by John Creasey
Rollison dropped down to the ground again.
A man, nearby, came at him with a broken bottle levelled at his face. He thrust out a foot and sent the man reeling back, but another came at him from the other direction and he had no doubt that they meant to kill. The best he could do was to fight back with the doorway behind him so that at least he need not fear an attack from the rear.
Men whose faces were covered by stocking masks came at him, one from the right, one from the left. He could not hope to deal with both; he had a strange feeling of calm with an acceptance of the fact that he was fighting his last fight. A knife flashed; a bottle smashed on the wall close to his head and sprayed him with jagged pieces. He saw a third man rushing at him, had only a split second in which to decide who to tackle first.
Suddenly men came rushing from the Blue Dog and from two corners, yelling, brandishing Indian clubs and ropes; and whistles sounded, very like police whistles. The attackers turned and ran, the rescuers, from Ebbutt’s Gymnasium, drew close to the Toff and flung a protective cordon about him. Already he knew that not one of them was under sixty.
Next Ebbutt came, at the double, gasping and wheezing. The whooping and the yelling stopped, Ebbutt drew level with the Toff and said with deep anxiety: “My Gawd! Look at your face!” Then he turned to one of the other men and went on urgently: “Get Lil. Tell her the Toff’s face is cut about something awful.” Then he took Rollison’s arm and led him across the road as blood oozed from a dozen cuts caused by the pieces of broken glass.
Chapter i6
Ding Dong
‘Lil’ was Bill Ebbutt’s wife.
She was now a Major in the Salvation Army, since rules and regulations had been relaxed so that, having married outside the Army, she should not be banned. She had trained in first aid as a girl, during the war, and she cleaned the cuts quickly and efficiently, here and there dabbing on a lotion which stung enough to make Rollison jump. But soon the pain eased, and Lil stood back from the chair in her living room and surveyed her patient with obvious satisfaction. Behind her, grampus-like, Bill Ebbutt held a towel and a bottle of the lotion.
“You’ll do, Mr. R.,” Lil said. She was small and thin-featured and sharp-eyed, wearing an expression which always seemed bad-tempered; but in fact she was one of the most even-tempered of women, most of her fervour coming when she was clanging on cymbals in the Salvation Army Silver Band. “How does it feel?” she added as an afterthought.
“Not bad at all,” Rollison admitted, with relief.
“You look almost back to normal,” Ebbutt declared. “Never seen so much blood, Mr. R., proper put the wind up me you did.”
“Just surface cuts,” Lil maintained. “Lucky thing none of them splinters caught you in the eyes, Mr. R.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Rollison said fervently.
“Now you sit there and I’ll get you a cup of tea,” Lil said, and she turned and added severely to her husband: “Not too much talking, now, he needs rest.” She went out on to the landing, leaving the two men.
The chair was of the kind which could be almost horizontal or very upright, and Rollison gradually changed its position until he was sitting upright. Doing so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror over the fireplace. He had three small patches of sticking plaster and several pinkish cuts which were little more than scratches. No one would doubt that he had been through the wars.
“Mr. R.,” said Ebbutt, sitting on a wooden armchair, “that was nasty.”
“But for you, it would have been nastier,” Rollison said gratefully.
“I’m not going to dispute that,” said Ebbutt. “What’s on, Mr. R.?” when Rollison didn’t answer immediately, he went on: “Who wants you dead?”
Rollison pursed his lips, and made a small cut by the side of his nose sting; but that did not prevent him from answering: “Do you know a man named Kimber?”
“Can’t say I do. Who is he, when he’s about?”
“I think he’s the prime mover of an attempt to defraud the Income Tax authorities,” Rollison answered.
“Who?” breathed Ebbutt.
“The Income Tax, or if you prefer it, the Inland Revenue people.”
“Well, you can’t blame anyone for that, Mr. R., can you? Bloody ruinous, these taxes are, never would surprise me if someone took the law into their own hands about it.” When Rollison didn’t respond Ebbutt went on: “Do you mean to say you’re working for the taxman?”
