The Toff and the Terrified Taxman Read online

  “I listened to you this morning and where has it got me?” growled Bell.

  “To a chance to rid yourself of lifelong hatred. A chance to live without a chip on your shoulder. A chance to be a man instead of a ghost of a man.”

  Bell moved with sudden and devastating speed, hurled his glass against the wall and as it shattered hurled himself at Rollison as his daughter had done not long ago. But this man was like steel. Rollison smashed a blow at him but Bell got beneath his guard, kneed him savagely in the groin, and then clawed at his neck. His fingers bit in like steel claws. His thumbs pressed against Rollison’s windpipe. He leaned forward with all his weight so that Rollison was half on and half off the arm of the chair. The shimmering eyes were close to Rollison’s, who had never been in a fiercer grip nor been in greater danger.

  But he was fully conscious and alert.

  He knew that if he fought back Bell would go berserk and would not stop until his fingers had squeezed the life out of the man whom he saw as his arch-enemy. Yet the temptation to kick, strike out, struggle, was overwhelming. Keeping still was like giving up without a fight: and giving up life. Somehow he held his breath, and held himself rigid, arms and legs limp, body as limp as it could be while he was held this way.

  He could not breathe.

  The blood thundered through his head and pumped like a dynamo through his ears.

  His lungs seemed full to bursting. Bell’s face was distorted because of his own distorted vision. The eyes were like pools of venom and the turned-back lips were like a wild creature’s. Rollison thought in despair that he had judged the man wrongly, that he should have fought back from the beginning.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  His lungs felt like bursting.

  The thumbs at his windpipe were like burning bands of steel.

  He felt his eyes rolling and felt consciousness slipping away; and he realised that he had no one but himself to blame. He was far beyond the point of no return. Grice had warned him, so had Moriarty. Jolly’s plea “Be careful, sir, I beg you to be careful” echoed in his ears. So did Kimber’s voice and the laughter of the girls at Jermyn Street.

  And then, the pressure stopped.

  He felt as if red hot air was tearing down his windpipe and into his lungs, but it was air. He felt a swelling pain at his throat but not the awful pressure. He felt his body being moved until he knew he was slumped back into the easy chair, head against the back, whole body, arms and legs limp. A combination of pain and pins and needles and numbness spread all over him. He could only gulp down air, and each time his lungs seemed to burn and swell. It was an age before he began to breathe more normally, and to open his eyes to the room and to Bell. Bell now stood by the wall cupboard, glass in hand. By his side was a glass of 4X. He brought this across to Rollison as Rollison sat more upright, and more at ease.

  His hand was trembling as he took the beer, but the glass was filled to the brim, and none spilled over.

  He sipped; the beer was at room temperature, thick, soothing. He coughed, choked, sipped again, and at last uttered a word.

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t choke the life out of you,” Bell said.

  Rollison took another, longer drink, and schooled himself to say: “You’re a better man than you think you are.”

  Bell snorted. “And still a sense of humour!”

  “Anyone—anyone who’s been as near death as that and pulled out of it ought to have plenty to laugh about,” Rollison replied. “May I walk about?”

  “Suit yourself,” Bell conceded.

  He stood watching as Rollison put the glass on a small chair, placed his hands on the arms of the one he was sitting in, and gradually rose to his feet. His head had seemed to swell and at the same time to feel like a drum; empty, yet filled with booming sounds. On his feet he swayed, stretched himself with a great effort against the chair arm, and staggered so much that it seemed as if he would have to give up. But at last he took a step forward; another and another. He made two turns round the room, and stopped at the door.

  “I’d like to wash.”

  “I’ll show you,” Bell said.

  The bathroom was tiny but modern and well-equipped. Rollison could see how the two houses had been converted; the room next to this was the kitchen. At one time in such a place the privy would have been outside and a cold tap would have been the only water supply. He ran hot and cold and looked at himself in a large mirror in front of which were women’s toiletries and a few oddments obviously belonging to Bell.

  His face was a mass of small scratches, plaster patches, and red spots mixed with pale ones. A thorough mess. He rinsed it carefully, dabbed himself dry and went back to the other room. Now, Bell was sitting down, as relaxed as Rollison could remember seeing him. He looked through narrowed eyes at Rollison, who felt stiff at the neck and swollen at the larynx and yet much more himself.

  “So I’m a ghost of a man,” Bell said.

  “You’re a very solid ghost,” Rollison said ruefully. “How old are you?”

  Bell was startled into saying: “Fifty-one.”

  “Twenty good years are waiting, if you’ll let them.”

  “This Queen’s Evidence, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would turn me into a squealer. What kind of life could I live that way?”

  “Bell,” Rollison said hoarsely. He took another gulp of 4X and had to make an effort to go on: “It’s your one chance; I meant what I told you. If Kimber and his party get away then you’ll be charged with helping them escape and you’ll get a long sentence. There won’t be any kind of life left for you or your family. You needn’t shop another soul, either – just Kimber’s group. No one is going to have any sympathy with them when the whole truth is known. And remember—”

  Rollison broke off.

