A Scream in Soho (5 page)

One glance the divisional-surgeon gave at that portion of the murdered Harper's back which was lit by the torch.

“I don't know what the devil I'm supposed to do here,” he was beginning, when McCarthy interrupted him.

“Now, Doctor, darlin', don't start bellyaching the minute you get here,” he said, a whimsical note in his voice. “'Tis the prerogative of the medical profession called from their warm, downy beds I know, but there's quite a point or two that you can put me right on for a start.”

“Damme if I see what they are,” the slightly mollified medico said, “as I understand it, you found the man within a few minutes of his murder, so you know the time of death as well as I do. That he's been stabbed is as plain as a pikestaff—even a C.I.D. man could see that.”

“Ah,” McCarthy said, “but what with, Doctor? That's the point.”

“What do you think it would be with—a safety razor blade?”

“If you'll take a
look
and not a cursory glance at what's to be seen of that wound,” McCarthy went on, taking no notice of the gibe, “ye'll notice that it's three-cornered, that shows most definitely in the cut in the heavy cloth of the tunic.”

“I can see that,” the medical man said, still grumpily. “What about it?”

“I'd be glad to know just what class of weapon, in your opinion, the poor fella was killed with.”

From his pocket the doctor took a magnifying glass and made a closer inspection of the wound.

“A three-edged dagger, undoubtedly,” he said positively. “That's clear enough. I should say that it carried a well-sharpened point which punctured the heart and caused death instantly.”

From the pocket of his dressing-gown, McCarthy produced carefully the dagger he had found in the front of the house.

“Could this be the weapon, Doc?” he asked quietly.

The medical man took the stiletto gingerly by the haft and examined it. “It could be,” he pronounced, “and I should be inclined to say it is.”

McCarthy shook his head. “Taking events chronologically as they happened, Doctor, it couldn't very well be the actual weapon,” he said. “I found this a good half an hour, approximately, before Harper, here, was stabbed.”

“Then if not that particular weapon, he was killed with one as like it as possible,” the doctor said. “By the way, would you like me to take a test from the blood on that weapon?”

“That's an idea,” the inspector said. “I'll have it fingerprinted and sent on to you right away. There's no need to keep you here any longer, Doctor. Get the body away to the mortuary as soon as you're ready. Will you do the P.M. to-night—or rather this morning?”

“I may as well,” the medical gentleman growled. “Get it done with, and if I've any luck I may get a bit of breakfast in peace, even if I can't get any sleep.”

“Well, Sergeant, I think I'm about through here for to-night,” McCarthy said, as they watched the rear light of the ambulance, followed by the divisional-surgeon's two-seater, disappear out of the alley. Put a couple of men on here, back and front, and by that I mean two at each point, with instructions not to pass the gate at this point or touch the front door at the other. I'll be here first thing in the morning to meet this youth that opens up. And when I say a couple of men—you'll know I'll mean by that: that I don't want any further repetition of this wicked Harper business.”

“You think there's any possibility of that, Inspector?” the sergeant asked quickly.

“I'm not chancing it,” McCarthy said.

“It's a mystery to me,” the sergeant murmured reflectively, as they made their way along the alley back to Soho Square. “What became of that body—the one that was hacked up in the front, I mean? I suppose,” he added, a trifle maliciously, “that you're satisfied in your mind that it was a human that was carved up there, and not some foul brute carving up a dog, or something of that sort.”

“Definitely,” McCarthy said imperturbably. “I could have told you then that it was a human who'd been killed, and, moreover, that he, or she, had had her jugular vein and probably other main arteries severed.”

“Then why,” the sergeant was beginning, when McCarthy went on.

“All I pointed out to you, Sergeant, was that there was no actual, visual
evidence
that it was a murder, and, come to that, there's no more now. But a severed human jugular, or at any rate a main artery was the one thing which could account, not only for the quantity of blood there was, but the way it was splashed about. In that connection it's on one of the razor-like edges of that stiletto in which the blood is clotted thickest and not the point, as it would have been had it been a clean stab, such as Harper was killed with.

“That showed that the victim was slashed viciously, which again suggests hatred, or possibly revenge, as a motive, which certainly wasn't so in Harper's case. And for the last thing, the air simply reeked of perfume when I got there, and I'd say an expensive one at that. It hadn't had time then to evaporate. It isn't the usual custom of men, even foreigners of the dandified class, to use perfume these days.”

“I knew that scream came from a woman,” the sergeant said with conviction.

“I think I pointed out to you once before to-night, that it might possibly prove to be the woman who was the killer,” the inspector said dryly. “Though I'm bound to say that it's not over likely. Well,” he said, “we've got that something ‘tangible' that the ‘Sooper' wanted, if it's only concerning the murder of poor Harper. But all the same it isn't all wasted work. Now that we know that the front door was used we've got something definite to work on, and a very useful ‘something' at that.”

