by John Creasey
“This is the Inspector,” he announced.
Then he closed his eyes. And listened. His left hand was clenched on the desk, the knuckles looking white and huge. He moistened his lips as he muttered: “Very well. Very well. I’ll look into it.”
Slowly, he replaced the receiver. His hand was trembling, and his lips, too, as if he were under such strain that he could not keep still. He looked everywhere but at Rollison and then suddenly and over-boldly at him, and he gasped in a cracked voice: “Why on earth did you have to come here? Why on earth did you have to come?”
Chapter 2
The Terror
The truth was that Rollison had come because he was curious about the ways of income tax inspectors, and all knowledge was interesting and most of it useful. He could have left the matter with Slazenger, the expert, but he himself planned an early visit to the United States, and would like to get the matter settled before he left. For the amount of tax involved being some ten thousand pounds, was a large sum even for a man who was well endowed with this world’s goods.
He did not answer that cry of despair, but sat back, feeling embarrassed and yet looking straight into Watson’s eyes. They were rather small and deep-set, and a periwinkle blue, most vivid but shadowed because of dark patches beneath them, and ridges of skin and countless crows’ feet. Those eyes, in fact, seemed much older than the rest of Mr. Watson, and they reflected deep, deep trouble.
Watson moistened his lips, shifted in his chair, looked right and left and then back at the Toff.
“I—I—I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing that you did,” replied Rollison. “I may be able to help.”
“No!” cried Watson. “That’s the last thing—” He broke off, gulped, and went on miserably: “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Rollison, but I am—er—suffering from a great shock. An emotional disturbance, I—” He stopped, obviously not knowing how to go on, and then he simply sat back in his swivel armchair with its padded leather arms, and looked miserably at Rollison. His posture, chest curved inwards, made Rollison understand how thin he was; and now that Rollison began to take notice of the man other than his face and his manner, he saw the way the skin bagged under his chin as well as his eyes; how large his jacket was for him, how loose his collar with the neatly knotted grey tie; he had lost weight suddenly, probably recently.
The telephone bell rang again, and Watson started up and looked towards it; there was no doubt at all that he was terrified. He did not even move his hand, and soon the bell rang again.
“Er—excuse me,” muttered Watson, gulping again. He stretched out with trembling hand, picked up the receiver, and croaked: “Hallo.”
He listened intently, gradually relaxing; he sank back into the chair, telephone cable stretched as far as it would go.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes ... Is Mr. Cobb free? ... Yes, I agree.” There was a fervent note in his voice. “Yes, do.” He rang off, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then sat up with a curious expression on his face; almost sly. He placed his large and bony hands on the Toff’s file, and spoke in a stronger voice than he had yet used with the Toff. “I am extremely sorry, Mr. Rollison, but an urgent matter has occurred—er, cropped up—at my Head Office in Whitehall, and I have to go and discuss it with my superiors. My second-in-command here, Mr. Cobb, will be glad to help you in any way he can. I couldn’t be more sorry but I’m sure you will understand.”
What the Toff understood was that Mr. Watson was both relieved and delighted at this chance to get away from him. Instead of saying so, he got up as Watson rose to his feet, saying: “Of course, Mr. Watson. But I’ll gladly come back at a more convenient time for you.”
“No!” Alarm sprang back to Watson’s eyes. “No,” he went on more calmly, “I’m sure Mr. Cobb will be able to settle all the outstanding problems with you. I’ll have a word with him before I go.”
Watson rounded the desk and shook hands, leaving Rollison with an impression of a firm but cold and damp hand, then went out as if he couldn’t escape quickly enough. The door closed with a decided snap, leaving Rollison entombed, as it were, in a cellar of other peoples’ tax affairs. Watson was almost certainly breaking the rules. Rollison stood undecided for perhaps thirty seconds, staring at another door on the left of Watson’s desk. If he had the true picture of the layout of these offices, that door led into a passage which in turn led to the landing where the lift was. There was a key in the lock.
On the thirty-first second, Rollison moved.
He reached the door, turned the key, opened the door and stepped out into a green painted, stone-floored passage. He closed the door softly and then hurried on tiptoe towards the landing, and ignoring the lift gates, raced up the stairs. At the top landing, he was only slightly breathless.
A door on the right was marked Bonatti and Firmani, Artists in Decor, and on the left was the name Johnny P. Rains. Rollison opened the door and found a small office, empty except for a desk, a chair, a telephone and a filing cabinet. Ahead was another door, marked Private. Rollison strode towards it, calling: “Mr. Rains!”
If Johnny P. was having a little peccadillo with his secretary, at least there was time for them to get out of a clinch before he pushed open the door.
Johnny P. Rains was alone, rising from a very large desk in a very small room which was lined impressively with books, mostly leather-bound. In contrast to the bleak little office outside there was an air of opulence here, especially noticeable in two brown leather armchairs and the desk furniture, all leather-topped.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Johnny P. “That was quick. Don’t say he did throw you out!”
“Can you take a job at once?” demanded Rollison.
“This very second,” flashed Johnny P. Rains.
