A Scream in Soho (12 page)

“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 while 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
.

The place itself consisted of a long, exceedingly dirty bar which opened from the street, along which was set a built-in wooden bench with a few tables in front of it. On the other side there was a counter, behind which were huge barrels of the vilest red, or white, poison ever sold to man as wine.

Behind this, and entered by two swing doors, was another very large and dirty room which contained a billiards table and a number of smaller tables at which the clientele who patronized that particular place played cards, or dominoes, or other games of skill, or chance, favoured by the younger school of London-born Italians.

That clientele was divided into three entirely different classes. The first the elders of Soho of the rougher type, who lined the bar and long bench-seat of the front compartment, and among which—as Scotland Yard well knew—were numbered several members of those dread societies, the
Camorrista
, and the Sicilian
Mafia
. Sinister-looking personages, these, about whom grim stories were whispered among their fellows.

The second group was composed of a number of Germans—mostly restaurant workers—who had been deprived of their usual rendezvous when a certain notorious Bismarck Club had been raided and closed. These kept very much to themselves, and, despite the wavering Axis, were not over popular with the Latin patrons of the
Circolo Venezia
.

The third and largest group of all frequented, and over-ran generally, the inner and much larger room generally known as the “club.” They were of the flashy type of young Soho-born Italians who, for the greater part, earned the daily crust infesting the courses where such war-time racing as there was took place by day, and the third-class West End restaurants and dance-halls, by night. Sleek, oily and over-dressed, wicked rats in the “mob” but arrant curs single-handed, they formed, really, the bulk of Fasoli's customers. They were headed by, and gave implicit obedience to, that extremely good-looking personage, in a well-oiled, raffish and over-jewelled way, Floriello Mascagni.

It was this gentleman who, shortly after seven o'clock passed through the front double-doors of Fasoli's wine shop, and gave its ill-favoured proprietor a hard, but meaning look.

“Nothing yet,” Fasoli said, in an underbreath. “Da lady has-a been here dis afternoon,” he went on, through lips that never moved. “She says a that
he
will-a be here to-night, later, and you are to wait for him. He will-a ring som'time dis evening.”

Mascagni nodded. “Okay,” he returned, in the same still-mouthed way.

“You weel-a find som' of da boys inside,” he said, aloud. “Dey just-a com' back from Cheltenham.”

Passing through into the inner room, Mascagni beckoned to one huge hulking brute who was playing pool, and whose face was disfigured by a knife-slash which ran right across it. Promptly he put down his cue and came across to the small table at which Mascagni had seated himself.

Taking from an inner pocket a thick roll of Treasury notes, he pushed them across to Mascagni.

“‘Protection money,''' he said gruffly. “Not too good—the books went down badly on the first three races.”

Taking up the notes—Mascagni's soft Italian eyes had gone as hard as two agates at the sight of the money—he thumbed them over with the swiftness of long practice, then swore softly in Italian.

“Rotten!” he commented. “I shall have to gyp things up on that course.”

Taking ten one-pound notes, he pushed them across the table and stuffed the rest in his breast-pocket.

“What else?” he asked sharply.

From a wash-leather bag the other poured out upon the table a collection of jewellery, for the greater part tie-pins of somewhat lurid design though the stones were good enough, and three heavy gold watches and chains.

“That's the pickings for the day, Flo,” he was told.

Mascagni sorted them over with a finger, then nodded to his henchman to replace them.

“You know where to take them,” he said curtly. “And don't let the old swine do you the way he did with the last lot. If he tries it, tell him we'll put a fire-stick into his place, and pick a time when we know he's in bed! Go on—get about it!”

Four amongst those present he beckoned over to him, and to each passed some money from the roll. They were the working gang who had been out at the racecourse “levying” that afternoon.

This business transacted, Mascagni sat on in brooding thought for a while. It was plainly evident that he was ill at ease and, indeed, as nervy as a cat. After a while he rang a bell upon the table, which Fasoli hurriedly answered.

“Get the boys a drink,” he ordered abruptly, “and bring me something. But not that rot-gut that you sell out there. No word yet?” he asked quickly, and in the same undertone in which he had first inquired.

Fasoli shook his unkempt head.

“Notta yet,” he said in the same tone. “Any time-a now I expec'.”

“Everything O.K. out there?” Mascagni asked, as a quick, excited jabber of conversation went up in the outer bar.

Fasoli shrugged his shoulders.

“Ever't'ing all right,” he said. “Just-a that hell-hound, Vanadi, he com' in. Always a noise when 'e com'.”

“The first thing you know he'll start a fight and you'll have the cops in on you,” Mascagni growled. “Why do you stand him here at all? He only turns up about once every six months, and it's a police job every time he does come.”

“He spenda plentee money,” Fasoli answered. “Spenda more in two, t'ree hours than alla da rest put together.”

“He'll lose you your licence, one day,” Mascagni said. “Anyhow, keep him out of this room. He mauled one of my mob so badly last time that he was in the hospital three weeks. He'll get what's coming to him one of these nights.”

Fasoli gave a quick glance back towards the bar, as if terrified that the customer in question might hear and promptly start something which would not be finished in a hurry.

Signor Paolo Vanadi was, without any question, the most quarrelsome person who ever paid occasional, though fairly regular, visits to Soho, there to drink inordinate quantities of the wines of his native land. Where he came from no-one actually knew, though some said from the north of England, where he was supposed to be in the wholesale ice-cream trade. But upon these visits he spent money like water, comparatively speaking, and invariably drank himself into a state of sullen ferocity which, sooner or later burst like a volcano. He was an inveterate fighter and, moreover, could get on with it like a professional boxer.

Upon more than one occasion, he had fallen foul of Mascagni's gangsters, and what he had done to such of them as had jointly and severally tackled him was little less than a crime.

