Immense. Damme, I’ve been crying like a child.”

“It is supposed to be a humorous novel,” I pointed out, coldly.

“Crying with laughter,” explained Ukridge, hurriedly.

I eyed him with loathing.

“Where do you keep your blunt instruments?” I asked.

“My what?”

“Your blunt instrument. I want a blunt instrument. Give me a blunt instrument. My God! Don’t tell me you have no blunt instrument.”

“Only a safety-razor.”

I sat down wearily on the bed.

“Hi! Mind my ankle!”

“Your ankle!” I laughed a hideous laugh, the sort of laugh the landlady’s brother might have emitted before beginning operations on James Potter. “A lot there is the matter with your ankle.”

“Sprained it yesterday, old man. Nothing serious,” said Ukridge, reassuringly. “Just enough to lay me up for a couple of days.”

“Yes, till that ghastly female and her blighted boy had got well away.”

Pained astonishment was written all over Ukridge’s face.

“You don’t mean to say you didn’t like her? Why, I thought you two would be all over each other.”

“And I suppose you thought that Cecil and I would be twin souls?”

“Cecil?” said Ukridge, doubtfully. “Well, to tell you the truth, old man, I’m not saying that Cecil doesn’t take a bit of knowing. He’s the sort of boy you have to be patient with and bring out, if you understand what I mean. I think he grows on you.”

“If he ever tries to grow on me, I’ll have him amputated.”

“Well, putting all that on one side,” said Ukridge, “how did things go off?”

I described the afternoon’s activities in a few tense words.

“Well, I’m sorry, old horse,” said Ukridge, when I had finished. “I can’t say more than that, can I? I’m sorry. I give you my solemn word I didn’t know what I was letting you in for. But it was a life and death matter. There was no other way out. Flossie insisted on it. Wouldn’t budge an inch.”

In my anguish I had forgotten all about the impenetrable mystery of Flossie.

“Who the devil is Flossie?” I asked.

“What! Flossie? You don’t know who Flossie is? My dear old man, collect yourself. You must remember Flossie. The barmaid at the Crown in Kennington. The girl Battling Billson is engaged to. Surely you haven’t forgotten Flossie? Why, she was saying only yesterday that you had nice eyes.”

Memory awoke. I felt ashamed that I could ever have forgotten a girl so bounding and spectacular.

“Of course! The blister you brought with you that night George Tupper gave us dinner at the Regent Grill. By the way, has George ever forgiven you for that?”

“There is still a little coldness,” admitted Ukridge, ruefully. “I’m bound to say old Tuppy seems to be letting the thing rankle a bit. The fact of the matter is, old horse, Tuppy has his limitations. He isn’t a real friend like you. Delightful fellow, but lacks vision. Can’t understand that there are certain occasions when it is simply imperative that a man’s pals rally round him. Now you⁠—”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I am hoping that what I went through this afternoon really was for some good cause. I should be sorry, now that I am in a cooler frame of mind, to have to strangle you where you lie. Would you mind telling me exactly what was the idea behind all this?”

“It’s like this, laddie. Good old Billson blew in to see me the other day.”

“I met him down in the East End and he asked for your address.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“What’s going on? Are you still managing him?”

“Yes. That’s what he wanted to see me about. Apparently the contract has another year to run and he can’t fix up anything without my OK. And he’s just had an offer to fight a bloke called Alf Todd at the Universal.”

“That’s a step up from Wonderland,” I said, for I had a solid respect for this Mecca of the boxing world. “How much is he getting this time?”

“Two hundred quid.”

“Two hundred quid! But that’s a lot for practically an unknown man.”

“Unknown man?” said Ukridge, hurt. “What do you mean, unknown man? If you ask my opinion, I should say the whole pugilistic world is seething with excitement about old Billson. Literally seething. Didn’t he slosh the middleweight champion?”

“Yes, in a rough-and-tumble in a back alley. And nobody saw him do it.”

“Well, these things get about.”

“But two hundred pounds!”

“A fleabite, laddie, a fleabite. You can take it from me that we shall be asking a lot more than a measly couple of hundred for our services pretty soon. Thousands, thousands! Still, I’m not saying it won’t be something to be going on with. Well, as I say, old Billson came to me and said he had had this offer, and how about it? And when I realised that I was in halves, I jolly soon gave him my blessing and told him to go as far as he liked. So you can imagine how I felt when Flossie put her foot down like this.”

“Like what? About ten minutes ago when you started talking, you seemed to be on the point of explaining about Flossie. How does she come to be mixed up with the thing? What did she do?”

“Only wanted to stop the whole business, laddie, that was all. Just put the kybosh on the entire works. Said he mustn’t fight!”

“Mustn’t fight?”

