A Scream in Soho

by John G. Brandon

  “What time would this be?” he asked quickly, the recollection of that other car which had shot out into Oxford Street without lights strong in his mind.

  “Just about five and twenty past eleven, sir,” “Big Bill” answered promptly. “I’m sure of that becos I knew I was arter your time, havin’ took on a short restarong job.”

  “Did you get the number of the car?”

  “No, sir. ’Is rear-plate was all daubed up wiv mud or sunninck. Couldn’t’ave been mud though,” he added reflectively, “becos we ’adn’t ’ad no rain till a bit later.”

  “If it was the car I have in mind, Withers, it was done purposely,” McCarthy said. “The front one would have probably been the same. It would be easy enough to get away with that in the black-out. Well, what happened?”

  “Well, that’s where I lost me temper, sir, an’ done in your job. I shouts to th’ bleeder, an’ he don’t take no more notice of me than if I was a bundle of muck. So rahnd I comes into Soho Square, and out again by way of Sutton Street and the Charin’ Cross Road, and arter ’im. By that time he’s got ’is rear light on, so’s I can ’ang on to ’im.”

  “He kept on east?” McCarthy questioned.

  “No, sir, that was only a fake. ’E runs along as far as Bloomsbury Street, turns in there to Bedford Square, and cuts through there back into Tottenham Court Road, and then back into Oxford Street agen, running west-bound.”

  “In other words he was doubling back on his track?”

  “That’s it, sir. ’E goes straight along to Park Lane then cuts into Upper Brook Street.”

  “Upper Brook Street!” McCarthy exclaimed. “That leads into Grosvenor Square, Withers.”

  “An’ that’s just where he did go to, sir, and wot’s more ’e pulls up at that very ’ouse where that lady as I tailed to-day ’angs out.”

  A whistle came involuntarily from McCarthy’s lips. Here, indeed, was something tangible at last.

  “What did you do then, Withers?” he asked quickly.

  “Nothink, sir. As soon as I see where ’e’d gorn to I pulls up sharp and took a chanst and doused my glims. Not that there’s much of ’em to douse these ’ere black-out nights,” he growled. “But I ’ops out o’ the keb quick and starts fuddlin’ rahnd wiv my ingin in case a cop comes so I’d ’ave some sort of a spiel that it ’ad failed. I reckoned as it was goin’ to be more use to you, my ’anging on to this blighter as long as I could, than goin’ up to the door and ’avin’ a barge with ’im abaht my mudguards.”

  “Good work, Withers—great work,” McCarthy applauded unstintingly. “And after that?”

  “’E was in the ’ouse abaht half an hour, sir, an’ when ’e comes aht, that there skirt as I followed from Verrey’s come to the door with ’im, a-jawin’ away sixteen to the dozen as the sayin’ goes.”

  “Did you hear anything of what they were saying, Withers?” the inspector asked eagerly.

  Withers shook his head. “No, sir. They was talkin’ in some furrin langwidge—German, I think. The only thing as I ’eard was when he was at the gate he calls out, ‘You’ll see that Heinrich will be all ready to cross with the stuff to-morrow evening’, an’ she sez, ‘Ja’, and something that sounded like ‘Orf Weedershins.’”

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” McCarthy corrected. “And then…”

  “And then ’e gits into the car agin an’ turns an’ goes back into Park Lane, and drives into the forecourt of that there noo block of flats as they’ve just opened up. ’E ’urries in there, and arter a minit or two a bloke comes out, a servant of some sort, and drives ’is car rahnd into the mews, and puts it away. I’m layin’ nice and quiet over against the ’Ide Park railin’s a-watchin’. I might a took a chanst and put in a question or two, but I thought as it might get back to ’Is Nibs, and mebbe do more ’arm than good. So I started back to Soho in the ’opes of findin’ y’. When I couldn’t, I beat it for ’ome and give you a ring up on the blower, but I couldn’t get no answer. I’m sorry if I’ve mucked anythink up, guv’nor, by not bein’ on time, but I done what I thought was the best thing.”