“Watson is leaving the building. I’d like to know where he goes, whom he meets, what time he gets back. Will you get in touch with me at my flat?” As he spoke he turned on his heel and hurried out, down the stairs, along the passage. He opened the side door to Watson’s office, closed it, but did not have time to turn the key before a footstep sounded at the outer office door. He did not even have time to sit down, only to reach his chair, before the other door opened.
If the man who appeared was surprised to see him standing, he showed no sign.
“Good morning, Mr. Rollison. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“You haven’t been long,” Rollison murmured.
“Do sit down.” The man who was to deputise for Watson motioned to the chair by Rollison, and rounded the desk to Watson’s place. He was a nondescript man, a smallish man, with thinning, greying hair and lined, weather-worn features: and obviously an outdoor man, Rollison was sure, probably one who sailed in small boats every moment he could spare. His eyes, wide-set, were the brown of newly husked chestnuts. He had a droll-looking mouth with deep lines, slightly like a withered bloodhound.
“Mr. Watson had been looking forward to meeting you for so long,” he said. “But when a summons comes from on high, there is no arguing.”
“Needs must when the devil drives,” Rollison said, with an almost ludicrously straight face.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Cobb, obviously glad to settle for any cliché. “I think I will be able to discuss your tax affairs with you intelligently, though. I worked a great deal on them before our change of Inspector.”
“Oh, indeed. So you’re familiar with my affairs.”
“Possibly even more familiar than Mr. Watson.” The brown eyes glinted.
“Happy day,” murmured Rollison, relaxing in his chair.
“What exactly is your query?” Cobb asked, opening the file and sitting squarely in front of the desk.
“I have been over-taxed,” declared Rollison, solemnly.
“A great n
umber of taxpayers have been,” stated Cobb, serenely.
“Surely that’s a bit hard?” said Rollison.
“Oh, it always comes out in the wash, sir!”
“Not too late, I trust,” Rollison said. “I’d rather discover any errors in my assessment before I pay any money.”
“Very wise,” approved Cobb, “Very wise indeed.”
There was a quietly hearty manner in the man; as if he felt inwardly exuberant but knew that he had to prevent it from showing. Why, wondered Rollison, should he feel exuberant? For personal reasons? For professional? Speculation might be a waste of time, but this was a puzzle, on a lower key, like the one over Mr. Watson. Just as Watson had appeared almost pathetic, even pitiable, this man was likeable. His mouth was not only large but very mobile; bloodhound-shaped much of the time.
“Thank you,” murmured Rollison.
“What exactly do you think we’ve done wrong?” asked Cobb.
“Over-assessed me,” Rollison answered.
“By how much?”
“About a hundred per cent.”
“Double what you expected it to be,” remarked Cobb.
“That’s rather a lot. And even what you expect is plenty, isn’t it.”
“It’s ten thousand pounds,” observed Rollison.
“And we’ve assessed you at twenty thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Sure your sins haven’t found you out?” demanded the Deputy Inspector.
For the first time, Rollison felt a reaction. They had been fencing, and he thought he knew why: Cobb was proving that he was as good as the next man, was showing that whatever the rest of the staff felt, he wasn’t over-impressed by the Toff. But this was going too far. “Sure your sins haven’t found you out?” was in fact offensive, no matter how facetiously it may have been intended. For the first time it occurred to Rollison that there might be much more in this assessment than a simple error. He recalled Slazenger’s urgent exhortation not to lose his temper, but that didn’t mean that he had to act as if he were either a dimwit, or was deliberately anxious not to offend.
“Sins,” he echoed, carefully.
“Just a figure of speech, sir!” Cobb was quick with that assurance.
“Surely a very odd figure,” Rollison retorted coldly. “Exactly what did you mean, Mr. Cobb?”
“Really, I wasn’t serious.”
“What a pity,” Rollison said, and unexpectedly gave his brightest smile. “I am. What kind of ‘sins’ are committed by your taxpayers, Mr. Cobb?”
“Well, er! there are attempts at tax evasion you know.”
“I have heard of them. Are you implying that I am making such an attempt?”
There was a long silence. At last, Cobb appeared to be completely serious as if he saw nothing remotely funny in the situation which Rollison had forced. Now that his full lips were set and straight, they didn’t seem so large. He looked not so much droll as pug-like. There was no good-humoured gleam in his eyes. There was a kind of defiance, and in fact pugnacity about his whole face.
At last, he answered: “No, Mr. Rollison. But there is a great deal of ignorance of the tax laws, and mistakes are very easy to make.”
“Not by certified accountants like Mr. Slazenger,” Rollison countered.
“No. No, of course not! I—ah—I used a word injudiciously, Mr. Rollison, and I am sorry.” Cobb opened the file, now very business-like. “There was not the slightest intention on my part to impugn your integrity, but even with the best of accountants, mistakes can be made.” He pursed his lips upwards, then let them droop. “Hmm.” He rolled his lips as if they were made of rubber. “Hmm.” He set his lips and turned pages, as if he were anxious to put and to keep Rollison on edge. “Hmm” he repeated, and at last looked up. “It does appear that you have been under-assessed for several years, Mr. Rollison, and that certain allowances which had been made were not indeed allowable items, while some income claimed as earned has in fact not been. These present figures show a revised assessment to cover under-assessment for four years.”
