The Toff and the Terrified Taxman Read online

  “Who—” he began, and then recovered himself and said: “This is Richard Rollison.”

  “This is Ding Dong Bell,” Bell responded in his harsh and now familiar voice which held a ring of humour. “I want you to know that your friend Grice isn’t like all the other coppers I’ve known. He’s almost human.”

  “I’m glad you agree with me,” Rollison said. “But you didn’t ring me up just to say that, did you?”

  “No,” Bell agreed, laconically. “Can you come and see me tonight, Toff? I might have some news for you.”

  “Yes,” Rollison said promptly. “Where and at what time?”

  “25, Quaker Street, Whitechapel,” answered Bell. “That’s where I live. You needn’t get the wind up, Toff. I won’t have a reception party.”

  “You disappoint me,” Rollison said, lightly. “What time did you say?”

  “I didn’t. How about nine-thirty?”

  “I’ll be there,” promised Rollison. “Goodbye.”

  As he rang off, he pictured Ding Dong Bell’s face and tried to recapture the tone of his voice, with its note of rough humour. And two things seemed important, by far the greater Bell’s change of feeling towards Grice. Bless old Bill! The other was the use of his own nickname. Ding Dong. Slowly, he realised that the call had driven thought of Johnny P. Rains out of his mind, and another realisation followed: that he, Rollison, had given very little thought to Rains, and had not been deeply affected by his accident. In some way it had been more remote; he had seen what had happened but not so closely.

  Yet Rains had been a human being whose life had been cut off; and there must be a possibility - a probability - that he had been run down because of his visit to him; to the Toff. For a few moments Rollison stood quite still, turning that thought over in his mind. Then he lifted the telephone, half-prepared for it to ring; but it did not. He dialled New Scotland Yard, was answered almost instantly, wondered whether Grice would be in and heard the familiar voice almost as soon as he had asked for him.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “The Toff,” breathed Rollison, in a puckish moment.

  “The—oh!” Grice relaxed, but went on with a grim note in his voice: “Defender of the Wicked, I presume.”

  “Is Ding Dong Bell so wicked?” demanded Rollison.

  “If my information is right, and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be, he gives a helping hand to any crook who needs it, fresh out of jail or not,” Grice said. “His daughters are associates of thieves, and he’s spread a ‘hate the police’ campaign through the East End for years. Venomously.” When Rollison didn’t answer, Grice went on: “He could be fooling you, Rolly.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” conceded Rollison. “Did you see him yourself?” There was no need for the Yard man to know he had been in touch with Ding Dong. In many ways it would be better if he didn’t find out yet.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  “Hard as granite in some ways.”

  “Ah. And the other ways?”

  “I haven’t any doubt that he was badly hurt by the death of his daughter,” Grice answered quietly, “and I can imagine how sorry you would feel for him; that’s what makes me think he could be fooling you. I don’t necessarily mean deliberately. I mean the man you saw might be very different from the usual man simply because he’s so cut up.”

  When Grice finished he waited as if knowing that Rollison would need a little time to absorb what he had said; and indeed, Rollison did. He knew Grice as a good human being with the finest of instincts, and also as a man with a penetrating mind. He was not necessarily wrong over this possibility. On the other hand, he did not know the murderous mood in which Bell had arrived.

  “Yes, Bill,” he said quietly, “I won’t overlook that.”

  “Good!” Grice said more heartily than was his wont. “And don’t misunderstand me. There was a quality in the man which I rather liked. However—”

  He left that word hanging, and that could only be for a purpose. Rollison, who had been on the point of telling him about Johnny P. Rains, simply waited. The years of friendship with this man had taught him to know when Grice had something of real importance to say. As he waited, he heard the ambulance bell in the street, again; they would be taking Johnny P. Rains away.

  Then Grice spoke, and drove away all thoughts of Johnny P., all thought of everything but the morning’s hideous affair. It explained – or could explain – a great deal which had seemed inexplicable, but the first impact simply took his breath away.

  “The driver of the car which killed Daisy Bell didn’t die of a heart attack,” Grice said. “That was the first assumption, but the autopsy has shown that he died from an injection of curare, almost certainly injected by a small hollow needle which could have been fired from an air-gun of some kind and possibly by mouth, as by a blow-pipe. We not only have the autopsy report and know that the point of contact was the driver’s right cheek, but a small mark is still there, not large enough for a hypodermic needle but quite noticeable under close examination. I’m sending men to examine the car, the actual murder weapon might be in it.”

  Grice stopped.

  Rollison, until then breathing very heavily, said slowly: “So this was murder, Bill.”

  “I suppose it could have been accidental,” Grice temporised.

  “Oh, come! Who would send poison darts flying about a public highway by accident?” Rollison rejected the idea and was sure that Grice didn’t take it seriously. “Is there anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Who was the young driver?” Rollison asked.

  “We haven’t identified him yet,” Grice answered. “He had no easy-to-recognise identification or marks.”

  “Could I have a photograph of him?” asked Rollison.