“That was what she said. Just in that airy, careless way, as if the most stupendous issues didn’t hang on his fighting as he had never fought before. Said⁠—if you’ll believe me, laddie; I shan’t blame you if you don’t⁠—that she didn’t want his looks spoiled.” Ukridge gazed at me with lifted eyebrows while he let this evidence of feminine perverseness sink in. “His looks, old man! You got the word correctly? His looks! She didn’t want his looks spoiled. Why, damme, he hasn’t got any looks. There isn’t any possible manner in which you could treat that man’s face without improving it. I argued with her by the hour, but no, she couldn’t see it. Avoid women, laddie, they have no intelligence.”

“Well, I’ll promise to avoid Flossie’s mother, if that’ll satisfy you. How does she come into the thing?”

“Now, there’s a woman in a million, my boy. She saved the situation. She came along at the eleventh hour and snatched your old friend out of the soup. It seems she has a habit of popping up to London at intervals, and Flossie, while she loves and respects her, finds that from ten minutes to a quarter of an hour of the old dear gives her the pip to such an extent that she’s a nervous wreck for days.”

I felt my heart warm to the future Mrs. Billson. Despite Ukridge’s slurs, a girl, it seemed to me, of the soundest intelligence.

“So when Flossie told me⁠—with tears in her eyes, poor girl⁠—that mother was due today, I had the inspiration of a lifetime. Said I would take her off her hands from start to finish if she would agree to let Billson fight at the Universal. Well, it shows you what family affection is, laddie; she jumped at it. I don’t mind telling you she broke down completely and kissed me on both cheeks. The rest, old horse, you know.”

“Yes. The rest I do know.”

“Never,” said Ukridge, solemnly, “never, old son, till the sands of the desert grow cold, shall I forget how you have stood by me this day!”

“Oh, all right. I expect in about a week from now you will be landing me with something equally foul.”

“Now, laddie⁠—”

“When does this fight come off?”

“A week from tonight. I’m relying on you to be at my side. Tense nervous strain, old man; shall want a pal to see me through.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for worlds. I’ll give you dinner before we go there, shall I?”

“Spoken like a true friend,” said Ukridge, warmly. “And on the following night I will stand you the banquet of your life. A banquet which will ring down the ages. For, mark you, laddie, I shall be in funds. In funds, my boy.”

“Yes, if Billson wins. What does he get if he loses?”

“Loses? He won’t lose. How the deuce can he lose? I’m surprised at you talking in that silly way when you’ve seen him only a few days ago. Didn’t he strike you as being pretty fit when you saw him?”

“Yes, by Jove, he certainly did.”

“Well, then! Why, it looks to me as if the sea air had made him tougher than ever. I’ve only just got my fingers straightened out after shaking hands with him. He could win the heavyweight championship of the world tomorrow without taking his pipe out of his mouth. Alf Todd,” said Ukridge, soaring to an impressive burst of imagery, “has about as much chance as a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wildcat’s left ear with a red-hot needle.”

Although I knew several of the members, for one reason or another I had never been inside the Universal Sporting Club, and the atmosphere of the place when we arrived on the night of the fight impressed me a good deal. It was vastly different from Wonderland, the East End home of pugilism where I had witnessed the Battler make his début. There, a certain laxness in the matter of costume had been the prevailing note; here, white shirtfronts gleamed on every side. Wonderland, moreover, had been noisy. Patrons of sport had so far forgotten themselves as to whistle through their fingers and shout badinage at distant friends. At the Universal one might have been in church. In fact, the longer I sat, the more ecclesiastical did the atmosphere seem to become. When we arrived, two acolytes in the bantam class were going devoutly through the ritual under the eye of the presiding minister, while a large congregation looked on in hushed silence. As we took our seats, this portion of the service came to an end and the priest announced that Nippy Coggs was the winner. A reverent murmur arose for an instant from the worshippers, Nippy Coggs disappeared into the vestry, and after a pause of a few minutes I perceived the familiar form of Battling Billson coming up the aisle.

There was no doubt about it, the Battler did look good. His muscles seemed more cable-like than ever, and a recent haircut had given a knobby, bristly appearance to his head which put him even more definitely than before in the class of those with whom the sensible man would not lightly quarrel. Mr. Todd, his antagonist, who followed him a moment later, was no beauty⁠—the almost complete absence of any division between his front hair and his eyebrows would alone have prevented him being that⁠—but he lacked a certain je-ne-sais-quoi which the Battler preeminently possessed. From the first instant of his appearance in the public eye our man was a warm favourite. There was a pleased flutter in the pews as he took his seat, and I could hear whispered voices offering substantial bets on him.

“Six-round bout,” announced the padre. “Battling Billson (Bermondsey) versus Alf Todd (Marylebone). Gentlemen will kindly stop smoking.”