  “My dear Withers,” McCarthy assured him, “a dozen of Scotland Yard’s best men couldn’t have done more. I’ll see that something quite solid comes your way for last night’s work.”

  Here, indeed, he was thinking, had the utterly unexpected come to pass through the agency of “Big Bill” Withers’ native Cockney sagacity—plus a bit of sheer blind luck. He admitted the latter part of it freely, but all the luck in the world would not have availed much had it not been that Withers had used the old brain-box to the very fullest degree. Here, then, was a direct connection, an absolute linking up between Fasoli’s dive and the aristocratic Baroness Lena Eberhardt.

  When Withers had lost her in that unsavoury vicinity to-day it must have been to the Circolo Venezia that she had made her way. The same disreputable hole which Mascagni had left a little after eleven o’clock to go to the Romagna, from which he had been called to a terrible death by a phone message from Tessa Domenico. The quick ears of the obstreperous Paolo Vanadi had caught enough to tell him that Flo. Mascagni had an appointment with someone at Fasoli’s for eleven o’clock, and at not much later than that hour the shadow he had followed had left that place—to make his way direct to the Baroness Lena Eberhardt’s mansion in Grosvenor Square. With what—if not the prints which he must have recovered either from Mascagni, who at some time or other most certainly had handled them, or someone else in that place?

  “You never got a chance to see the man’s face, I suppose, Withers?” he asked. “Either in Grosvenor Square or outside those flats.”

  Withers shook his head negatively. “No, guv’nor, I never ’ad a chance at neither place. There was next to no light in the ’all in Grosvenor Square, and the outside of them there flats was as black as the ’obs of ’ell. And atop o’ that, the bloke had ’is overcoat collar turned up to ’is ears, and ’is cady pulled dahn till you couldn’t see nothink of his phisog fr’m any angle.”

  “It’s a pity, Withers, but the connection is quite clear enough to make me certain of the man’s identity—that is to say that it’s the same person who I believe to be connected with the murder in Soho Square. And, also,” he added, “with the killing of Floriello Mascagni early this morning.”

  “Mascagni!” Withers echoed. “Lumme they ain’t bumped that rat off, ’ave they?”

  “He’ll never be deader, that’s a certainty,” McCarthy said. “And now you shall drive me as far as Doughty Street, and I’ll have a few words with the lady who telephoned him to meet her less than an hour before he was found stabbed to death in an alley. Things are beginning to move, William; things are definitely beginning to move.”

  Chapter XVIII

  Tessa Domenico Moves Upwards

  When opposite the number of Tessa Domenico’s boarding-house, the inspector instructed Withers to drive on a little way and pull up upon the opposite side of the road.

  “I want to take a good look-see at the place before I make an entrance there. It’s a queer thing, Withers, how the exterior of a place can tell you a divil of a lot about it and how it’s run, but it certainly can.”

  He found it to be one of the large, double-fronted old Georgian houses of which a few are still left in the vicinity, though the greater majority of them have long since been transposed into offices, occupied for the greater part by solicitors. Outside the french windows of the first floor, and which appeared to all belong to one huge room, was one of the ornamental iron-railed balconies so beloved of our great-grandfathers.

  Two of these were open, though not over-clean lace curtains prevented him from getting a glimpse into the room. One thing not to be missed was a large printed card hung in one of them which bore the legend “Large, Comfortable, Front Bed-sitting-room To Let.” There, he thought instantly, was his opening to get into the place and have a few quiet w
ords with the landlady before questioning Miss Domenico herself. It was truly amazing how easily garrulous landl-adies could be pumped, and he wanted to verify the fact that that one o’clock call had been put through from the phone belonging to the house, and also that it had been sent by Tessa, herself. Past experience had made him well aware that very little went on in a boarding-house of that type without the landlady being cognisant of it, whether complacent or not.

  He was just about to cross the road when a large and exceedingly expensive-looking car of Italian make drove up and stopped outside the door. From it, to his profound astonishment, there alighted the last one in the world he expected to see—the man with the icy eyes. Promptly McCarthy continued his leisurely stroll along the pavement, taking the precaution to jerk the brim of his own felt hat well down over his eyes; the last thing he wanted was for this man to glance across and recognize him. Fortunately, his quarry kept straight on, mounted the six or seven steps to the front door, and knocked. But before that had happened a lady came quickly from the room opening on to the balcony and waved down to the caller, for whom she had evidently been waiting as she was wearing a hat and was obviously dressed for the street.

