A Scream in Soho (15 page)

The signor shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, that ees what 'appened to 'im. P'raps it teach 'im to keep 'is 'ands in 'is own pockets.”

McCarthy nodded. “We'll hope so,” he said, as he turned towards the door. “I must have an eye kept on this Vanadi. We've got trouble enough in Soho without his sort bargin' in. Don't forget to forget that I've been in here making inquiries to-night,” he cautioned. “So long.”

Chapter XVII

“Big Bill” Does a Spot of Sleuthing

The inspector was in an exceedingly thoughtful mood as he made his way back to his Dean Street lodgings. The discovery of that tell-tale stain upon Mascagni's fingers had opened up a quite unexpected angle in the Soho Square crime. That Mascagni had been connected with it in some way or other had been patent from the fact that he had been in the car which had attempted to run him, or Regan, down that morning. But that the gang-boss had actually had the stolen prints through his hands was the very last thing McCarthy had ever dreamed of. But there was no gainsaying that stain; that told its own story, and that it could possibly have been there through any other medium was unthinkable.

Mulling it over in his mind there seemed only one possible way in which that could have occurred. Mascagni's mob, probably including Floriello personally, had committed the Anselmi murder and purloined the coffee-stall. When, right after that scream, the body of the butchered Rohner had been tossed into it, the prints had been hurriedly passed to Mascagni, in case anything should go wrong with the killer's getaway. He would have certain explicit orders concerning them, of course. The probability was that he had returned them only that night—in all likelihood to the mysterious personage whom McCarthy, on the prowl, had picked up leaving Fasoli's, only to lose him in that car. He would have given a month's salary to have caught even one glimpse of the face of that individual.

On the other hand there was another possibility to be considered: that Mascagni had still had them in his possession when he was done to death after leaving the
Romagna
, but, looking at it in every light, the inspector did not think so. But now that that tell-tale stain had made it a certainty that the dead gang-boss had had the prints in his possession, that intriguing business of the knock upon the window by the table at which the Baroness Lena Eberhardt regularly had her
déjeuner
, took on a totally different perspective. Had his first idea of that rather extraordinary happening been right, and the knock been a definite signal, or message, to the baroness? Looked at in the light of Withers' report as to her later movements, and particularly her amazing disappearance somewhere in the vicinity of Fasoli's, it certainly looked so.

That thought brought another to his mind: what had become of Withers who had an assignment with him to be somewhere on the prowl in the vicinity of the
Circolo Venezia
at about eleven o'clock? Not one sign of him had the inspector seen during his peregrination of the Soho streets, though, he admitted freely, the taxi would have had to have pulled up right under his very nose for him to have been aware of its presence. Still, the black-out was something Withers would have been well hardened to by now, and he would certainly have found McCarthy had he been on the spot as arranged. That he had not been, intrigued the inspector considerably, for as a rule the big taxi-man was the soul of reliability.

Dismissing the thought of Withers' lapse as of little consequence since he had not needed him, his mind reverted again to Mascagni and the sudden and terrible death which had been dealt out to him. That he well deserved it there was no question of doubt, and particularly so if he had had any hand in the equally brutal slaying of poor old Joe Anselmi, not to mention the butchery in Soho Square; but that was not the point. Murder was murder in the eyes of the law; no matter how much the murdered deserved the fate dealt out to him.

And in that connection there was another thing which puzzled McCarthy considerably—that tiny footprint which, he had no doubt whatever, had been left behind either by the killer or someone connected with him, and present, when the crime was committed. That it was the spoor of a man was impossible, albeit it seemed, despite its size, of an extremely ungainly shape to be left by a woman's modern shoe. Automatically his mind turned upon the only two women he knew to have been connected with Mascagni within the last twenty-four hours: the Baroness Lena Eberhardt (and behind her name there must be set a very large note of interrogation), and Tessa Domenico. The foot of the former, he remembered perfectly; during that lunch-hour he had had more than one opportunity of noticing, not only the perfect shape of her feet and ankles, but also the highly expensive perfection of the shoes she was wearing. He was as certain as he could be of anything that they had not left that particular spoor.

For one thing the baroness, although perfectly formed, was a woman of rather over average height, and built in proportion; her feet, though leaving nothing whatever open to criticism, were definitely of a long and narrow mould, quite different to the extremely short and thickish print he had found in the alley. And there was another side of that which could not be overlooked: if the Austrian woman were connected with this espionage gang who killed so readily, it would certainly not have been left to her to carry out the murder of Flo. Mascagni.