“I don't just see,” the sergeant was commencing, when McCarthy interrupted.

“We know that whoever escaped out of the square through that door, had a latch-key which admitted them to the place. That narrows things down to a comparatively small circle of people. According to all the rules, Sergeant, that fact ought to put someone in the dock on the capital charge, sooner or later.”

“It should
that
,” the sergeant admitted readily. “I didn't think of that for the minute, Inspector.”

“But the unfortunate thing about murder, Sergeant,” McCarthy pursued in that whimsical tone of his, “is that it is never committed according to any rules. The thing that you're positive is going to happen is generally the last thing that does. If it turns out any different in this case, then it'll be the exception which proves the rule.”

Chapter VII

“Danny the Dip” Turns Up

Inspector McCarthy, minus the sergeant's torch, began to creep his way back in the direction of his lodgings. Any helpful light that might have come from the glowing embers of the fire had been long since blotted out by the exertions of the fire brigade. He had not proceeded very far when he thudded against some extremely solid human object who, upon mutual investigation, turned out to be C. 1285, back again upon his beat.

As the constable was in possession of a torch, which, by the way, Regulations did not permit him to use except in a moment of crisis, the inspector borrowed it from him, and the two proceeded side by side towards the middle of Greek Street until the inspector's way obliged him to turn out of that thoroughfare.

“Strange case that to-night, sir,” C. 1285 ventured, after a moment.

“Extraordinary,” McCarthy answered affably. “'Tis jobs like that that keep us up on our toes, and, incidentally”—he stifled a yawn—“out of our beds.”

“I've managed to discover that there was one vehicle went out of Soho Square, and must have come through it just about the time of that scream,” the constable went on. “That is,” he added dubiously, “if you could call it a vehicle.”

“What was that?” McCarthy asked quickly.

“Old Joe Anselmi's portable coffee-stall,” the constable told him. “That's a regular job, though he generally gets it through the square with a couple of helpers about half-past eleven. But to-night, for some reason or other he was late, I suppose the two chaps who generally help him to push it to his stand didn't turn up and he must have waited till just before one, and then had to shove it himself—a bit of a job for an old man.”

McCarthy nodded. He knew old Joe Anselmi well; had done so ever since he himself had been a lad knocking about the purlieus of Soho. A respectable hard-working old man, a rigid and devout Catholic, and one most certainly not likely to be connected with crime in any shape or form whatsoever.

“It certainly must have been a job for the old man to push a lumbering thing like that along by himself,” he agreed. “And he turned out of the square just at that time you say? Which way did he go?”

“By Sutton Street into the Charing Cross Road,” he was told. “His pitch, as I suppose you know, Inspector, is at a corner just a bit down Denman Street.”

“I know,” McCarthy said. A good many times when out upon a nocturnal prowl he had pulled up at the old man's stall for a cup of coffee and a chow about bygone days in Soho. Certainly that unwieldy portable place of business was not to be connected in any way with the crime in Soho Square.

Arrived at the corner at which he turned right to make his way through into Dean Street, while the constable's beat took him to the left towards Frith Street, they parted company.

“Look in to my place for the torch and a drink in the morning,” he said. “The kind of luck I'm having to-night I'd have broken my neck without the loan of it long before this. Good night.”

Inside his own room he once again divested himself of his dressing-gown and prepared to turn in; he would have to be out bright and early in the morning to get to the scene of the crime before anyone connected with that queer lot of offices arrived there. For a moment it was in his mind to give Bill Haynes a ring, but he decided against it. Knowing the Assistant Commissioner's enthusiasm where sticky crimes of the sort just committed were concerned, he would be probably kept up the greater part of what little time remained to him for sleep jawing the whole thing over again.

He seemed to have been asleep but five minutes when the telephone at his bedside rang out at an alarming rate. Starting up he switched on his light, glanced at his wrist-watch to discover that it was five o'clock, then lifted the receiver.

“What is it
now?
” he demanded, a not unnatural tartness in his voice.

He was informed that he was being called by the “S” Division station at Golders Green, and that the inspector in charge was speaking.

“Golders Green!” McCarthy echoed. “What in the name of Heaven does Golders Green want with me, Inspector?”

“There's a rather strange and ugly business happened at this end, Inspector,” he was informed. “We wouldn't have troubled you but for the fact that there's a man named Regan concerned in it—Dan Regan, who we know to be a West End pickpocket.”

“‘Danny the Dip'!” McCarthy snapped. “What's the matter with him?”

“He's telling a story that takes a bit of believing, Inspector,” the voice at the other end of the line went on. “He says that he was doing a certain job for you when he was knocked out in Park Lane. The next thing he knew when he came to was that he was wandering about on the Heath. He didn't know where he was, and had the idea that he was in Hyde Park. One of my men on beat found him wandering about near the Vale of Health, and brought him in. He's in an absolutely bemused state, and I'd say he has been given a shot of something or other. He hardly seems to know what he is talking about, but he sticks to the tale that he was doing a job for you.”