Rollison snorted; and Ebbutt looked bewildered, his face between that of a handsome pig and a benevolent cow. His face was as remarkable as his figure. He had a small forehead and cranium but a broad face with jawbone to cheekbone. What chin he had was hidden by three rings or tyres of pale flesh. His shoulders sloped but he was enormous at the chest and even more massive at his middle; but he seemed to fade away to small thighs and delicate feet and ankles. He was clad in a white loose-knit sweater and a pair of baggy flannel trousers. His small lips puckered all the time, and his button of a nose twitched; and as he breathed he wheezed: it was a chronic affliction.
“Not exactly for the taxman,” Rollison said. “In fact in the beginning ...”
Ebbutt was enthralled by the narrative. So was Lil, who brought in tea for all three and sipped and listened to the Toff. She often said she enjoyed just listening to his voice. There were noises from downstairs as the barmen cleared up after the night’s business. Rollison short cut many of the corners but the story as it was told covered all significant details, and in many ways the recital refreshed his memory. He had started on his third cup of tea when the narration was finished.
Ebbutt said, explosively: “Blimey!”
“William, I would like you to moderate your language,” Lil reproved, and she shifted forward in her chair, prim and upright. “Have you any idea what this Kimber is doing?” “
“Working on Inspectors of Income Tax, anyone can see that,” scoffed Ebbutt.
“I mean how?” asked Lil.
“I don’t know at all,” Rollison said. “I only know that several have died in accidents, possibly because they wouldn’t play ball, and others seem scared out of their wits. The obvious possibility is that they are being put under pressure to make them assess taxes on certain people or businesses too low.”
“Well, like I told you, you can’t blame no one—” began Ebbutt.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lil. “If they cheat Inspectors of Taxes they cheat the State, and if they cheat the State they defraud all the taxpayers. I do declare you get worse as you grow older, William.” She pursed her lips and folded her hands in her lap, while Ebbutt, thoroughly used to this kind of reprimand and reproach, simply said: “Any idea how many firms, Mr. R.?”
“No idea at all.”
“Now how much tax is involved?”
“Again – no idea,” replied Rollison. “But Bill Grice has been working on this for some time and obviously thinks it’s big. I am only guessing but it looks to me as if Kimber uses some attractive women” – he heard Lil say “Hussies!” in a whisper as he went on – “and begins by seducing the Inspectors. It is anybody’s guess, but man being frail—”
“Amen,” breathed Lil.
“They probably get into debt or—”
“Bed,” interjected Ebbutt.
“William!” barked Lil.
“Into trouble, anyhow,” went on Rollison, “and certainly they can be blackmailed to fix certain assessments.”
“You mean, if a man should pay a thousand pounds tax he only pays a hundred?” asked Lil.
“Or a hundred thousand and he only pays ten thousand.”
“Do you mean there are men who earn so much money they have to pay a hundred thousand pounds,” breathed Lil.
“Daylight robbery,” growled Ebbutt.
“Compan
ies have been known to pay in millions,” Rollison pointed out mildly. “One really big company whose tax was reduced by half because of the activities of Kimber and his friends could easily make the racket worthwhile. If there are a dozen companies—”
“It’s just a huge fraud!” Lil said in an unbelieving voice. “It’s a crime to have money like that when there are so many people starving.”
“It’s a crime to fix tax so high it makes this kind of racket worthwhile,” Bill Ebbutt growled; and Rollison sensed that these two people, devoted to each other, often saw social situations from entirely different angles. “Anyway, Mr. R, one thing’s plain as the nose on your face.” He leaned back and waited to be pressed to explain what he meant; all the encouragement he received was Lil’s sharp-voiced: “Well? What are you waiting for?”
