A Scream in Soho

by John G. Brandon

  Mr. Withers grinned. “All the prizes I win wiv my clock, guv’nor, won’t buy no property,” he chuckled.

  “You never can tell, Withers. I can remember little Tessa when you’d have said the same, and look at her now. I’ve been in the company of one very beautiful lady, but I’m bound to admit she has nothing on the kid that used to grab me by the hand and lead me to old Joe Anselmi’s cart to buy her ice-cream. That was before he had the coffee-stall.”

  His face clouded at the memory of the harmless old man so wickedly done to death the night before; his mouth set into a thin hard line, which boded no good for the perpetrators of that terrible crime when, eventually, he clapped hands upon them.

  “A rotten job that, sir,” Withers said with a shake of his bull-head.

  “Rotten!” McCarthy echoed. “Don’t talk about it, Withers. The very thought of it makes me want to manhandle someone. You were asking just now if there was anything you could do. There is. At Verrey’ s there’s a lady who will remain there until two-thirty—at any rate, that’s her regular custom. She’ll probably come out accompanied by Sir William Haynes. Park your car around the corner and keep an eye out for her. She lives in Grosvenor Square, and I want to know which particular house. In case she doesn’t happen to be with Sir William, here’s a description of her.”

  Rapidly he gave the taxi-man a verbal picture of the beautiful Baroness Lena Eberhardt so rich in detail that an artist might have painted a fairly decent portrait of that lady from it.

  “Off you go, Withers, and, should she go home by a roundabout route make a special note of her contacts—as far as you’re able, of course. Phone me to Dean Street with what information you’ve got, and by then I shall be able to know just how I can use you to-night. On your way, Withers; on your way!”

  Chapter XIII

  Withers Supplies Some Curious Information

  In the seclusion of his own room McCarthy sat down to mull this thing out; to get it into some sort of chronological order which would give him fair ground to work from. The ghastly events of the night before, culminating as they did with the killing of Constable Harper, had unquestionably commenced with the brutal murder of the old coffee-stall man, Joe Anselmi. That that crime had been carefully premeditated by some cunning brain as the only method of getting the body of the intended victim out of Soho Square seemed to be an unarguable fact.

  With regard to the second murder, there could be little or no doubt but that the killer must have been in possession of information that the pseudo Madame Rohner would go to those Soho Square offices at a given time last night, or, rather, early this morning. The possibility, indeed probability, was that Rohner had been decoyed there by some message which had to do with the plans stolen from Whitehall that afternoon.

  That, again, argued that the killer, and those who he was connected with, knew not only of the existence of the plans and that they had been stolen by Rohner, but also that the thief was carrying them about, in all likelihood, preparatory to a speedy flight from the country with them. Which seemed to leave it as fairly beyond dispute that the thief was a secret-service agent of one country, while the killer was in the employ of another.

  It seemed, to judge by the complete clearing out of Madame Rohner’s office, that that mysterious personage had first made her way into the building and attended to the destruction of all traces of her (or, rather, “his”) identity, or business, before coming in contact with the person, or, it might be, persons, who sought not only his life, but what he was known to be carrying. On the other hand, that clearance might have been made earlier in the evening and following the successful raid upon the safe in Whitehall. Whichever way it might have been, it made no appreciable difference. Of one thing McCarthy was quite certain, and that was that the room had not been cleared out by the murderer after the body of the victim had been got out of Soho Square in Anselmi’s coffee-stall—the time lapse between the scream and the discovery of Harper’s body was not sufficient to have permitted it being done.

  To follow events along in their chronological order, the first person to claim his attention in the square had been that strange and, unquestionably sinister-looking person, the man with the ice-blue eyes. That, of course, might have been the merest coincidence and had nothing whatever to do with the murder. But, somehow, that “hunch” which he had followed at the time of the crime was as strong upon him now as it had been then; indeed, in the light of what had happened to Danny Regan, it had ceased in his opinion to be just one of those queer quirks of his brain which had so often led him in the right direction, but something far more tangible.

