A Scream in Soho

by John G. Brandon

  “I saw nothing of him,” the Baron snapped.

  “He took remarkably good care of that,” McCarthy informed him pleasantly. “As it happens he’s by way of being an exceedingly shrewd chap who assists me no little from time to time, and he realized that he’d discovered the one join-up I’d been waiting for ever since a certain lady friend of yours had paid a call at Fasoli’s in the afternoon.”

  “Ach, Himmel!” burst involuntarily from the German.

  That change McCarthy had been waiting for came suddenly into the expression of those eyes. The revelation that he had been followed to Grosvenor Square and watched there, with the obvious implication that the visit connected him definitely with the Baroness Lena Eberhardt, had, unquestionably, been a shattering blow, both to his vanity and to his sense of security.

  “Women,” McCarthy said softly, “are the very divil in espionage, or any other kind of plotting for the matter of that. The dear things simply can’t keep their teeth shut. Clever as they think they are, and cunning without a doubt, they almost invariably give the one lead away which sooner or later wrecks themselves and everyone concerned with them. My little friend, Tessa Domenico, will do just the same when they take her into the Yard for interrogation. I expect she will have been picked up by now. She’ll squeal all she knows—you see if I’m not right, Hellner. And Fasoli—there’s a poor kind of reed to lean upon when the going gets tough. The little birds warbling in the trees in Lincoln’s Inn Fields can’t get their notes out half as fast as Luigi Fasoli will spill all he knows.”

  A low, animal-like growl came from the throat of the German.

  “Curse you,” he began in little more than a hissed whisper. “Whatever happens, you, at least, will not be there to see it!”

  “Get that idea out of your head entirely,” McCarthy snapped, tensing himself. “I’ll be there, right enough, and I’ll give you one last piece of information, combined with prophecy, for luck. Heinrich will not take that stolen stuff out of England to-night!”

  Like lightning one of his hands flashed downwards and outwards, cutting the pistol away from his mid-section; instantly it exploded and he heard the heavy bullet tear its way into the frame of the door. Simultaneously his right hand whizzed up into the man’s face with terrific force, laying it open to the bone. The blood streamed from the wound, for a second blinding Hellner and giving McCarthy just that fraction of time he needed to get a grip upon the wrist of the German’s gun hand.

  But he was to find that in this man he had an opponent that it took more than one blow, terrible as it was, to stop. Hellner’s left fist crashed solidly into McCarthy’s face, driving his head back against the door with almost stunning force. A moment later a knee in the groin gave him agonizing pain, but it also did something else upon which the other had certainly never counted.

  It set the fighting Irish blood of the inspector ablaze with fury! Still gripping the man’s gun-wrist, he lashed away at the bloodstained face with a viciousness which no man could have withstood for long. Hellner, as tall as McCarthy and every whit as powerful, dashed an iron-hard head into his face with shattering force—to be met the second time he tried it with an uppercut which nearly tore it from his shoulders. By sheer strength, McCarthy rushed his opponent back out of the door-way across the passage and up against the wall.

  With the German trying to get a grip upon his throat, McCarthy dug him under the heart with that iron hand of his until the man’s breathing became a short hard gasp which told its own story. But, although hurt, he was as deadly as a rattle-snake every second of the time.

  But the blood he was losing was weakening him. It was pouring from his face in a torrent now, covering his own clothes, and McCarthy’s, with the sticky fluid. In vain he tried to get a leg-lock and throw the Scotland Yard man, but only towards his own undoing, for McCarthy, expert at ju-jitsu as he was, nearly tore the limb from its socket.

  Desperately he struggled to get the gun-hand free, but the inspector, realizing that if that happened his last moment had come, held on with the tenacity of a bull-dog. Again and again he lashed those wicked blows under the heart, but if they were slowing the man, he certainly was showing no sign of it beyond his gasping breath.

  Then, with a sudden quick twist of his whole body, but still keeping his grip upon the wrist, McCarthy stooped quickly, whipped the man bodily to his shoulder, and sent him flying out, full length upon the floor. With the wrist held, the arm joint was wrenched completely out of its socket and the gun fell from limp, nerveless fingers.

