The Toff and the Terrified Taxman

by John Creasey

“I certainly don’t see why not,” the policeman agreed, and moved towards the car. The crowd, also recognising Rollison, drew nearer. He wondered whether stones or broken glass would come hurtling, but nothing did. The policeman got Information and Information found Grice, who sounded preoccupied as he said: “What is it?”

  “I would like to talk to Ding Dong Bell on his own,” Rollison said. “As far as I can gather he’s being held under a form of house arrest.”

  “Who—” began Grice, only to break off. “Oh, it’s you. Hold on a minute.” Grice’s voice sounded as he talked to someone on another telephone but Rollison caught only a word here and there and had no idea whether the other conversation was about this case. Then Grice returned, very brisk and forthright. “One or two facts you should know, before you do anything. We picked up Watson, your Inspector of Taxes. He wasn’t going to the Hook of Holland – that was to fool anyone who followed him, he was at London Airport. But the name ‘Grey’ on his passport helped us.”

  Rollison grunted: “Good. Has he talked?”

  “Fairly freely. He has been under pressure to accept false returns from a number of private individuals and companies. At first, he refused: then he was tricked into a compromising situation with a young woman, and threatened with blackmail. The two pressures together broke his resistance.”

  “I can imagine,” Rollison said. “Found the other Inspectors?”

  “Not yet, but there will be a much fuller report later,” Grice said. “Meanwhile, Watson says that he had to contact a man named Bell. Ding Dong Bell.” Grice paused long enough for that to sink in and went on gruffly: “At the Blue Dog.”

  Rollison drew in a sharp breath.

  “That seems as good a place as any.”

  “Apparently Ebbutt’s place has been used for a rendezvous frequently – or so Watson was told.” When Rollison didn’t reply, Grice went on: “And obviously there are a lot of people in Bell’s pay who live near the Blue Dog – live or have hideouts. They nearly got you tonight, didn’t they?”

  “Yes,” Rollison conceded, “but—”

  “There aren’t any buts about it,” Grice interrupted, either impatient or angry. “Obviously Bell set them on to you. Obviously Bell is providing hiding places for criminals who want to get out of the country. It’s the most convenient place in London, you can pick up a ship for any part of the world there, and Bell has been in the district all his life. I did wonder for a few minutes this morning whether we’d misjudged him, but we haven’t. You will make the biggest mistake of your life if you put any faith in him, Rolly.”

  Rollison said quietly: “You could be right.”

  “Over this, I am right. Do you still want to talk to him alone?”

  “Yes,” Rollison said.

  “Don’t let him lie his way out of any situation,” Grice warned. “And—just a moment, my other telephone’s ringing.”

  Again Rollison heard him speaking without being able to catch the words. He leaned against the side of the car, watching the crowd, which had grown much larger. He wondered again if any among the crowd would start hurling stones or bottles; perhaps the presence of the policemen discouraged them. He let everything Grice told him soak into his mind, and tried to picture Bell’s face, that morning, and Violet’s face as well as her impassioned words. Somewhere buried here was a truth he did not yet even begin to understand.

  But he could understand Grice, whose voice was suddenly loud in his ear.

  “You there?”

  ‘Yes, Bill,” answered Rollison meekly. “What were you going to give me dire warning about next?”

  “Rolly,” Grice said, “we can’t trace Kimber and the women who were with him. We had some addresses, but all the places are empty. They must be in hiding somewhere. As the London docks make one of the best escape routes they may be somewhere near the docks. Bell is an expert in such hideouts, and it is virtually certain he is involved in this affair. He must know where Kimber and Company are. What’s more, they may have records of the tax frauds they’ve perpetrated – at least a full list of the Inspectors on whom they’ve used pressure. Many millions of pounds could be involved. We must get our hands on Kimber.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Rollison agreed.

  “As far as we can judge, Bell is the one man who can tell us where he’s hiding,” Grice went on. “He won’t talk to us. He might talk to you. If you’re allowed to talk to him it will be on condition that you tell us - tell me - everything you find out. Is that clearly understood?”