“He's quite right there, Inspector,” McCarthy said. “I left him in Oxford Street doing a bit of shadowing for me. Can't he give any explanation as to what has happened to him?”

“Nothing that seems to make sense,” came the prompt answer. “And there's another side of it too: he's covered with blood; far more than the crack over the head he's undoubtedly had will account for.”

“The poor divil has run into bad trouble somewhere or other,” McCarthy said ruefully. “Too bad; too bad, entirely.”

“There's something considerably worse than that which the constable discovered at the same time,” the voice continued. “Not far from where Regan was found wandering about, he discovered the body of a woman who had been brutally murdered. Her throat had been cut until the head was nearly severed from the body, and she had other wounds as well.”

“What's that!” McCarthy almost yelled into the phone. “Repeat that, Inspector!”

With the greatest possible succinctness the “S” Division officer did so.

“What type of woman did she seem to be and how long does your D.S. say she's been dead?” McCarthy got out all in one breath.

He was told that as far as could be judged by exteriors, the quality of her clothes, etc., etc., the murdered woman appeared, at any rate, to belong to the wealthy class. The body was clad in evening dress, covered by a coat which certainly had cost a considerable amount of money, and although no jewellery or anything else had been found upon her, there were distinct evidences that she had been in the habit of wearing rings, and the lobe of one ear was torn as though an ear-ring had been wrenched from it. The divisional-surgeon had been called, and, though only making a short and cursory examination, had given it as his opinion that she had been murdered somewhere in the region of midnight or perhaps a little later, but not more than an hour or so, in his opinion.

“Where is the body now?” McCarthy asked quickly.

He was told that it was at the local mortuary, but that the D.S. did not propose carrying out the post-mortem until the morning.

“Listen, Inspector,” McCarthy said quickly. “Have the body transferred at once—
at once
, you understand me—to the mortuary here. I'll call up our divisional-surgeon and tell him to get there at once. I believe it to be the body of a person murdered in Soho Square somewhere about one o'clock to-night, and spirited away in some mysterious fashion. Now get that straight, like a good fella, as positive orders from H.Q.”

“But,” the local inspector was beginning, some objection obviously in his mind, when McCarthy interrupted.

“I'll have the orders sent direct to you from the Assistant Commissioner, within ten minutes, if that occurs to ye as the proper proceeding, Inspector,” he said. “Come to think of it, perhaps it would be. Red tape can play the very divil with a man if he puts a foot wrong. Stand by for a call from the A.C. within a few minutes of my getting off the line, and at the same time send Regan in to the mortuary in the first vehicle you can grab hold of. Now get busy, time is the whole essence of this particular thing. S'long—and thanks for the call, though how you found my number is a mystery to me.”

“Regan knew it,” the inspector told him. “It was that that made us think there might be something in his yarn.”

Ringing off, McCarthy promptly dialled the number of Sir William Haynes' Bloomsbury residence, and a moment later had him on the line. Quickly he poured into that staggered gentleman's ear a brief résumé of what had happened since they had parted, and requested the prompt transference of the body from Golders Green to the West End.

“Golders Green is naturally standing on a bit of etiquette, Bill,” he concluded, “but a word from you direct will put that right, and when you've done that ye might give our sawbones a personal tinkle to pull up his socks and get himself to the mortuary without any undue delay. He was bellyachin' at being lugged to Soho Square to view poor Harper's body, and what he'll have to say if I have him routed out again will be unfit for publication. His howls will go up to the high heaven! He's not a bad old stick and knows his job inside out, but he does like his bed. So do I,” he added whimsically, “and, if you remember, I promised myself a full issue of it to-night, and here's the result. Get busy, Bill—the chap at Golders Green is hanging on for your O.K.”

“Would you care for me to get dressed and slip along to the mortuary, Mac?” Sir William asked eagerly.

“Very far from it,” his friend answered promptly and succinctly. “Definitely,
no!
To start with,” he added in more mollifying tones, “you'd probably break your neck on the road there, Bill, and as I told you once before to-night, what Scotland Yard would do without you is more than I, or anyone else, could say. The blow would be shattering.”

Before Sir William could reply to these somewhat invidious remarks, McCarthy rang off, and made a dive for his clothes.

Five minutes later saw him out in the street again, but this time fully garbed and torched. This Soho Square murder was beginning to open up in an unusually strange manner, but perhaps the queerest part of it to the inspector, and the angle of it he was most interested in at the moment, was what had happened to “Danny the Dip” after he had left him in Oxford Street on the heels of the man with those unnatural-looking ice-blue eyes.