  Grice could of course ask what he wanted with a photograph, and if he did then it might be wise to tell him that he wanted to find out whether Ding Dong Bell recognised the driver. He heard another telephone bell in Grice’s office, however, and wasn’t surprised when Grice said: “Hold on, Rolly.” Then a moment later: “I’ve got to go and see the Commander. If you really want that photograph I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t have one. I’ll leave it at the desk. Don’t get up to too many tricks, mind. This affair looks like being deadly.”

  Grice rang off; and Rollison had not told him about Johnny P. Rains; it was almost as if he were meant not to. As he thought this, Jolly appeared, but did not speak at once. Rollison raised his hands and then let them fall, and said: “You got all that?”

  “Yes. Be very careful, sir.”

  “I shall be very careful indeed,” Rollison said. “Meanwhile, go and get that photograph for me, will you?”

  “Shall I wait for half-an-hour, sir?”

  “Yes,” Rollison said. “That will probably be wise. But I’m going out, Jolly. I want to search the office of Mr. Johnny P. Rains before the police get there.”

  Jolly looked as if he were going to protest; even, to plead. But instead he said resignedly: “I see, sir. You will go armed, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Rollison said. “And I’ll put on an old suit, too!”

  He went into his bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Jolly came in and took a grey herring-bone tweed suit which Rollison had bought off the peg years ago. And he also put out some rubber soled shoes. Rollison, meanwhile, opened the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe and then pressed a spot on one side. The side of the drawer slid open, revealing a recess in which was a palm gun, some cigarettes which carried tear-gas phials, and a knife with a clip which he fastened just below his left elbow; by flexing his muscles he could work the handle down into his palm. There was also a thick penknife with a variety of stainless steel blades, and a coil of nylon cord. He changed, and put
these weapons into his pockets where he could get at them most conveniently – the palm gun, like a thin pocket watch, in his right-hand jacket pocket. On one side was a piece of adhesive cloth which would hold the gun secure against his palm. To fire, he had simply to open a gap between his third and middle finger, bringing the middle finger down on the ‘trigger’ which was really a catch on the outer edge of the gun.

  At close quarters, this gun could kill. Even at twenty feet it could inflict a nasty wound.

  “Now I’m all right,” Rollison said, as if he weren’t quite sure.

  “I only hope you don’t have cause to use them.” Jolly sounded glum and fearful. “What time shall I expect you back, sir?”

  “If all goes well at Johnny P’s office I shall go straight on to Bell’s place, at 25 Quaker Street, Whitechapel, where I’m due at half-past nine. That gives me three hours or more. If I’m not back by eleven o’clock, telephone Quaker Street. If you’re not satisfied, alert the police.”

  “I certainly will,” Jolly promised earnestly.

  Rollison went out, feeling quite sure that Jolly was at the door, looking up into the periscope; he would stay there until Rollison had turned the first bend in the stairs. Rollison went down slowly, reached the street and saw a crowd still gathered and uniformed policemen taking measurements in the road. There were chalk marks where the body had been. No one took any notice of Rollison, who walked to the end of the street, and saw a vacant cab. Soon he stepped out outside a theatre where there was a line at the box office. He walked along to Pleydell Street.

  Everything was as he had left it.

  There were the parked cars, with a few gaps, the tall buildings, new and old, the entrance to Pleydell House, dark, perhaps seeming more cavernous. The big lift cage seemed to be coming down. He withdrew in the shadows as it appeared. The secretary who had been eager for his autograph came out, with one of the young men he had seen at the tax office; they were holding hands. Several other people got out, emptying the lift. Rollison stepped in and pressed the top floor button, heard another buzz of sound and as he passed the second floor, saw the elderly man standing there with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was glaring.

  “Can’t you stop this bloody thing?”

  Rollison felt a twinge of guilt as he went by, but he did not want to be seen closely. He got out at the fifth floor and pressed the second floor bell before closing the gates; with luck, the man would get it as it went down. He stepped to the door of Johnny P. Rains’s office, which was opposite that of Bonatti and Firmani, artists in decor. There was a light under that doorway but nothing at Rains’s. He first tried the handle; it turned but then stopped. He took out his penknife and opened a skeleton key blade and inserted it in the old-fashioned keyhole. It took only a few moments to turn the lock, and as it clicked, he stood back.

  A voice sounded very close to his ear.

  “This is your last chance. If you’re late in the morning, you’ll be through.”

  A girl said in a gooey voice: “Oh, sweetie pie, what a bad temper you’re in. Doesn’t he like his little Goosie Girl anymore?” There was a sound, half-laugh, half-giggle, and the door of the artists in decor opened and a blonde came out. She had the longest legs, the shortest mini and the most beautiful flaxen hair Rollison had ever seen; her hair was so long that it looked as if she wore nothing but the mini skirt. She closed the door on the man who was presumably her employer and walked towards the stairs. She did not look round, or she would have seen Rollison. As she started down, she began to hum a pop tune; Rollison suspected that this was for the man’s benefit should he open the door.

  Rollison opened Johnny P. Rains’s door and went inside.

  There was plenty of light from the window to show the small outer office; a cover was uneven over the typewriter, that was the only change. The door to Johnny P. Rains’s office was closed, but proved to be unlocked.

  He pushed it open cautiously.