  Bell looked calmer but there was no way of being sure how he would react to what Rollison had to say; had to say, for it seemed the one thing which might sway him into doing what Rollison wanted. Rollison moved back to the chair and sat on the arm, positioning himself so that if Bell did become aggressive again he would be in a better position to fight back. And this time he would fight with all the strength left in him.

  He said: “Kimber was responsible for Daisy’s death. You can’t help him to escape if you want an easy conscience: you’d never be able to live in peace if you let him go. You don’t really have any choice, and you must know it.” He saw Bell tensing himself in the chair as if ready to leap to the attack again, but went on: “Turn him in, Ding Dong.”

  He himself was ready to leap.

  Bell rose slowly to his feet, and his breath hissed through his nostrils and about the room.

  “Toff,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll tell you another thing I can’t do: turn Kimber in and stick around. If I turn him in I’ve got to get out of the country myself. I’m not going to turn Queen’s Evidence, only a fool would expect me to.”

  Rollison’s heart began to thump with a swift burst of hope. This was the first time Bell had shown any signs of cracking, and once a tiny crack came he might split wide open in a burst of emotional revulsion. His lips seemed very dry and obviously he had great difficulty in getting the words out.

  Rollison said: “One thing’s certain; you will have to live with yourself.”

  “Toff,” Bell said again, as if a great fight were being waged within him.

  “Yes?”

  “If I turn Kimber in and then get out of the country, will you look after my wife and Violet?”

  So he was on the verge of giving way! Properly handled, now, the situation could turn from disaster to triumph; not for him, Rollison, but for law and order and justice. Rollison’s heart had seldom beaten so fast.

 
He said: “Do you mean—money?”

  “No, you flicking fool. I’ve made sure they’ll have enough money. I mean, will you stop the police from hounding them?”

  “With absolute certainty,” Rollison promised. “Yes. Not that I think they’ll try.”

  “One other thing,” Bell rasped.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you help get them out of the country if they want to join me?”

  “Yes,” Rollison answered very quietly. “Everything I’ve got, everything my friends have, will be used to help them. I mean that absolutely.”

  He stood up.

  Bell looked at him hard and long as they stood facing each other. There seemed no sound in the room, no sound at all outside. Then slowly, Bell put his right hand forward, arm extended but bent upwards a little. Rollison put his arm forward. He knew he had won: in this strangest of all his cases, he had worked on the mind and heart of a man, not on his body and his fears, to get what he knew was vital. There was still a possibility that Bell would turn on him at the last moment, that the bent arm was really tensed to grip, twist, fool the Toff.

  “Shake on it,” Bell said.

  Rollison gripped his hard, cold hand. There was no hint of a trick, only the firm grip of a man who was sealing his promise with a handshake; a man accepting this handshake as a full and binding agreement: Bell to say where Kimber was, Rollison to ‘look after’ Daisy Bell and Violet.

  “My word on it,” Rollison said, quietly.

  “It’s a deal,” Bell replied as they gripped hands. Something like an electric shock ran through him, for Bell was quivering as if every nerve he had was tense and taut, almost raw with the effort he had made to reach this decision.

  As they stood there, as they released each other, the pact between them made, as Rollison wondered whether he would ever know such a moment again, as he wondered, also, whether he or Bell would make the next move, there was a click of sound; then a buzzing; and as Bell looked upwards, astounded, a voice – Kimber’s voice – came from the ceiling. The ceiling was opening over the wall common with the house next door, and the voice came even louder.

  “The only deal you’ve got is with me, Bell. Don’t move! Don’t either of you move! Or I’ll blow this place and everything in it to kingdom come. And if you don’t believe me—”

  Something small and bright like a glass phial, fell from the gap in the ceiling, and struck the arm of the chair Bell had been sitting in. It burst with a sharp explosion. There was a vivid blue flash, out of the flame a great balloon of blue smoke. Dazzled, and half-blinded, Rollison turned and groped for the door, but the smoke caught at his mouth and nose and made tears stream from his eyes.

  “Now listen to me, Ding Dong Bell,” Kimber went on savagely. “You get me and my party away or your precious wife and her Violet won’t live the night out. And nor will you. The bloody Toff won’t, either, you didn’t reprieve him for long.”

  All this time the gap in the ceiling widened, and Kimber and two other men dropped down into the smoke-filled room.

  Chapter 20

  The Microphones

  The sounds now were of the men dropping, moving about, steadying themselves. One was by the doorway, to make sure neither the Toff nor Bell could escape. Kimber himself, with that raw blond Viking look, was standing and grinning, anger softened by his moment of triumph. The smoke thinned, and Rollison could see clearly. One man close to him, a pistol in his hand; others close to Bell, also holding guns. And Kimber was equidistant from both Rollison and Ding Dong Bell.

  Bell was looking at Kimber; there was no way of judging what he was thinking.

  Rollison slid his hand to his trousers pocket and switched on the walkie-talkie. There were no atmospherics, and Moriarty would surely have the sense to make sure the set wasn’t used from the street.

