The Toff and the Terrified Taxman Page 4

“Where did it happen?” Grice asked, obviously checking himself from adding: “And why?”

  “In Pleydell Street,” stated Rollison, watching Grice closely.

  Grice was taken right off his balance. He even leaned against the airing cupboard at the end of the bath, pursing his lips. He was over six feet tall, a broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, sparely-built man with no excess flesh. His face was aquiline, the nose slightly hooked and the skin stretched so tight at the bridge that it was almost white, although he had an olive skin which always looked sunburned. He had brown eyes, clearly defined lips, and on the left side of his face a burn scar; he had been burned when a bomb intended for the Toff had exploded as he examined it.

  That had really been the beginning of their friendship.

  Jolly, standing up from his labours, looked seventy but was in fact in his early sixties. He had a very lined face, a sad, at times doleful, some said dyspeptic, expression. Beneath his chin the skin sagged, like that of a man who had once been heavy-jowled and had lost weight on a crash diet. In the way of Watson! His eyes, too, were brown, the lids were wrinkled. He had thinning grey hair and a small bald spot.

  “In Pleydell Street,” Grice said at last. “So you admit it.”

  “I state it,” corrected Rollison.

  “Rolly,” Grice said in a voice obviously schooled to sound friendly. “When I saw a police constable’s report that you’d been there I came round at once, hoping he was wrong. When are you going to stop playing the fool?”

  “I didn’t know I had played the fool lately.”

  “Then what the hell do you think you’re doing now?” Grice exploded.

  Jolly finished spreading a salve over the clean-looking wound, and picked up a box of adhesive plasters. He shot Grice a disapproving look, then selected a large plaster, big enough to cover the skinned patch. Rollison, meanwhile, returned Grice’s angry glare with a blank look, and slowly shook his head.

  “Can’t you see?” he demanded.

  “For God’s sake don’t make light of it! This affair could be deadly.”

  It began to dawn on Rollison that Grice was not simply trying to upset him or to make him talk: he was acutely distressed. For the first time since he had reached here, Rollison began to be able to think. Until then he had been so oppressed by the mental image of what had happened and by the pain; now, he slipped back into his real self, saw how worried Grice was, knew something very serious was troubling him.

  He said: “Yes, Bill. I’ve found that out already.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me what you knew and what you were planning?”

  Rollison said: “Because I wasn’t planning a thing and didn’t know a thing.”

  Grice’s lips parted, he looked about to shout: “Don’t lie to me!” But he bit back the words. Rollison put a hand on Jolly’s shoulder and eased himself up, aware that Jolly was now staring at him in puzzlement; Jolly, clearly, had been too concerned with the injured leg to think seriously about Grice’s manner; but Jolly was seldom befuddled or preoccupied for long.

  “Make the tea, will you?” Rollison asked him. “Mr. Grice will stop me from collapsing.” He tested his leg. “That’s much better. I didn’t know I could make such a fuss about a trifle.” He waved Jolly out of the bathroom and Grice led him by the short passage into the big room. Trifle or not, he still had to walk with care. He went to a large armchair which faced the passage and grunted as he sat down. Grice pushed up a leather-covered pouffe.

  “Thanks.”

  “Pleasure. Will you now tell me what happened?”

  “If you will (a) stop jumping down my throat, and (b) assume I am telling the truth and not trying to deceive you.”

  Grice grunted: “That will be the day.”

  “It has to be the day. I’m neither in mood nor shape to have a shouting match or a game of cat and mouse with you. Or for that matter, with anybody.”

  “What’s upset you so?” demanded Grice. He sat on a corner of a large, flat-topped desk, gripping the edge with his hands. His back was to a high wall which had a remarkable miscellany of objects on it, most of them weapons. This was called the Trophy Wall and each trophy or exhibit was a memento of a case in which the Toff had been involved. These two men were perhaps the least impressed of any in the world with the remarkable tales the Trophy Wall told.

  Rollison said briskly: “I shall make it as brief as I can.” He paused, pursing his lips. “I am planning to go to America, to spend a few romantic weeks with Chellis Spiro. I thought I’d cleared everything up. Out of the blue came a demand for double my usual income tax, a sum large enough to hurt. My accountant is ill with a slipped disc. After a chat with him I went to see the taxman myself. I saw him. He was terrified.”

  All this time, Rollison had been studying Grice closely, and had observed the changing emotions which crossed the detective’s alert face. First, a kind of stubborn determination to listen patiently. Next, astonishment. Next, no doubt, incredulity, although the fact that the Toff was clearing the decks for a visit to the United States must surely have convinced him that this story was literally true.

  After the incredulity there came almost baffled amazement which ended with open-mouthed astonishment when Rollison stated so starkly: “He was terrified.”

  Now, Rollison’s pause invited Grice to put questions, and with great deliberation, he asked: “What terrified him?”

  “At least one thing I don’t know about. And certainly, I did.”

  “Then you did go to put the fear of God into him!” Grice burst out.

  “No, Bill,” Rollison replied gently. “I don’t know why he was scared out of his wits of me, but he was.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Not all the time, mind you.”