  But even then the other was not yet finished. One bloody hand shot out and gripped McCarthy by the ankle, and he endeavoured to pull the detective down upon the floor with him. And then it was that the Scotland Yard man got the hold he wanted.

  Again stooping quickly, he got the cross-hold scissors grip upon the man’s collar, drove his thumbs up under his ears, and pressed firmly. With a gasping sigh Hellner went limp all over, out to the wide, wide world!

  Through every one of the German’s pockets McCarthy went, searching him right down to his skin, but not a sign of the stolen dispositions could he find. Hellner must have passed them over to the Baroness Eberhardt during his hasty visit last night. At any rate that was the conclusion McCarthy came to, and devoutly hoped was the right one, since he was not carrying them upon him.

  Pulling the unconscious man’s hands behind him McCarthy started to look about him for something with which to secure him beyond any possible chance of freeing himself again. He found it in a strong silken coverlet which he ripped down and twisted into rope. Securely lashing Hellner’s wrists together behind him, he then bound his ankles so that it was impossible to move an inch even if he managed to get up onto his feet. To make sure of that he lifted him, tossed him bodily upon one of the beds, ripped up a coverlet from another room and fastened him securely to it; in his unconscious state he did not dare to gag him in case the man choked to death. He was quite certain that with all the doors closed no one would ever hear him if he yelled his head off—these particular flats were not put up with breeze walls.

  Hurrying through to the drawing-room he dialled the Yard and got through to Haynes just as that gentleman was leaving, presumably to keep his afternoon assignment.

  “Bill,” he said quickly, “put out a drag for Tessa Domenico right away. She’s in the West End somewhere, probably shopping. Whatever happens she must not be allowed to get back here.”

  “Where’s here?” Haynes asked pertinently.

  Giving him the address, he further instructed that two men had better be put on assignment at the front entrance, in case the drag missed her.

  “Now give orders to raid Fasoli’s and pick Luigi up without further loss of time. Also every man known to belong to Mascagni’s gang. Hold them for interrogation until I can get to the Yard.”

  “Have you got those stolen papers yet?” the A.C. questioned avidly.

  “I shall have by evening, Bill,” McCarthy informed him. “Don’t let the thought of them trouble your mind. You keep that afternoon tea appointment.”

  “Are you still set on that crazy idea, Mac?” Haynes asked troubledly.

  “More than ever,” the inspector told him flatly. “Don’t you let me down on that, whatever you do.”

  Ringing off before the Assistant Commissioner could raise any further objections, McCarthy hurried downstairs, pausing only for a moment at Delaney’s box.

  “I’m keeping the key of that flat for a little while,” he informed that worthy who stared at his dishevelled and blood-stained condition in astonishment. “No one’s to go near it. If they do you’ll have trouble.”

  Out to Withers’ taxi he hurried and to say that the burly William’s astonishment at his plight was great is to considerably under-state his feelings.

  “Blimey!” he ejaculated. “You ain’t ’alf struck it rich, guv’nor. ’Ow many of ’em set abaht
you?”

  “Only one,” McCarthy informed him, endeavouring to smile through a pair of split lips, “but he was plenty. Run me back to Dean Street to clean up and change my clothes.”

  “That suit’s kind of bitched up proper, ain’t it?” Withers observed commiseratingly.

  “‘Bitched’ is no word for it,” McCarthy said with a mournful shake of his head. “Savile Row stuff, Withers—and not yet paid for!”

  Chapter XXII

  A Two-Handed Raid!

  It was exactly five o’clock when the inspector, still in “Big Bill’s” taxi, arrived at Grosvenor Square—that hour when all those who have the time, or the inclination, generally partake of that cup which, we are told, cheers, but does not inebriate.

  Although he had given himself very considerable attention after changing his ruined garments in Dean Street, there was still no shortage of marks upon his features, left there by the fists of the German secret-service agent. The well-nigh ruined Savile Row suit had been replaced by a different one entirely; one which any working man might have worn about his job.