“You notta talk that way, Flo,” Fasoli said uneasily. “Vanadi a
Camorrista
man. You notta can tell wit' them. Getta foul of them, and plenty of trouble eet com'.”

It was quite evident in the expression which flitted across Mascagni's olive-skinned face that the mere mention of that brotherhood had very deep and significant meaning for him.

“I don't want any trouble with him,” he said. “All I want you to do is to keep him out of here.”

It was, perhaps, five minutes later, and in the interim the sounds denoting that Signor Vanadi was getting to his usual state of belligerent drunkenness were increasing, that Fasoli put his head around the door and gave the gangster a meaning look. Instantly Mascagni got up and moved towards another door which all who frequented the place knew led to Fasoli's private apartments upstairs.

Scarcely had he turned towards it when the double-doors opened and the talked-of Vanadi lurched a foot or two into the room and stood glaring around him with unconcealed contempt.

“There we all are,” he said in Italian, and with a twisted smile at his mouth. “All the little rats in their sewer! One day some honest citizen will come in and clean the whole lot of them up for the dirt they are!”

Not a word came from any of the mob around the billiards table.

“Hallo, Vanadi,” Mascagni greeted with as much affability as he could in the attempt to ward off trouble.

“And there talks the King-rat!” the gentleman addressed spat, looking for the moment as though he were about to move in Mascagni's direction.

Inwardly cursing bitterly, though outwardly he showed nothing but a smile, Mascagni hurried to the door and departed through it. For a full minute Vanadi stood and glared at the others in unmistakable invitation for them to start something. But as not one of them moved so much as a muscle, he spat upon the floor contemptuously and lurched out into the front bar again.

Hurrying upstairs, Mascagni picked up the receiver Fasoli had left off for him, but first he saw that the two doors into the room were closed tightly.

“Hallo?” he said in a scarcely audible voice.

“Mascagni?” came across the line sharply.

“That's me, Boss,” he said quickly.

“That package which was passed to you in Soho Square last night,” the voice went on in the same peremptory manner, and speaking perfect English with just the very faintest touch of Northern German accent. “You have it with you?”

“No,” Mascagni answered promptly. “After what happened in the square last night, I reckoned it safer not to have it on me. I got Luigi to plant it down…you know where. If the cops knew what it was and were hunting for it, I didn't want it found on
me
, if anything went wrong.”

“And what is there that that great brain of yours thinks might go wrong, as far as you are concerned?” the other questioned, open contempt in his voice.

Mascagni ground his teeth in silent rage; it took him all his time to keep that emotion out of his voice. “This,” he answered. “How do I know that I was not spotted when you tried to do McCarthy in this morning? I don't think I was, but you never can tell with him; he gets to work in some dam' queer ways when he starts, as we've reason for knowing in Soho. But suppose he had seen me and within an hour or two I'd been picked up by the police? Would it have been all right if I'd had that stuff you took off the woman in the square last night?”

“
Gott in Himmel!
” burst from the other. “Are you a fool altogether to speak like that over the telephone! You know that it would not. Perhaps,” he conceded, though ungraciously, “you were right not to carry it with you. Tell Fasoli that I shall come for the packet to-night at about eleven o'clock.”

“You wanted me to stand by for orders, didn't you?” Mascagni growled.

“I still do,” came back the sharp answer. “Though as far as that is concerned I can give them to you now. I want you…”

“Just a minute,” Mascagni interrupted. “I've got a date for to-night—an important date. Can't somebody else take on this job? I've got plenty of good men here that can be trusted…”

“Doubtless quite as much as you can be yourself,” came icily from the other. “But I want you to do this work, Mascagni;
you
, and you alone.” The icy note gave place to an imperative one. “Those are my orders, you understand?
Orders!
I do not brook any argument concerning them.”

The hot red blood surged up under Mascagni's olive skin, but he held himself in check.

“Do not forget, my friend,” the voice went on, coldly menacing, “that you are as much involved in what happened last night, as anyone else. You and your men removed the first obstacle in our path, and brought that coffee-stall along when the second obstacle was eliminated. You also it was who took a certain something and also that fool who followed me to the place where it—and he, were found. It was for that reason that I insisted upon you, personally, being in the car this morning when a certain attempt was made to remove yet another. Keep that in your mind, Mascagni, and also something else: that the first moment you make any move, or disobey any order which I conceive to be necessary for the success of my projects there will be another, and an extremely speedy elimination. I leave you to guess who that will be.”

So sinister was the tone in which these words were uttered that whatever urge to open defiance the gang-boss had in him speedily ebbed away, to give place to something remarkably like fear. Utterly merciless as he could be towards those of his kind who incurred his displeasure amongst the denizens of the underworld, he had seen enough of the methods of the man now ordering him about like a dog to instil in him a wholesome terror of bringing his wrath down upon himself, personally. The sight he had witnessed in Soho Square had not been a pretty one; he had no wish for the scene to be repeated, with himself as one of the two principal actors in it.

“Oh, all right, all right,” he snapped quickly. “Let's have the orders. I can put the date off.”

“I should,” came back to him in amazingly equable tones. “Since I saw you this morning certain information has come to me that this McCarthy is putting forth his very best efforts to clear up the mystery of the Soho Square death. Whether he has any knowledge of the cause of that unfortunate decease—the packet, which we will merely say you know of—I cannot tell. Nor have I any certain knowledge as to whether the identity of that person has been discovered yet. That is a matter of considerable importance to me, and I want you to get out at once, pick up the track of McCarthy and watch his movements closely. It may be that some act of his may reveal what I want to know. Set about that business at once and it may be that you will be able to report something useful to me at eleven o'clock. That is all.”