  In answer to the knock the door opened and first a somewhat slatternly-looking woman appeared at it to whom the man spoke, then turned back again and stood waiting by the door of the car. McCarthy noticed that it was driven by a uniformed chauffeur who was definitely peculiar in appearance. He was equally so in his behaviour, for he made no attempt to move and perform any of the usual offices common to men in his particular line of servitude. He seemed to be perched up in some strange way that the inspector could not quite make out; indeed, was bolstered up like a sort of jack-in-the-box on cushions.

  Nor did he attempt to get out and lend a hand when a domestic—as untidy-looking, by the way, as was her mistress—and a man who wore a sleeved waistcoat of a “boots,” appeared and came down the steps bearing a brand-new and extremely expensive-looking trunk. This they proceeded to place upon the baggage rack at the rear of the car, which they left unfastened and hurried back, presumably to fetch another. Considerably to McCarthy’s astonishment, the strange-looking chauffeur still sat rigidly behind his wheel and let them get on with it. When they reappeared with a second trunk of the same size and class, he did not as much as turn his head; evidently an extremely high and mighty person, this.

  With the advent of the second trunk the “boots” proceeded to strap the two securely, for which he received an extremely handsome tip from the icy-eyed man, if one might judge by the pleasantly surprised look which came to his somewhat careworn face. McCarthy, eyeing the trunks and having a fairly decent idea of the cost of that quality of goods, found himself thinking that things were evidently on the boom with the fair (or, rather, extremely dark) Tessa.

  Then that lady herself came through the door, clad now in a long chinchilla coat which McCarthy would have bet any money had never been purchased under four figures. He had too much experience in the recovery of stolen goods of that class not to be well aware of the prices at which they had been valued. Unquestionably old man Domenico’s little girl had struck heights undreamed of by her hard-working father and mother. She was ushered into the equipage as though she were a queen, the icy-eyed man took his seat beside her, and it started off, running in the direction of Holborn.

  Instantly that special sense which gives the born sleuth of men an inkling of the motives of those in whom he is interested, began to work furiously in McCarthy’s mind. Why was Tessa Domenico breaking ground within a few hours of the cold-blooded murder of the man she had given an appointment to so short a while since, and whom it was understood that she was very shortly to marry? If one could judge by the calm serenity of her Madonna-like countenance she was either one of two things: either utterly callous where Mascagni’s death was concerned, or else in complete ignorance of it. And what was at the bottom of the man with the icy eyes coming for her, like some sort of modern Prince Charming after Cinderella, and in a car which certainly cost considerably more than any glass coach which had ever been built?

  Those brand-new, luxury-built trunks? How were they to be accounted for in the light of the fact that no later than one o’clock that morning Tessa had phoned her man—as all Soho and Saffron Hill knew him to be—and called him to her side? Now here was Mascagni murdered, and Tessa off with a man of very different status. The two things did not fit; there was a nigger in the wood-pile somewhere, as far as the beautiful Tessa was concerned.

  “After them, Withers,” he instructed, upon hurrying back to the cab, “and for the Lord’s sake play canny. I don’t want to arouse the slightest suspicion in the minds of that pair that they are being followed.”

  From Holborn the trail held straight on into Oxford Street, and from there to the corner of Park Lane, into which it turned and swung into the forecourt of the newly-erected set of mansion flats to which Withers had trailed the man earlier that morning, and which were certainly as expensive to rent as anything to be found in the West End of London. Their prices, McCarthy happened to know, were enough to make even the ultra-rich blink.

  The car drew up outside the main entrance and a huge, imposingly-attired linkman, whose face the inspector recognized instantly as one known to him somewhere or other, and professionally, came out and opened the door of the car for them. Then, as they passed through into the ornate communal hall of the building, the linkman invoked two further uniformed attendants by a shrill of the whistle he carried.