  The thing which was exercising McCarthy’s mind most at the moment was the tricky job of getting into the Baroness Eberhardt’s house without any of its occupants being any the wiser. To have gone up to the front door and demanded admission would have perhaps given that lady the very little time necessary to get that packet out of her hands, and even the house; after which the picking it up again would be the divil’s own job, if ever it was accomplished at all.

  As matters stood, with everything ready to smuggle those all-important plans out of the country that night, it was more than likely that not only the lady herself, but such of her household as were engaged upon this work of espionage would be well upon the qui vive, suspicious and on the look-out for anything that might be inimical to their plans. With the murders which had been committed in the process of acquiring the dispositions, they might well be on the watch for anything, or anyone, who might throw a monkey-wrench into their scheme, even at the last moment.

  He had left Withers with the car around a corner of the square out of sight of the house, and was taking a quiet look over its exterior when his eyes fell upon the figure of Sir William Haynes approaching rapidly from the direction of Park Lane, and certainly the Assistant Commissioner had turned out in full regalia for the job. His morning coat was the very last word in fashion, his trousers were creased to a razor-like edge, while his shoes and top hat positively glittered. McCarthy promptly turned his back upon this spectacle of sartorial splendour—he had not the slightest wish for the A.C. to recognize him at that state of the game—but even before he did so, he saw that the face of his friend was wearing an anything but happy look. The A.C. was finding no particular pleasure in this portion of the business.

  A second glance back showed him Sir William upon the top step outside the massive front entrance, and waiting, card in hand, to be admitted. The same glance also showed him that two heavy motor lorries which had come into the square had pulled up before a manhole in the pavement and which obviously belonged to the house; apparently the lady’s winter supply of coal was about to be shot from them. Which gave the nimble-witted McCarthy an idea.

  Hurrying back to the taxi he beckoned Withers out.

  “Go and get hold of the boss of that gang of coalies and bring him here,” he instructed. “The sight of them has shown me just how we’re going to get into that house and be right on top of the people I want before they can get the slightest chance to slip what I’m after out of the way.”

  “Are we a-goin’ to raid that there place, guv’nor? Jes’ you an’ me?”

  “That’s the idea as I see it at present, Withers,” the inspector informed him. “With the aid of those worthy gentlemen we’ll be on their necks almost before they know we’ve landed. And I don’t doubt,” he added, “that we’ll get quite a bit of pleasurable excitement out of it.”

  Mr. Withers took one look at a suspicious-looking bulge under the left-hand side of the inspector’s coat; a bulge which mutely intimated to him that McCarthy was carrying an automatic pistol, or revolver of fairly heavy calibre. Without a word he reopened the door by the driver’s seat, stooped and dipped his hand down into his toolbox and took from it a weighty eighteen-inch spanner which he dropped into the pocket of his driving coat. It might not be needed, but with the inspector on this sort of a job you never knew what was going to happen next!

  The burly person in charge of the coal gang having been brought before him by Withers, the inspector first showed him his warrant card, and then requested his aid—for a consideration. The gentleman in question promptly announced that he was only too proud and happy to be of service. Moreover, if the inspector thought there was likely to be a bit of a rough and tumble on hand, he and his mates would be only too happy to join in.

  “The thing I most want to know,” McCarthy said, after suitably thanking him for this sporting offer, “is what is your usual method in this business.”

  He was promptly enlightened as to the rites governing this procedure. When the cargo of the two motor-lorries, each carrying five tons of coal in sacks, had been shot down the manhole, two of his men went down the area steps to the basement and were admitted to the coal cellar. There they shovelled it off all nice and level for the servants of the house to get at. That had been the regular routine for the last three years, after which they were presented with a bottle of beer each and a tip, and then departed.