  “You’re both fools,” Kimber said in a gloating voice. “You’re a bigger fool than Rollison, Bell. Did you really think I’d trust you? When you brought me and my little family to the Meeting House along the street and let us into two houses next door by the roof, did you think I’d just wait for you to come and let me out?” He gave a guffaw of laughter. “I did some investigating. Toff, did you know that all the houses from here to the Meeting House are connected above the ceiling? That you can get into each one by the ceiling or the door? That’s a fact. And when Ding Dong Bell is planning to hide runaways for a day or two or a week or two he takes them to the Meeting House where they’re supposed to work for the printer or a radio and television repair shop, and then they disappear. Right, Bell?”

  “When their ship’s ready to sail, they’re taken on board,” Bell said thickly.

  “Like I would have been,” Kimber cried.

  “I had three ships ready for your party,” Bell said. “For the morning tide.”

  “They’d better still be ready!”

  Bell said: “No, Kimber. The deal’s off.”

  “You took the thousand pounds—”

  “You can have it back,” Bell said. “It will help to pay for your defence.”

  Kimber said savagely: “We’ll sail, or your wife and daughter—”

  “You don’t think I’d believe you’d let any of us live now, do you?” Bell asked. “When you killed Daisy—”

  “I didn’t kill her!”

  “Oh yes you did,” Bell said coldly. “The moment you involved her in your tax frauds, you killed her. Until you started on her she was clean, absolutely clean. You lured her into your ‘family’ as you call it, and from then on she didn’t have a chance.”

  Kimber was breathing through his nostrils, harshly. Rollison was alert for every move, every change of expression, every word of explanation. He stood so still that even the man watching him looked beyond him to Bell and Kimber, who stood like two duellists, lunging with words, cutting new wounds and opening old ones.

  “So she didn’t have a chance?” Kimber breathed. “She would have, but for Rollison.” He glanced at Rollison but only for a moment. “She would have, but for Rollison, I tell you!” His voice rose. “If he hadn’t run after her from the tax office—”

  “You’d got her where you wanted her, before then,” Bell growled. “She was one of your harem, in it for kicks, high on drugs like all the others – and driven to do what you wanted because she had to have the shots and you made her earn them. My Daisy wouldn’t have gone spying and sneaking if she hadn’t been desperate.”

  “Your Daisy was a sexy little bitch.” Kimber lashed with his tongue, as if all he wanted to do was hurt. “All the same, if the Toff hadn’t followed her she wouldn’t have had to run. I sent her to listen so as to make sure whether Watson said anything to the Toff. I called him and warned him not to but I had to be sure. He didn’t. All that worried the Toff was his own tax. If he hadn’t chased after Daisy—”

  “Why was the driver of the M.G. killed?” Rollison asked, out of the blue. And Kimber answered almost on a reflex, so simply that it did not occur to the Toff that it was anything but true.

  “He was an accountant who worked for me, but he fell in love with Daisy. He was waiting there to pick her up and started after her when she ran into the road. I was there with my wife, but I wore a beard. I spoke to my wife and the driver recognised my voice. He was so scared he drove straight on and killed her. And then my wife gave him a shot of curare through a blowpipe which looked like a cigarette.”

  “You mean that if Daisy hadn’t been killed by the car she would have had a poisoned dart, too,” said Rollison, coldly.

  “She was getting too scared and she and her boyfriend were too dangerous,” Kimber almost boasted. He seemed to think it did not matter what he said, he was so sure of his ascendancy over the others.

  “And was Johnny P. Rains getting dangerous?” Rollison demanded.

  “He poked his nose
in too far,” Kimber replied roughly.

  “Just as you did, Toff. If you’d kept your nose out we could have gone on with this for a long time.” He turned to Bell and rasped: “We still can, if you play ball. No one else need know about these hideouts. Just get us away and there’ll be no more trouble. When things have quietened down I can come back and start again. I’ll tell you what,” went on Kimber, “I’ll give you a ten per cent cut in all the profits. It’s fool proof, Bell! I find someone who will give me a cut in what they save on tax. Then I get a tax inspector where I want him and he reduces the assessment, or accepts a false statement of accounts. I tell you it’s easy.”

  Bell said: “I can see that.”

  “And all we’re taking the cash from is the Exchequer – most people would do that any day of the week. Why, they can afford fewer cops, Ding Dong! Look at it that way!”

  Kimber laughed.

  Whether he meant what he said; whether he would have worked with Bell again, there was no way of telling. And that was not Rollison’s chief concern. Whatever those men decided, he would be condemned; and they had no idea that all that was being said was also being heard outside.

  Even if the police raided there would be grave danger from him, and he could not escape that danger. At this moment he did not want to. The great issue was in Bell’s mind. What would he do under this kind of pressure? There was no way of telling from his expression. It seemed as if both guns were turned on him now; as if everyone here felt that the Toff did not matter: only Bell could decide the issue.

  He did not look away from Kimber.

  “You don’t need any more telling,” Kimber urged. “My way you can always get back at the cops. The other way the cops come out on top, and that won’t be any easier to take just because the Toff’s dead and buried.”