  Jolly came in with a laden tray; not only tea but coffee, not only milk but cream, not only biscuits but wafer-thin sandwiches. He placed this on a knee-high table near the Toff, a Scandinavian contemporary piece which merged with the older pieces ranging from a William and Mary oyster-shell cabinet in walnut to a Regency writing desk known to the initiated as an escritoire. As he poured out, coffee for Grice, tea for Rollison, Rollison asked: “Did you get the gist of what I’ve told Mr. Grice, Jolly?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jolly had a microphone in the kitchen which could pick up what was being said anywhere in the flat; there were several such microphones here. There was a tacit understanding between them about the occasions when Jolly should listen in; and he always chose the right occasion.

  “Then I’ll go straight on. Sit down, Jolly.” Jolly chose a small armchair and sank back into it, while Grice continued to sit against the desk, cup and saucer in hand, a plate with sandwiches where his right hand had been. “The Inspector of Taxes, a Mr. F. Watson, was alarmed by something but amiable enough when I first arrived. And his staff descended on me for autographs. Then Watson had a telephone call, and real terror struck.”

  “Have you any idea what caused it?” asked Grice.

  “I only know that he seemed to see me as the Devil in modern dress, and grabbed the first excuse he could to get away. I suspect that he told one of his staff to fake a summons to his head office in Whitehall, and he rushed off. He was replaced by a deputy, name Cobb. Cobb accused me of making false income tax returns.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Grice.

  “How absurd can officialdom get?” demanded Jolly, indignantly.

  “Had he any evidence?” demanded Grice, as if eagerly.

  “He wouldn’t show me all he had but promised to write with full details,” Rollison answered, briskly. He drank more tea and bit off a piece of a shortcake biscuit before going on: “He let me out of the office by a side door. A girl who had been eavesdropping there cut and run for it. I had never seen her before, and gave chase. I caught her as she stepped, in fact nearly fell, into Pleydell Street. She
asked me – pleaded with me – to let her go. I held on to her, saying we needed to talk. She kicked me on the shin and got free and ran straight into the path of a car. She must have died instantly,” Rollison gulped. “It was not a good thing to see.”

  When he stopped, there was a deep silence; even a profound one. Grice put his cup down and stood up. Jolly sat against the back of his chair, obviously deeply troubled. Rollison finished his biscuit and Jolly sprang forward to give him some more tea.

  “It must have been a most disturbing experience,” he remarked.

  “Very disturbing,” Rollison agreed. “If I had let her go at once she would probably have gone along the street, not across it. And she wouldn’t have been in such a blind panic. If I’d held on to her she would still be alive.” His thoughts stirred. “She was in panic and the Inspector of Taxes was in terror, all because of me.”

  “And you don’t know why?” Grice again seemed to breathe scepticism.

  “I don’t know why.”

  “Your tea,” said Jolly.

  “All I know and cannot emphasise too much,” said Rollison, taking the cup and saucer, “is that if I had let her go earlier or if I had held on to her, she would be alive now. So in a way, I killed her.” He turned and looked intently into Grice’s eyes and went on in a steely voice: “I know no more than I’ve told you, Bill. I had no prior knowledge of the affair, but from this moment on it is my business. Avenging the girl is my business. I’ll work with the police or without them, and if I have to in spite of them, but I shall work to find out who killed her, and bring the murderer to book.”

  As he finished, he looked defiantly into Grice’s eyes, as if expecting to be warned off at once. But Grice did not warn him off. He stood up, put his cup and saucer back on the tray, looked down at the Toff and replied very quietly.

  “It must be with us, Rolly. I know nothing would make you hold off and there’s no sense in cutting each other’s throats.” He paused, only to go on: “We want to find the truth as much as you do. Watson is the third Inspector of Income Tax in the Central London area known to be frightened out of his wits. Members of their staffs have reported this, but so far we don’t know what the cause is.” He paused but held a hand out, discouraging the others from making comment. He seemed to be assessing his thoughts very carefully before he went on: “I heard you had been an eyewitness and assumed you were already in the hunt. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Rollison waved a hand as if to say “Forget it”, and Grice went on very quietly: “Did you notice the driver of the car involved, Rolly?”

  Rollison’s throat went dry.

  “Yes,” he answered. “A young man.”

  “He also died,” Grice told him. “It seems of a heart attack.”

  Chapter 5

  Two to Avenge

  The shadow which had lifted from Rollison for a few moments in the telling of the story, once more gathered about him, dark as a threatening storm. There was no sound but their breathing; not even Jolly stirred. Rollison seemed to be lifted out of this room to the entrance to the office building in Pleydell Street; had a vivid mental picture of the girl’s body draped, lifeless, over the front of the car, and the young man so improbably upright at the steering wheel. He felt as if he would never be able to get either sight out of his mind. He could even feel the pain from that savage kick; it was as if he had really gone back in time.

  Slowly, the tension faded, relief and a kind of pleasure replaced it. Grice of course believed him, and had immediately conceded that they must work together. The time when he had relished a running battle with crooks on one side and the police on the other, had long gone – even if, in emergency, he would still wage such a fight.