Ebbutt snorted. “If you had any sense you’d be able to finish what I was going to say.” He looked down his nose. “You’ve got them on the run, Mr. R. They wouldn’t have laid on tonight’s raid if you hadn’t. They’re scared stiff of you, trying to discredit you first and cut your throat afterwards. Amazing how that recording was laid on tonight. The devils appeared out of nowhere and disappeared into nowhere, too. There wasn’t a single one left when the police arrived.”
“And when was that?”
“Five minutes after they started to attack you,” Ebbutt answered, and gave a wheezy little laugh. “I will say my old baskets did a good job, Mr. R. Coming out with those Indian clubs was a stroke of genius!”
“Bill,” Rollison said quietly, “I owe my life to that stroke of genius.”
“Forget it.” Ebbutt waved his plump hands. When you come to think of what we in these parts owe you, Mr. R., it’s nothing. Mind you if they’d known you were championing the taxman I don’t know they would have been so quick off the mark!”
“William—” began Lil.
“Okay, okay, I was only joking,” Ebbutt protested. “That’s the trouble with you army folk, no sense of humour. Have they, Mr. R.?” He concealed a grin as he went on: “They’d put that tape-recorder on the bottle and switched it on just as things were getting interesting between you and Ding Dong. He’s as tough as they come, Ding Dong is, but I didn’t expect to see him here tonight.”
“Why not?” asked Rollison, sharply.
“Well, blood’s a hell of a lot thicker than water in that family,” Ebbutt asserted. “And Ding Dong was really cut up about Daisy II. It’s a funny thing how that family has stood together, the ‘usband going away to quod for eight years or so breaks most families into little pieces. I suppose Ding Dong and Daisy just couldn’t sit at home and watch one another, they had to come out. And the Blue Dog’s as good a place as any, even if I do say it myself.”
“Do you know where Violet is?” asked Rollison.
“She works nights, somewhere in the West End,” answered Ebbutt. “I don’t know more than that.”
“How much do you know about Ding Dong?” asked Rollison.
“Well, there you have me,” Ebbutt admitted. “I don’t know a lot. He’s the kind of cove you take for granted after a while. I don’t mind telling you that when he was around here as a kid, I didn’t have any time for him at all. Wasn’t a bit surprised when he used a knife to cut up a man. But being inside taught him a lesson all right. Many’s the time I’ve heard him talking to youngsters in the public bar, Mr. R. ‘Anyone who does a job that puts him inside is crazy,’ he always said. ‘Keep out of quod whatever you do.’ And there’s another thing, Mr. R. I’ve known him give a pony to some chaps down on their luck who were thinking of doing a job. ‘Keep out of trouble,’ he always advised them. ‘But if you blow this and get broke again so that you have to do a job, don’t come back to me for no more help.’”
Ebbutt stopped, frowning, as if he could not understand such a man as Ding Dong Bell behaving in such a way. Rollison turned all the new information over in his mind, and was about to ask another question when Lil said: “Prevention’s better than cure, isn’t it?”
“Who said it wasn’t?” demanded Ebbutt. “Okay, Ding Dong has kept a lot of kids out of the cops’ way. Do you know why I think he does it, Mr. R.?”
“No. Tell me,” urged Rollison.
“I think he scores up a black every time he robs the cops of a case,” Ebbutt declared earnestly. “All he ever thinks about is outwitting the police. Isn’t that right, Lil?”
“For once I agree you are right,” Lil conceded.
“How does he make his money?” asked Rollison.
“Dunno that he needs much,” Ebbutt replied. “He’s a carpenter and joiner, proper handyman, and he does a lot of the work in the houses around here. Kind of Handy Andy, if you know what I mean. Studies the gee-gees, and has a system which brings him in a bit of dough, too. And of course he gets a lot slipped to him when he hides someone.”
“Hides?” asked Rollison.
“Whenever he gets the chance he hides people who are on the run from the rozzers,” explained Ebbutt. “Everyone knows it but no one’s really been able to prove it. He knows the docks like the back of his hands, and can finger places where men can lay low for a few days. He knows the masters of cargo boats who’ll take a wanted man out of England for a price, too. Proper traffic in that, but you don’t need telling, Mr. R.”
