9

THE GRAND INQUISITOR BROUGHT JAKE TO HIS OFFICE by dispatching notices of reassessment for seven years, 1960 through 1966, requiring a total of no less than £7,200 in settlement thereof within thirty-one days.

“What happens now?” Jake demanded of Oscar Hoffman.

“Don’t worry about a thing. They’ll compromise. They always do.”

Hoffman accompanied Jake to the Grand Inquisitor’s office, where after an exchange of niceties –

“Ah,” Jake exclaimed, espying a copy of Dance & Dancers in the out tray, “I see you are a ballet lover too.”

“Yes.”

“What did you think of Nureyev’s Romeo?”

“I’m afraid I’m odd man out there. I thought it was overrated.”

“I’m glad you said that, because so did I.”

The inspector, who turned out to be a gawky, hesitant clerk in his twenties, contemplated the account sheets for the first trading year of Jacob Hersh Productions Ltd., and read aloud, “On the first annual meeting of Jacob Hersh Productions Ltd., on Oct. 12, 1960, the chairman declared that on a turnover of £10,000 there was a profit of £841.19.6. It was decided not to declare a dividend. Is that correct?”

“It’s so long ago, you know.”

Mmmmn, the inspector agreed, tight-lipped.

“To the best of my knowledge, yes, it’s correct. As I recall it, I wasted a lot of money taking out foolish options that year.”

“It would appear,” he said, consulting the sheets before him, “that most of them were paid for in cash, and originated in Canada.”

“I know love of country is out of fashion these days,” Jake said, “but I’m crazy enough to believe that those Canadians who happen to be sufficiently lucky to live here, where there’s such exciting theater and ballet, owe something to writers struggling at home. I keep hoping to develop a good Canadian script, but get my fingers burned again and again.”

Oscar Hoffman beamed, recognizing a rank-one scholar.

“I note a payment here of £1,000 advance to one Jean Beliveau, script writer, of the Forum Apartments, St. Catherine St. W., Montreal.”

“That loser. I wish I’d never met him. It’s a write-off, I’m afraid. Totally unusable.”

“I see in the same fiscal year you paid another advance, also of £1,000 to one John A. MacDonald.”

“He turned out to be a lush. But I’m still hoping to set that one up.”

“You keep a secretary in Canada. Mrs. Laura Secord of 312 Ontario Street, Montreal.”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware,” the inspector asked, loosening the elastic from a wad of restaurant and liquor bills, “that all allowable expenses must be wholly, exclusively, and necessarily incurred for business reasons?”

“Indeed I am.”

“In 1960, you claimed £1,750 for entertainment expenses.”

“And to think,” Jake said, shaking his head, appalled, “if I’d put that money into unit trusts, I’d be sitting pretty today.”

“On reflection, how much of this would you claim was actually business expense and how much would you allow was personal?”

“Let’s say … five percent personal.”

The inspector hunched over the wad of bills.

“… seven per cent could be possible. Eight tops.”

The statement he produced was from the Victoria Wine Company, February 1960, and came to £81, including an order for one hundred cigarettes.

“How many of these cigarettes would you claim were consumed in the line of business? How many for personal reasons? Given to friends or your wife?”

“There’s a very fine line of distinction here. In fact your question is really of a Talmudic nature. So let me answer it, as is the custom, with another question. If I offered you a cigarette right now would it be personal? Or a business expense?”

The inspector did not look up from his accounts, but Hoffman coughed disapprovingly.

“The truth is, I don’t remember. But these accounts were accepted in 1960. Why are you coming back to me now?”

“The Commissioners of Inland Revenue never specify the grounds for reassessment. Here’s something typical.”

It was a restaurant bill. Dinner for four at Chez Luba, £21.

“I took out a producer and his wife. To discuss a project.”

“Would you say you brought your wife along for personal pleasure?”

“No. I would not say. She abhors producers. He brought his wife, I had to bring mine. Are we going to consider all these old bills individually?”

No answer.

“I see that, in 1965, Jacob Hersh Productions sub-contracted to World-Wide, of Geneva, Switzerland, leasing the directorial services of Jacob Hersh for an annual fee of £7,500 … but previously you were taking in even more.”

“It’s embarrassing. It’s bloody awful. I keep kicking myself. I never should have done it.”

“You are aware, I assume, that it is against the law for you to have bank accounts outside the country?”

“Of course I am. Good God, you’re not accusing me of … tax evasion?”

“We are not specifically charging you with anything.”

“What do you want from me, then?”

“I put it to you, that something like ninety-five per cent of these alleged expenses were really of a personal nature.”

“Why, that’s ridiculous.”

The inspector pushed back his desk chair, terminating the interview. “I will consider these accounts further,” he said, “and be in touch with you again.”

“I think that’s best,” Hoffman said, speaking for the first time. “My client appreciates that.”

“The hell I do. This whole business smacks of the Star Chamber. I do believe you owe it to me to reveal why my accounts have been reopened.”

“It is not the policy of the Commissioners of Inland Revenue to specify grounds for reassessment. I will be in touch with you again soon.”