  At last, Jolly spoke.

  “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

  “No,” Rollison said.

  Jolly stood up and collected cups and saucers and plates and put them on the tray. He would switch on his loudspeaker as soon as he reached the kitchen, and the more he knew the better when the Toff came to discuss the case with him.

  Grice took the seat Jolly had been in.

  “Rolly,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Had you played the fool over income tax?”

  “No.”

  “The most unexpected people do, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “One of the senior superintendents at the Yard had been receiving payment for books he wrote under a pen name and didn’t declare the income.”

  “What a bad man he must have been!”

  Grice ignored the attempt at flippancy, and went on: “Few people seem to think it a real crime to cheat income tax or customs. You must know that. There seem to be double standards of honesty in most people on these things.”

  “I do know.”

  “And you haven’t played the fool?”

  “I have not,” asserted Rollison.

  Yet he had a feeling that Grice was not fully satisfied; that the other averted his gaze because of his doubts. Moreover it was very true that the most upright of people, who would not cheat a human being of a penny, would not cheat on public transport or in any form of business, who would find a richly-filled purse or wallet and take it to the nearest police station, would try to walk through customs adorned with wristwatches, diamond rings, fur coats or carrying currency; and they would lie until they were black in the face in their income tax returns.

  “You know,” Grice said. “I’ve had a lot of investigation to do into income tax evasion, with the tax people. I was in charge of a case only a few months ago which involved a peer of the realm, and another involving a well-known politician.”

  “I no doubt should be astounded,” remarked the Toff, drily.

  Grice appeared not to notice that remark, and went on musingly: “The tax people appear to have evolved a method to fight it. They appear to work on the principle that everything a man or woman earns shows up sooner or later. Instead of making a big song and dance about it, they simply add the total to the latest assessment. More often than not the taxpayer takes a deep breath and swallows the bitter dose. Occasionally, one denies everything, and there has to be a full investigation in which we at the Yard help. Now and again a mistake is proved, but that generally comes out before a case is taken to court. If there’s obvious intent to defraud or to avoid payment it’s always taken to court.”

  Rollison did not comment.

  “This way the State gets its due and the individual saves face,” Grice went on.

  “And, possibly, goes bankrupt,” put in Rollison, coldly.

  “Seldom,” Grice said.

  “Too often,” Rollison argued.

  “Possibly,” Grice conceded, “but the law’s the law, Rolly. I might not like some aspects of it, but I have to enforce it and so in their way do the tax people.” Grice was no longer musing but being very earnest, even intent. “The only way to fight tax is through political channels. Which reminds me: are you going to continue with politics?”

  “No.”

  “That seems very definite.”

  “It is,” declared Rollison.

  “I don’t know whether to be pleased or sorry,” replied Grice, giving a grim smile. “If you were lashing about you in politics you would have little time to investigate crime.”

  “And think of the criminals who would wallow in freedom and luxury then,” retorted the Toff.

  This exchange helped him; lifted the shadow and lightened the burden. And there was the familiar camaraderie with Grace, they were discussing rather than arguing. He felt much more at ease.

  “Think how many more we would have time to catch if we didn’t have to spend so much time with you,” Grice riposted. That obviously put him in a good mood, so that he spoke even more naturally and went on without affronting t
he Toff. “I was saying, whether we like the rate of income and surtax or not, we have to live with it and any new method of getting unpaid taxes without causing delinquents a lot of shame as well as money seems a good one to me.”

  “Do you mean to say—” began Rollison, obviously horrified.

  “Good Lord, it’s not official!” exclaimed Grice. “It’s simply a system adopted by more and more Inspectors of Taxes. I doubt if there is even an unwritten law about it. More likely there’s a kind of grapevine which links all the Inspectors of Revenue and the rule seems to be: Get as much as you can with as little fuss as you can. And Rolly – it works.”

  “I’m not at all sure it isn’t a form of whitemail,” Rollison objected.

  “Nonsense! Finding a way of making a man pay his just dues isn’t white or blackmail. What’s got into you? It’s the kind of thing you should want to do yourself!” Grice actually laughed; a kind of chortle. “The point I am making is that velvet glove methods often work where iron hand tactics fail.”

  “I have taken your point,” Rollison said, with affected coldness. “If I admit to my sins, I will simply pay up – and that will be considered sufficient punishment.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Grice.

  “But in matters of tax I’ve committed no sins,” Rollison asserted.

  “Then you’re a rare bird,” replied Grice. “For sin, read ‘mistake’ or ‘oversight’ and think again.”

  “I have thought and thought,” Rollison replied earnestly. “And if they don’t drop it I shall fight and fight – even to the doors of the bankruptcy court.”

  They stared at each other, long and appraisingly, as if each was trying to make sure whether the other meant what he said or not. No one, watching, could have doubted that they each did.

  Grice shifted first.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said laconically. “Now, other things.”

  “Bill—” Rollison began, and paused.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you say three Inspectors of Income Tax are known to be scared?”