  Grice, several miles away in the heart of London, seemed to be in this very street. Ebbutt stood still but the wheezing of his breath was the loudest sound in Rollison’s ears. He really had no choice, of course, and wasn’t sure that he would want to do anything different, and yet in a way it seemed almost a form of betrayal of a man who appeared to think of himself as one who could trust nobody.

  “Are you there?” asked Grice, and he went on before Rollison could reply: “You can’t have any reservations about this, Rolly.”

  “No,” Rollison admitted. “No. Some doubts as to procedure but none about the principle.” He gave a snort of a laugh. “All right, Bill. Oh—may Bell’s wife leave to go to the Blue Dog?”

  “Yes. There’s no restriction on her movements.”

  “Good,” said Rollison, and added emphatically: “Very good. All right, I’ll do what I can.”

  He actually began to replace the receiver before Grice spoke again and yet the new tone in the Yard man’s voice sounded very clearly, and Rollison put the receiver to his ear again, to hear Grice in midstream. He knew that Grice meant exactly what he was saying; sensed and believed the anxiety in his voice. The silence in the poorly lit street seemed intense; it was as if William Grice and he, Richard Rollison, were the only two men in the world.

  “Don’t have any doubt at all,” Grice was saying. “This man is extremely dangerous. Hatred has built up in him for years, and he probably sees you as even worse than a policeman – as a citizen who needn’t work with us yet often chooses to. He could kill you, Rolly. If you are there with him absolutely alone there’s nothing I or anybody else can do to help. You realise that, don’t you?”

  “Fully,” Rollison said.

  “And you realise that you don’t have to go?”

  “I go of my own free will,” Rollison said quietly. “And I know what the odds are, Bill. Thanks.”

  He replaced the receiver.

  There was a strange stillness and a strange stirring in the street. Then Ebbutt went to the door and knocked, and Detective Sergeant Moriarty opened the door, saying: “I heard all that on my transistor. I’ll send Mrs. Bell out, but I want to be here when Mr. Rollison and Bell meet.”

  Rollison nodded agreement.

  Soon, the older Daisy Bell was coming along the little passage, a short woman who seemed to have a good figure and who certainly had nice legs and ankles. She passed the Toff, obviously not recognising him, then suddenly spun round; the likeness between her and her two daughters was quite remarkable.

  She exclaimed: “It’s Mr. Rollison!”

  “That’s right,” Rollison said.

  She stood as close to him as Violet had, and – so short a time ago – as Daisy II; and the light of a nearby lamp fell on to her face. She actually stretched out her hands and took his, while the police officers hovered very close as if they expected her to attack the Toff.

  “Help him,” she pleaded. “Please help him.”

  Then she turned and, head held high, walked to Bill Ebbutt. Before Rollison entered Number 25 Quaker Street, the sharp sounds of her footsteps and the heavy ones of the ex-prize fighter sounded very clearly. Rollison followed the policeman. A second man whom he had seen before Detective Officer Odlum, stood in the doorway of a small room, where Bell stood in a far corner. Odlum stood a
side to allow Rollison to pass. Bell stared at him, eyes glassy bright, and did not glance away when Moriarty spoke from the passage. He was close to Rollison, who felt something cold and metallic against his hand. Suddenly, he realised it was a small walkie-talkie transistor radio. He slid it into his trousers pocket, locating the switch before he let it go.

  “No tricks, Bell. Understand.”

  Bell didn’t answer Moriarty.

  “If you kill Mr. Rollison,” Moriarty went on with unexpected depth of feeling, “you’ll be sent down for the rest of your life. Don’t you forget.”

  For the first time, Bell stirred; for the first time his lips moved. And for the first time he spoke.

  “Some things would be worth it,” he said in a grating voice. “Wouldn’t they, Toff?”

  And the way he uttered the name turned it into a sneer.