  “Blimey, guv’nor,” “Big Bill” exclaimed through the small wicket window. “Take a mike at that big stiff, Jim Delaney, all dossed up like a flamin’ major-general! I’ll swear as ’e wasn’t on duty last night when this bloke drove in. But it’s the same car right enough; you can see the marks on ’is mudguard where he scraped mine.”

  McCarthy emitted a low whistle. “That’s right, Withers,” he said, “I’ve been trying to think where I’d known that fellow before. Delaney—I wonder how he picked up this particular job? Another case of forged references, I expect.”

  Which suspicion was a perfectly reasonable one as the gentleman had, and not so very long since, been suspected of having been concerned in one or two West End flat burglaries upon premises of which he had been the caretaker. Although he had got clear of the charge in each case only by the skin of his teeth, the police had something considerably stronger than suspicion that the imposing-looking caretaker had actually been the “inside” accomplice in the job.

  Prior to this Mr. Delaney had a police-record which included several quite solid “stretches,” and how he had ever got this particular post, except by means of “cooked” references, was decidedly beyond McCarthy. He must have had a “pull” somewhere; it might even have been that someone connected with the premises knew his story and that he had decided to run straight in the future. More power to his elbow if he had. But…it was with a very dubious shake of his head that the inspector dismissed Mr. Delaney from his mind for the moment—but only for the moment.

  Meantime, from their vantage over against the park railings, they watched the two attendants unstrap the trunks and prepare to lift them down. Upon this occasion, however, the chauffeur decided to superintend matters and got down. To the inspector’s astonishment the man, for all his entirely deceptive width of shoulder and height when seated upon his cushioned perch, was a veritable dwarf, scarcely more than four feet high. As he walked around the car, first stopping a moment to examine, frowningly, the marks upon the two mudguards, he looked as much like a large chimpanzee dressed up in a uniform as anything else.

  “Blimey!” ejaculated the gentleman whose car had caused those marks, “there’s a flaming runt for y’! Damme, ’e’s no ’igher than a bantam! That’s right, cock,” he adjured the dwarf, “git an eyeful; you won’t look them dents and scratches off in an ’urry.”

  “How the divil does he ever work his clutch and foot-bra
ke with those short legs, Withers?” McCarthy asked perplexedly.

  “Don’t arst me, sir. ’E must ’ave some sort o’ gadgets rigged up; ’e’d never git at ’em with them stumpy legs of ’is, that’s a cert.”

  “Must be something of that sort,” McCarthy agreed. The thought crossed his mind that the dwarf must be an extremely valued personal servant in more ways than one, for no man in his sane senses, without individual knowledge of the person in question, would have ever chosen such a peculiarly built individual to drive a car of that size and quality.

  While the thought was in his mind the dwarf hopped back on to his perched-up seat, and the car began to move slowly away from the door.

  “It’s a hundred to one that he’s taking it into its garage,” McCarthy said quickly. “After it. Make sure of where it’s parked and get back here as soon as you can. I’m going to have a word with our friend Delaney.”

  To say that the ex-suspect was startled at the sudden and totally unexpected appearance of Detective Inspector McCarthy was to considerably understate the emotion visible in the man’s countenance. From a ruddy, entirely healthy colour, his face turned a mixture of grey and a delicate cucumber-green.

  “Ah, Delaney!” McCarthy hailed in that soft, emollient voice of his. “Here we are again, y’ see!”

  The man cast a fearful glance into the hall where the two porters could be heard handling the luggage into an elevator.

  “I—I’ve done nothing, Inspector!” he commenced, when McCarthy cut him off with an airy wave of his hand.

  “No one has said ye did, James,” he said quietly. “All that I’m asking for is a little information—official information,” he added significantly. “And the more of it I get from you, of the right kind, the more forgetful I’m likely to be of—of other things.”

  In less than two minutes McCarthy had acquired the information that the lady and gentleman who had just arrived were the Count and Countess Hellner—Austrian nobility he understood! That the gentleman had taken the most expensive furnished suite in the mansion for himself and his spouse some three days ago; that his luggage had not as yet arrived.