  While the thought was uppermost in his mind he got up and phoned the mortuary. The D.S. was no longer there, but he had left a message with the mortuary-keeper for him. The blood scraped from Regan’s clothing had, beyond any question of a doubt, come from the body on top of which the pickpocket had been pitched on the floor of the car that had taken him to Hampstead Heath. So much for that. And, in connection with the removal of that body from Soho Square, it struck the inspector how large a part luck played in his particular game. Had it not been for that outbreak of fire which had lit the totally blacked-out Soho Square, it was a thousand to one that the passage out of it of Joe Anselmi’s coffee-stall would ever have been seen, and the murder of the old man never have been connected with the Soho Square case in a lifetime. Both that crime and the method of transposal of the body from Soho Square would in all probability have gone down on the records as “insoluble mysteries.”

  There seemed to be little question—none whatever in McCarthy’s mind, though he had not one scintilla of evidence to support it—that the man with the ice-blue eyes had communicated to some, pre-arranged point from the telephone-booth in Marylebone Lane, and given the information to confederates he was being shadowed, made a rendezvous to pick him up in Park Lane, and thus trouble had fallen hard upon Regan’s head.

  And then on top of all this had come that most amazing rencontre with the Baroness Lena Eberhardt that morning! There, indeed, was an extraordinary coincidence if ever one had happened in his strangely varied professional experience, and brought about by no less a person than the A.C., at that. Almost, the first name which had passed the lips of this Austrian aristocrat had been that of the woman who was no woman, and most certainly was a daring, and extraordinarily skilful, secret-service agent. Whatever else was wrapped in mystery that much at any rate had been proved without doubt.

  And yet the very casualness with which the name had been introduced, even though coupled with the fact that the baroness had specifically stated that she had communicated that morning with the person who at that time was lying upon a slab in the mortuary, left McCarthy in a welter of doubts. Could it be that there was another person of the same name, a professional clairvoyant, crystal-gazer, or palmist, in existence in London? The woman had mentioned no address or even locality, but she had specifically said that she had telephoned her, and the fact that there was only one Madame Rohner in the telephone-directory, and that the one in Soho Square, could not be got over.

  Nor did any doubt exist that she knew that he was the officer in charge of the Soho Square case; whether Bill Haynes had volunteered the information without realizing it, or she had skilfully pumped it out of him made no difference; the point was that she knew it. The thing exercising his mind was: had that name been mentioned in all innocence, or, as he had suspected, in Verrey’s, been put out simply as a lead to extract information from him she could not possibly have asked for—without implicating herself, if only in the most indirect manner? It was a bit of a twister, he told himself; looked at from any angle the mention of that name opened up quite a field for investigation. And, it would get it! It was just possible, if the woman made any contacts after leaving Verrey’s, that Withers might be able to pick up a lead that would prove helpful.

  But the only personal lead he had was the attempt to run him down on his way
back from the mortuary that morning; the very deliberate effort made by the driver of that car to rub him out, finally, not a couple of hundred yards from his own doorstep. That car must have trailed him, and cleverly, at that, from the very mortuary door, keeping out of sight until the chance came for the final rush. Why? And there again was a certain fly in the ointment, in as much that he was in company with Danny Regan—had it been Daniel’s light which it had been intended to blot out permanently? It was quite possible though, in his opinion, not very probable, particularly in the circumstances.

  That the underworld repaid their grudges in bloodthirsty fashion, and did not stop at either crippling, complete maiming, or even murder in the process was no news to him, but that any of them, no matter how big the vendetta, would have attempted it openly, and also under the very eyes of the one Scotland Yard man who the denizens of Soho held in something more than respect, was a thing that he could not credit. Had Danny Regan been found with a knife in his chest, or, still more likely, driven through his back, it would have been understandable enough, but an attempt to bump him off, not only in broad daylight and in the presence of witnesses, but also in the actual company of Detective Inspector McCarthy was too incredible for belief. No, Danny was not the one picked out for elimination.