  Moriarty stood looking back over his shoulder, with the other man just behind him, close to the open front door. Watching Bell but acutely aware of the policeman’s presence, Rollison said: “I’ve even known things worth dying for.”

  “Mr. Rollison,” Moriarty pleaded, “don’t take any chances. And remember we’ll be just outside.”

  “Thank you.” Rollison sensed the tall man’s real concern, and his reluctance to leave the little house. But the front door closed at last and silence followed while the two men in the room contemplated each other. “Would you like to go and make sure that the door’s locked?” Rollison went on. “They’re capable of leaving it on the latch so as to get back in a hurry.”

  “So you don’t trust them, either.” Bell didn’t move. “I’ll take a chance. If anyone steps on the doormat now, I’ll know.” He moved to the tiny, red brick fireplace and put down a switch. “Even poor men sometimes need a burglar alarm system.”

  Rollison nodded.

  Bell demanded: “What brought you, nark?”

  “Two things,” Rollison said. “Your daughter’s request, and Grice’s.”

  “That’s a bloody lie! Vi wouldn’t—”

  “Violet came to Ebbutt’s place and made it obvious that you thought I’d stayed away so as to give the police time to search this house. I convinced her that I hadn’t and she asked me to come and try to convince you.” Rollison paused but when Bell showed no reaction he went on: “Grice thinks you’ve hidden Kimber and his girls. He knows you won’t talk to him or any policeman but he thinks you might talk to me.”

  “So that you can pass it on to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not bloody likely!” Bell rasped, but there was a half- smile on his face. “My God, I almost believe you’re honest!”

  “You can be sure I mean what I say,” Rollison said.

  “So what kept you tonight?”

  “Kimber putting on the performance you heard at the Blue Dog.”

  “Now don’t come it – that wasn’t tonight, it was days ago!”

  “I don’t know what Kimber told you,” Rollison said, “but that little scene was put on tonight. The idea was to make me look a fool.”

  “It succeeded,” jeered Bell.

  “Kimber cut out those passages which made him look the bigger idiot,” Rollison said mildly. “It was done well and it was done quickly. Bell—” His voice sharpened.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you put the recorder on the 4X bottle?”

  “No.”

  “Did you arrange the attack on me?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  “Kimber. He told me I’d hear the truth about you sooner or later. He sent a message while I was at the Blue Dog.”

  “Why did he try to kill me as well?” asked Rollison. “I can understand him wanting to make a fool of me. I can understand him wanting to kill me. And I could understand why you would want one or the other. But why both?” He kept silent for several seconds and then his voice positively boomed: “Do you know?”

  Bell moistened his lips.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The other man turned round, not slowly but with a controlled movement, and opened a wall cupboard fixed a little below his head level. Inside were bottles and glasses. He took out Scotch whisky, a soda syphon and two stubby glasses which seemed to be of cut glass, and set these on a table by his side. Without a word he began to pour out, and when both glasses held a generous tot of whisky, he asked: “Soda?”

  “An inch from the top, please.”

  Bell squirted in the soda carefully, showing no signs of unsteadiness. He filled his own glass with about the same amount and carried Rollison’s across to him. He stepped away and raised his glass.

  “To the cop-haters,” he said, and drank.

  “To all good policemen,” Rollison said, and sipped.

  “So you persuaded Violet that you didn’t fix it so that the police would come here and search?”

  “If you used your head, you’d know I didn’t.”

  “Meaning?” Bell’s voice hardened.

  “If I wanted you out of the house I would have arranged to meet you somewhere else. And in any case the police would have searched whether you were at home or not. Do you know the truth about yourself?” Rollison asked in a mood between casual and earnest. “You’re so full of prejudice there are times you don’t even let yourself think. When a man wears dark glasses, everything is dark; and you can wear dark glasses over your mind.”

  “Very clever,” sneered Bell. “Next thing you’ll tell me you didn’t arrange the attack on yourself so as to make it look as if I fixed it.”