  Whenever he forced entry into house or office, he felt the tension that dropped upon him now. It wasn’t exactly fear but was not far from it: a tense apprehension of what he might find. He had run into trouble so often, sometimes into near disaster. He slid one of the tear-gas cigarettes from its packet and put it to his lips, then went inside.

  The office was empty; there seemed no danger at all.

  He went behind the desk, found the middle, control drawer locked, used a smaller skeleton key and turned and opened the drawer. All the others became unlocked at the same time. He saw photocopies of the report Johnny P. had shown him; and as he opened the drawer wider he saw much more: a thick folder, marked Kimber, A. L. and an address in Jermyn Street. There were so many papers and documents here that they could not have been collected that afternoon alone: Johnny P. must have been working on this man for some time.

  Rollison opened the folder.

  On top was a photograph of a girl, a blonde with hair nothing like as lovely as the blonde’s next door. Beneath was another, a third, fourth and fifth.

  The bottom photograph was of Daisy Bell.

  Chapter 11

  Photographs

  Rollison touched the photographs and the file very gingerly. He must not leave fingerprints, for the police would come here as soon as they had identified Johnny Rains. He set the pictures aside, and began to go through the papers. There were many notes written in the enquiry agent’s neat handwriting, and a story gradually built itself up from the notes, some other, smaller photographs, some newspaper clippings and some pencil sketches. The notes were filed with the latest ones at the front, so the last one was the earliest.

  Why does W. go to Kimber & Co.?

  Three other notes ran:

  Followed W. to K. again... He appears more scared each time ... No sign of monkey business where the floozies are concerned.

  Next Rollison came to a report which ran to several pages, also in that neat and very legible handwriting. He read and summarised it as he went along. Johnny P. had become very interested in Watson’s movements, particularly his frequent visits to Kimber & Co. in Jermyn Street. The only possible reason, he came to believe, was a tax fiddle of some kind. The report which simply amplified the first notes, showed a picture of Watson becoming more and more frightened. Then there was a note:

  If I could find out why it might be very profitable.

  Next was a press cutting stuck on to a thick piece of paper. The headline ran:

  Tax Man Dies of Heart Attack

  Rollison’s own heart lurched as he began to read. The cutting was from the Evening Standard and concerned an Inspector of Taxes for a North London district. At the foot of the cutting, Rains had written in a bolder hand than usual:

  W. very agitated and upset this morning.

  Next came some notes.

  “I must make contact with someone in W.’s office. He jumps out of his skin if I ask any kind of question ... The blonde girl, Ivy Bartol seems the best bet ... Asked Ivy to have a drink with me today: received a dusty answer! ... Asked Ivy and today she was thirsty ... Nice little girl and attractive above the waist ... Very loyal to W... Confides he’s worried and although she didn’t say so obviously thinks he’s being blackmailed ... Doubt if she will give me much, she’s loyal to a fault ... Asked her if she knew Kimber of Kimber and Company and she shut up like a clam, from which I deduce that they do Kimber’s assessment at this office ... Is the time coming for a talk with W?”

  After this came several more press cuttings, and Rollison read them with growing interest and concern. Two were about Inspectors of Tax who had been involved in accidents; one had died. Another was a cutting in a daily newspaper, headed:

  Tax Inspector on Bribe Charge

  Rollison, sitting at the desk as if it were at home, heard a sharp click, and raised his head quickly, alarmed. Then he heard another click, and footsteps: the man from next door was presumab
ly shutting up the office and going out. As silence fell again, Rollison turned back to the papers, held by them in a kind of mesmeric intensity.

  A note dated the day before yesterday was headed: Mistake. It went on:

  “I asked W. why he was so worried today and obviously it was a mistake. He told me to mind my own damned business, and said his work was confidential. Very touchy and I doubt whether he will ever confide in me. He went to K. & Co. again today. I must tackle Ivy Bartol tomorrow.”

  The next note, of yesterday’s date was headed:

  Why the Toff?

  “A turn up for the book today! Ivy tells me that no less a person than the Honourable Richard Rollison, better known as the Toff, is going to see Watson tomorrow. I was careful not to ask many questions. Possibly there is some doubt about the Toff’s income declarations. My! What a sensation if it’s proved that the great Rollison is defrauding the taxman ... I wonder how much this would be worth to a newspaper if I gave one the tip? I should be able to get a couple of hundred and God knows I need it! ... On second thoughts I might be able to tap the Toff ... He could put some work in my way, especially if I could exert a little pressure ... No, it’s no use, I am not a natural blackmailer, I feel a heel even when I think about using pressure ... Still, Rollison might be able to give me some work, it’s worth trying.”

  On another sheet, without a headline, was a note:

  “I wonder if the Toff has come to find out what W.’s up to? That would be characteristic of the man, to make dubious returns so as to get into the office and check on W. himself. Highly intriguing! I will try to see the Toff tomorrow and have a word with him.”

  That was the last note before the report Rollison already had.

  Small wonder Johnny P. Rains had been breathing down his neck, of course; and he had seemed so genuinely pleased by their ‘chance’ meeting. Rollison sat back, flipping over the photographs again, making sure that each one registered clearly on his mind.