  And, gang-boss Flo. Mascagni had been in the attempt! That Mascagni, despite the fact that from time to time he had sold information of his fellows (and possibly because of that very fact) would have been glad to see finis written to the book of McCarthy, the inspector did not doubt for a moment. But, and this McCarthy knew equally well, Mascagni would not have been in at the job, personally, for a thousand pounds, if he could have helped himself. Yet, despite his best efforts to remain unseen, Mascagni had been there, had been recognized by men who knew him and were not likely to make any mistake, and that told McCarthy that Mascagni must be under the thumb, and stand in terror of, someone considerably bigger than himself. Who?

  Mascagni was his mark to follow, right enough, but, by an extremely devious route which would never be suspected by the tricky Italian. Like most of his kind he was as cunning as a rat, and, notwithstanding the fact that he had his full share of the abject cowardice of a gangster when tackled single-handed, McCarthy knew that even if he had him rushed straight into a police-station for interrogation he would get nothing out of him. The unwritten law of the underworld is a still tongue, and woe betide the one who breaks that law! All the police can do to him is as nothing to what will happen later, at the hands of his fellows.

  McCarthy’s mind turned again upon that extraordinarily beautiful creature, Tessa Domenico. So she and the vicious Floriello were still running in company, according to Bill Withers; information which had rather surprised him, for when he had last seen the glorious-looking Tessa she had been moving in much higher, though still rather raffish company. She was, to use a term not altogether confined to the underworld, “in the big money.”

  And certainly in the place in which he had seen her—an extremely select, if not altogether exclusive dance-club—she had been the cynosure of all eyes and, he had admitted freely, had been well worthy of the attention she claimed.

  She was tall, dark, and olive-skinned, with the soft, velvety colouring of the Italian race, and her features were absolutely flawless—perfection itself. She gowned in a style which would have made her mother and father stare in utter incredulousness. No cheap and showy stuff, hers, from a bargain counter, but the creations of an artist in clothes.

  Had those connoisseurs of a female perfection which had instantly aroused the unstinted admiration of all men present, and the equally unstinted envy of the women, been informed that the woman whose beauty their eyes feasted upon was a child of the gutters of Soho and the affianced bride of a flash gangster, they would, in all probability, have said without hesitation that their informant was mad; that such beauty could only have been allied with the bluest of blue blood. Yet, according to Withers, it was true enough, and it certainly had been so, of McCarthy’s own knowledge.

  The love affairs of Soho were an open book to him, if only from the very simple reason that the greater part of its crime sprang directly from them. He found himself wondering cynically just how much love there was upon the girl’s side in that arrangement, and how much of it was fear of the razor-like steel blade, or automatic pistol, Floriello Mascagni would use with remarkable speed upon any persistent rival for her affections—and possibly herself as well. It was a nice point.

  He was still considering it when his telephone bell rang. Lifting the receiver the bull-like tones of Mr. William Withers assailed his ears.

  “It’s me, guv’nor,” he informed McCarthy, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “So I hear, Withers,” the inspector returned dryly, “‘The voice that breathed,’ and all that. Any luck?”

  A note of dubiousness promptly entered into the taxi-man’s voice.

  “That all depends as the way that y’ look at it, guv’nor,” he replied. “Any’ow, ’ere’s what ’appened. She come out of Verrey’s and ’is ’Igh…I mean Sir William, was wiv ’er, like you said. F’r a minnit I thought ’e’d spotted me and was goin’ to call me up, but ’e didn’t. He shakes ’ands wiv ’er, and goes off along Regent Street towards Piccadilly. She crossed the road to Liberty’s corner and stands lookin’ at the winders for a bit. She kep’ a-lookin’ arter ’im now and agin, and then she ’ails a taxi, and…”

  “Just a minute, Withers. She kept looking after Sir William, you say? Did it strike you, by any chance, that she might have been keeping an eye on him to see that he really was well out of her way?”

  “Well, sir, in a sort of a kind of a way, that’s jest wot I did think. Any’ow, she gits in this taxi, and turns east at Oxford Street as far as Charing Cross Road. Then she turns into Soho Square and goes right round it, slow-like, and out agin by Greek Street.”