Just what the feet of the perfectly formed Tessa Domenico were like he could not recall to memory, but she, too, although the perfection of female anatomy, was upon the tall and stately side, and generously built. Her feet, he was certain, were not of the tiny variety which would account for so short a spoor. But there was one thing connected with her which certainly gave him to think, and think hard: that was the fact that, after being away from home at the time that Delmorti had rung up at Mascagni's request, she, at one o'clock, should put a call through there and make what undoubtedly was an assignation to meet Mascagni at a still later hour—possibly at two o'clock, since he had not left the
Circolo
till a quarter to that hour. Knowing all the short cuts of Soho backwards, Mascagni would have been able to get to Doughty Street comfortably by two o'clock, even handicapped by the black-out.

And Tessa Domenico, born and bred in Soho and, like most of its youthful denizens, having run its streets night and day for years, knew it as well as did her lover. She would know exactly which short cuts he would take to bring him out at the nearest point to Doughty Street. She would also have a fairly good idea just about what time he would leave the
Romagna
; he could, quite possibly, have told her that in their talk over the phone.

There came back to him Withers' words to the effect that Tessa still ran around with Mascagni though more from fear than any love she might have for him; a cynical comment with which he had agreed. Had she, for any ulterior motive arising out of that situation, had anything to do with the “removal” of the jealous lover she went in terror of? Had that phone call been the medium by which Flo. Mascagni had been put “on the spot”?

But there, again, he found himself up against a theory to which he could not give credence. If those footprints were to be taken as of any value at all towards the elucidation of the crime, then Tessa Domenico must have either committed the murder herself or at any rate been present when it had been done; neither of which possibilities—if only from the very method by which the murder had been committed, would, in his opinion, hold water for a single moment. And in the latter case why was there no spoor left by the murderer?

But the fact remained that the call making the assignation with Mascagni had come from Tessa Domenico and within a few minutes of leaving to join her he had been ruthlessly killed. If, again, this espionage gang with which he was undoubtedly connected had had anything to do with his death, then there was a possible argument that she, too, must be in some way connected with them. He could see it was not possible for them to have known, other than by information from herself, that Mascagni was leaving the club at the time he did, to keep an appointment with her. However, whichever way it was, that call would have to be followed up and the beautiful Tessa put through an interrogation which would leave nothing concerning her movements that night in doubt.

With Inspector McCarthy, to make up his mind was usually to act instanter, but he realized that to make for the boarding-house in Doughty Street at that hour of the morning, and, without warrant, or any other authority, pull the girl out of bed for an inquisition would be absolutely useless and, more than likely, defeat his own ends. He decided to turn in and get an hour or two's sleep.

Six o'clock saw him out of bed again, and dressing; less than an hour after that saw him out upon the street and this time the debonair, perfectly-groomed Inspector McCarthy that the world knew, and, knowing, had taken to its bosom.

He was proceeding along New Oxford Street when a taxi-cab coming along at an entirely illegal pace drew up with a screech of brakes beside him. In the driver's seat, penitence stamped indelibly upon his huge face, was Mr. William Withers, evidently making his way from his Clerkenwell residence.

“Guv'nor,” he exclaimed, before McCarthy could utter a word, “I know just what you're a-goin' t' say, an' I ain't got no answer for it. I done in your job last night; leastwise,” he qualified, “I never done it in intentional—only on account o' losin' me temper. When I got back again I couldn't find you nowhere.”

“No bones broken, Withers,” McCarthy returned equably. “As it turned out I didn't want you. Where did you get to anyway?”

“Well, it's this way, sir, an' I ain't makin' no excuses for meself. I was just makin' for Soho Square to come in by Greek Street, when a bleeder wiv a big car come slashin' out into Oxford Street wiv no lights on, takes the corner on two wheels and all-but rams me proper. He gave my mudguards a dam' good rakin'—'ow 'e didn't take 'em off is more than I know. Take a mike at 'em, guv'nor, an' you'll see as 'ow I ain't tellin' no lies—th' dirty arsterbar!”

McCarthy pricked up his ears and took a glance at the mudguards; their condition upon one side amply corroborated Withers' story.

“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.”