Rollison thought: This can’t be true.
But Cobb was undoubtedly serious and would hardly make up a situation: it must appear to be in front of him. There was sternness in his expression, now, all the good humour and exuberance gone. Rollison felt, suddenly, as if he were on trial. It was absurd, of course, he hadn’t declared false figures, but – he hadn’t made out his own income tax returns, either; he had given the information to Slazenger, and simply signed the form.
Could Slazenger—
Nonsense! he told himself. Slazenger couldn’t possibly benefit from a mistake, and if he had made one, would have come to tell him about it, to explain what had happened.
So, he smiled.
“I haven’t been under-assessed,” he said.
“The figures here imply that you have, sir. They make it clear—” Cobb cleared his throat as if to prepare to sound even more impressive “—that you have claimed for expenses not met in the way of any business activity a total of twenty-seven thousand four hundred pounds, or a little under seven thousand each year. Allowance for the usual reliefs has already been made and the amount of income tax due on these sums is over three thousand pounds each year, or twelve thousand pounds.”
Rollison was staring at him.
One part of his mind knew that no matter how serious this man was, there had been a mistake which would eventually be found out. The other part of his mind grappled with the fact that, so far as Cobb and this office was concerned, he had been adjudged an income tax evader on a substantial sum. And yet—and yet, would the authorities put this to him in such a way? If in fact they were convinced that he had fiddled the figures for four years, would they make some kind of charge? Would they simply add the arrears in this way and say nothing provided he paid up?
Cobb was still watching him very closely. Suspiciously? When Rollison simply sat and looked back at him, at least partly because he did not know what best to say, Cobb leaned forward and said in a deep voice: “I am quite sure that this should be regarded as an error, Mr. Rollison. You have claimed for expenses in connection with certain charitable activities, such as youth clubs, old folk’s homes and similar no doubt worthy causes. However, these are not allowable. By adding the amount over-claimed for four years to the current year’s assessment the Inspector has found the simplest way out. Don’t you agree?”
Rollison began to frown, and then slowly, to smile. There was something here he did not understand but sooner or later he would, and for the time being it didn’t really matter.
“No,” answered Rollison, bluntly. “The simplest way is to find out why the agreement reached between my accountant and this office has suddenly been broken by the office. These charities, are in fact businesses. I do not in fact make a profit on them and incur a substantial loss but they are so designed that a profit could be made, so the losses are allowable. I’m sure that Mr. Slazenger will have to be consulted on this, there’s no easy way to settle it between you and me. And, presumably, there is no hurry.”
“Not for a week or so, certainly,” Cobb conceded.
Rollison needed not a week or two but a month or two in New York, but he did not think this was the moment to say so. His smile broadened as he stood up from the rickety chair.
“I’ll ask Mr. Slazenger to get in touch with you as soon as he’s about again. Meanwhile, will you let me have details of the claims you previously allowed and now wish to disallow?” He stood with one hand outstretched, watching Cobb, who had one hand on his, Rollison’s, file.
“I’ll ask Mr. Watson to send them to you,” Cobb promised. “These are only rough notes.” He moved his hand towards Rollison’s, his grasp firm and cool. “There is no need to go through the general office this time, this door leads straight to the passage.” H
e moved towards the door which Rollison had used, and twisted the key. He seemed surprised when the lock didn’t click, but turned the handle and opened the door wide.
“Goodbye, Mr. Rollison.”
“Goodbye,” Rollison said as he went out of the door.
Two things happened on the same instant. First, a gleam appeared in Cobb’s eyes, as if he suddenly saw the funny side of this situation again: and second, as Rollison glanced along the passage, he saw a girl hurrying away, towards the landing. She wore a knee-length skirt and a short jacket; she had a nice figure and shiny dark hair. As she reached the landing she glanced back, then suddenly darted forward and disappeared down the stairs.
Rollison felt quite sure she had been listening at this doorway.
And he began to run, quite indifferent to what Cobb might think of his sudden change of pace.
Chapter 3
Pretty Girl
Rollison reached the corner as the lift arrived at the landing, but he did not wait for it, simply raced down the stairs, not caring how much noise he made above the footsteps of the fleeing girl. At the next landing he caught a glimpse of her skirt and heels. At the main lobby, he was within three feet of her. The lift had now reached the ground floor and a man was opening the gates. By using the stairs he had won perhaps five seconds.
The girl rushed out into the street, missed a shallow step, and began to fall. A middle-aged man, passing, shot out a hand to save her, and Rollison also shot out a hand. For a moment she was sandwiched between two arms.
“Sweetheart,” Rollison said, “you really should look where you’re going.” He put his arm about her shoulders, firmly, and beamed at the other man. “Thank you very much, sir.”
The man muttered: “S’all right,” and went on. Rollison kept his arm round the girl’s shoulders, looking down as she stared up at him. She had the look of a trapped creature, too frightened to move. Fear was a commonplace this morning.