  “I didn’t arrange it,” Rollison answered, briskly. “Grice thinks you did. I think Kimber alone or Kimber with you did. You were going to tell me why I was both to be ridiculed and killed. Remember?”

  “So I was,” agreed Bell in a smooth voice. “And so I was. It was so you will get it both ways. If you escape alive then you’ll be made a laughing stock. If you’re killed it won’t matter a damn whether you look a fool. The idea is to make sure you’re not taken seriously. To make sure no one will ever take you seriously again. I told Kimber I wanted to make you look a fool first. I didn’t say anything about killing you, only about threatening to kill and so frightening the life out of you.” Bell drained his glass and turned to the bottle, adding: “Don’t tell me you’re not frightened out of your wits.”

  Chapter 19

  Onslaught

  Rollison sipped his whisky and soda, eased himself down into an armchair, crossed his ankles and smiled. No man in his senses could even imagine that he was frightened. He took out cigarettes and placed the case on the side of the chair; but made no attempt to select a cigarette.

  “Guess again,” he said.

  “All right; you’re not scared.” There was a note of admiration in Bell’s voice. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.” He poured himself another drink, and went on: “So Grice wants you to make me talk and tell him what I say.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rollison. “But he doesn’t have to know what I’m going to say to you.”

  “Well, say it.” Bell’s voice came over the glass which he raised to his lips; it had exceptional lucidity.

  “I want you to tell me where Kimber and his harem are hiding, and I want you to give yourself up and make a statement to the police saying that for years you’ve been hiding men and finding ships on which they could sail out of the country,” Rollison said flatly.

  Bell opened his lips and almost gasped: “Now I know you’re mad!”

  “I mean it,” Rollison insisted.

  “They’d put me in jail for the rest of my life!”

  “I don’t think they would.”

  “You know damned well they would!”

  “No I don’t,” retorted Rollison, sharply. “I think you cou
ld turn Queen’s Evidence and get off with a nominal sentence even if the police brought proceedings.”

  “Queen’s Evidence – me!”

  “You. Ding Dong Bell.”

  “To save my skin?” Bell almost screamed.

  “To save a few years of happy life for you and your wife and your surviving daughter,” Rollison corrected and went on with a note of savagery: “If you’re caught and put away, what’s life going to be like for Daisy? It will be bad enough for Violet, but for Daisy it will be purgatory. And it won’t help her if you’re rotting away in a cell eating your heart out with hate for the police and the warders, the judge and the jury. If your wife has a chance it will have to be because you give it to her. And it will carry a chance for yourself at the same time. I don’t see what else you can do, do you?”

  “I can tell you and the cops to go to hell!”

  “And your wife and Violet?”

  “You leave them out of this!”

  “They can’t be left out,” Rollison retorted. “You can’t ignore your family because it happens to suit you. You couldn’t even on an issue of principle, but this isn’t principle. It’s a question of whom you really owe loyalty to: Adrian Kimber or your wife and daughter.”

  Bell was fingering his glass as if trying to hide the intenseness with which he was listening. His deep-set eyes burned as Rollison had seen before and they were undoubtedly a reflection of the hate which burned within him. Rollison could imagine what a tremendous effort he was making to keep his self-control; how heat and fury were rising up in him like a volcano about to erupt.

  Quietly, deliberately, Rollison went on: “You know it was Kimber who killed your daughter, don’t you?”

  Bell ground out: “That’s a lie! You drove her to her death!”

  “Bell,” Rollison went on, “how much longer are you going to fool yourself? Or let Kimber make a fool of you? Kimber—”

  “Shut your trap,” Bell grated.

  “Bell—”

  “Or I’ll shut it for you!”

  “Bell,” Rollison went on in a quieter voice than before, “sooner or later you’ve got to face up to the fact that you can’t go on living by shouting other people down. And you can’t go on living by shutting your ears to what other people say: your wife, for instance, or Violet. You’ve got to start listening.”