  “Didn’t stop anywhere at all?” McCarthy asked, per-

  plexedly.

  “No, guv’nor, she never stopped nowhere. She goes down Greek Street like I said, then turns into Dean Street. At a tobacconists, just a bit above your crib and on the other side of the street, she pulls up and goes in. That German bloke’s place; Kirchner, I think the name is.”

  “Go on, Withers,” McCarthy encouraged. “This is very interesting.”

  “She musta bought some cigarettes, or summink there, becos when she come out she ’ad a packet in ’er ’and. Afore she gets back into the taxi I see ’er givin’ your place a real once over—if you’d ’appened to ’a’ bin lookin’ aht of the winder, you couldn’t ’a’ ’elped seein’ ’er. Then off she goes round agin into Greek Street—and that’s where I lost ’er.”

  “Lost her,” McCarthy echoed.

  “Yus, guv’nor, she gimme the shake right enough; no good sayin’ anythink else.”

  “Just at what point did you lose her, Withers?” McCarthy asked puzzledly. For anyone to give “Big Bill” Withers the slip in Soho meant that they knew that cosmopolitan portion of the metropolis thoroughly; no-one not thoroughly acquainted with its many alleys and short cuts, generally, could have possibly accomplished it. “For a lady who resides in Grosvenor Square and is one of the elect, that’s rather unusual isn’t it, Withers?”

  “I’ll say it is, sir,” that worthy returned somewhat ruefully. “I’d ’ave bet a hundred nikker to a bar of tuppeny soap that it couldn’t ’ave been did, but it was.”

  “Where was it?” McCarthy asked again.

  “It was quite near Fasoli’s joint,” “Big Bill” informed him. “There was a bit of a jam, as was caused by one o’ Gatti’s ice-carts a-gettin’ blocked by a council cart. A rozzer ’ops in and starts muckin’ abaht straight’nin’ things aht, and ’e ’olds me back a minnit. ’Er taxi cuts through t’wards Frith Street an’ as soon as I can I get’s arter it and catch it up. Then I see as it’s empty. She musta paid ’im off and slipped off whi
le this ’ere ice-cart was blockin’ my view. It ’appened to be a bloke as I don’t know as was drivin’, a new ’un, and cocky. When I arsts ’im where he dropped ’is fare, ’e wants to know what th’ ’ell it’s got to do wiv me. If I ’adn’t a been on a job for you I’d a shown ’im quick and lively. ’Owever, there it was, guv’nor, I’d lost ’er right enough, an’ although I cruises rahnd two or three times, I never got sight of ’er again.”

  “An exceedingly queer business altogether, Withers,” the inspector commented thoughtfully. “At Fasoli’s corner, you say? She couldn’t have nipped in there by any chance, I suppose, ridiculous as the idea may seem?”

  “She couldn’t ’ave, guv’nor,” Mr. Withers responded earnestly. “Fasoli’s door was shut tight, bein’ arter ’ours by that time, an’ I took a good ’ard look all round there, but there were no signs of ’er.”

  “Well,” McCarthy said philosophically, “it can’t be helped, Withers; these little things will happen. Get home now, and stand by for a ring from me at about nine o’clock to-night. That’s all.”

  But for some time after he had rung off McCarthy paced his room, deep in thought. Quite a number of things in Withers’ report were intriguing him greatly, and not the least of them was the attention the lady had given to his own domicile. That, and the fact that she had so skilfully eluded Withers in the very heart of Soho wanted quite a bit of thinking out—for a lady of her social status. So, also, did that curious tap upon the window at Verrey’s, unquestionably made by the fingers of Signor Floriello Mascagni.

  Chapter XIV

  At the Circolo Venezia

  That extremely unpleasant-looking person, the Signor Luigi Fasoli, had but an hour or so opened the doors of what was quite easily the dirtiest wine-shop in Soho, for all that it was glorified by the grandiloquent name of the Circolo Venezia.