“I don’t need telling,” agreed Rollison soberly. “How deeply is Ding Dong involved in this?”
“If you ask me, pretty deep,” answered Ebbutt. “But I can’t prove it, Mr. R. I can tell you another thing, though. The police are always on the lookout for anyone being kept under cover, and if they could fasten anything on to Ding Dong Bell they wouldn’t lose a minute. But they can’t. If they could they certainly would,” added Ebbutt for extra emphasis. “I— ”
He broke off, for the telephone bell rang. Like a giant sloth he heaved himself out of the armchair and crossed to the instrument in a corner. He looked so enormous from behind, at the seat almost twice as broad as at the shoulders and the knees. Lil moved and studied the cuts and scratches on Rollison’s face, and then unexpectedly kissed him lightly on the forehead.
“You take care of yourself, Mr. Rollison,” she pleaded earnestly. “There aren’t so many men like you that we can afford to lose one.”
Her eyes, sometimes smouldering grey, were moist; and she held his hands tightly, her fingers very cool. Above the things she said in her quiet voice, there sounded Ebbutt’s as he demanded: “Who? ... Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t ... Well, who wants ‘im? ... Who? ... Oh, Mr. Grice, why didn’t you say so right away? Just ‘old on and I’ll find out whether he’s still here.” Ebbutt turned, gave a gargantuan wink, and called in a loud voice as if to someone a long way off: “Anyone know if Mr. R. is still downstairs? ... Don’t keep me waiting a lifetime, I’ve got Mr. Grice on the line ... Won’t keep you long, Superintendent—”
Rollison got up and moved slowly towards the big ex-boxer and the telephone. Lil began to tidy up: towels, basin of browny-coloured water, bottles of lotion, tin of adhesive plasters, antiseptic. She had these on a tray as Rollison reached her husband and took the telephone. At the same moment Ebbutt said hoarsely: “I’ve got him, Mr. Grice. Here he is.” Rollison said: “Hallo, Bill.”
“You mean you are alive,” Grice said, sarcasm redolent in his voice.
“Don’t say you’re sorry to hear it,” Rollison retorted mildly.
“No. Just astounded,” Grice replied, and then he went on more seriously: “I’m told it was touch and go, and that you were badly cut about the head and face. Are you really all right, Rolly?”
“All my cuts and scratches are superficial,” Rollison assured him. “I’m still capable of action, Bill. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t know,” Grice said in a quiet voice, “but I have had some reports, and they come from some documents left behind a
t Kimber’s place in Jermyn Street; he hid some papers under floorboards, and didn’t have time to take the boards up. Seven senior Inspectors of Taxes have been or are being blackmailed into being involved in some kind of racket. Two have died; one is in hospital after a car accident. The others, including the man Watson at Pleydell House, seem to be missing. Watson may turn up but he hasn’t yet been home tonight. And each of these handles some particularly big private as well as company accounts. The Fraud Squad with some Inland Revenue investigators have started going through the major accounts at each office. Meanwhile, if you have the faintest idea where any of the missing officers are, I want to know.”
After a long pause, Rollison asked quietly: “What makes you think I might know?”
“Because Kimber is trying so hard either to keep you quiet or to kill you,” Grice answered. “He wouldn’t do that if he weren’t worried about what you know. What do you know?” Grice finished with an aggressive, accusing note in his voice.
Chapter 17
Question
There was a long pause, with the Ebbutts staring at Rollison obviously aware that Grice was being difficult, to say the least, and Grice breathing heavily as if he were waiting to pounce. At least he did not speak again, but allowed Rollison time to think. There was a ring at the flat door, which was at the head of the stairs leading up from the public bar. Lil waited for Bill to go, while he waited for her. Eventually he got up with great reluctance and Lil settled back in her chair.