  “Very well, then,” McCarthy said. “When it comes to this going downstairs business, I and my friend, here, will make the descent and do the shovelling in the place of your men. So that by no chance any suspicion can possibly be aroused, two of your squad can slip around and sit in the taxi here until we get back, or at any rate keep out of sight until such time as it’s propitious for them to reappear.”

  But Coalie Number One shook his head dubiously at this suggestion.

  “It wouldn’t work, guv’nor,” he said, “because it’s a tricky game an’ somebody’s got to know ’ow t’ set abaht it. We’re watched all the time by that there bulldoggin’ butler, name of Heinrich, or some such, ’oo looks t’ me like as if ’e’s been one o’ them there sergeants in the Jerry army we used to run up again in the war. ’E foxes y’ all the time as if you was goin’ t’ pinch somethink. I’ll go dahn wiv yer, then ’e can’t think as there’s nothink wrong, because ’e knows me well, though ’e ain’t none the more pleasant for that. Arf a mo’!”

  He slipped round the corner to the motor-trucks and presently reappeared with two of his men who promptly divested themselves of their leather aprons, sleeved waistcoats and headgear, and handed them over to Withers and McCarthy.

  “Nah, you two stick ’ere in this keb,” the foreman ordered, “and don’t git aht of it till you’re told. Unless,” he added, “you ’ear a proper bull an’ a cow goin’ on, then come dahn and do sunnink useful towards it.”

  Assured fervently upon this point, McCarthy and the monumental Withers followed their leader to the lorries. When the time arrived, he led the way down the area steps to a small but extremely solid door upon which he knocked; McCarthy noted that three heavy bolts were drawn before it was opened. Evidently the house of the Baroness Eberhardt was one which invited no intruders below stairs.

  McCarthy decided that the coalie had not been far out in his appraisement of the tremendously thick-set and lowering-faced man who opened the door to them. If he had not been a German non-commissioned officer of the old, vicious type, then he, McCarthy, was a very mistaken man. He gave them no “Good day” or anything else civil, but merely pointed along a dark and dungeon-like passage towards one of three doors which stood in a row. Two, the inspector saw, were heavily barred and padlocked upon the outside. The one pointed to was open and was evidently the huge cellar which could take ten tons of coal at a time.

  Straight for it their leader went and, wi
th a gruff: “Nah, then, set abaht it!” led the way into the most gloomy-looking cavern McCarthy remembered to have ever seen in his life. It was lit only by the ray of daylight from the manhole in the pavement. At the word of command they crashed realistically into the enormous bank of coal, which was still being further enlarged by the men on top. Hovering about the door the whole of the time was this butler, Heinrich, who looked as much like a bulldog about to spring as anything else.

  “’Ow abaht it if ’e don’t make a shift, guv’nor?” “Big Bill” muttered through shut teeth.

  “Then he’ll have to be shifted!” McCarthy answered in the same way.

  But five minutes passed and there was still no sign of the welcome happening, and McCarthy had just made up his mind to act for himself in the matter when from above a bell rang peremptorily, three times. Muttering to himself in German, though in too low a tone for the inspector to pick up his words, the man, after another keen glance at the three of them, moved towards the bottom of a stone staircase some twenty feet further along the passage.

  It was difficult to hear the man’s footsteps on the stairs above the noise of the rasping of the shovels and the sliding of the coal, but McCarthy gave him what he considered time enough to reach the first landing and get out of sight, then quickly slipped into the passage. The attempt would have to be made now.

  It was only reasonable to believe that the baroness herself would be engaged with Haynes, and possibly other guests, though he doubted much that with what was afoot in her household upon this particular day she would have invited any callers. Whispering to the coalie that he was about to make the effort he had spoken of, and calling to Withers to follow him, he crept cautiously for the bottom of the staircase.

  He had scarcely started when they heard the sound of the man returning, his feet making a clear ring upon the stone steps as he descended. Something had aroused his suspicion, though what McCarthy could not for the life of him think. Then it suddenly occurred to him that the perfectly clean faces of Withers and himself, entirely free from coal-dust or any other earmarks of their supposed occupation, must in itself have been suspicious to a man of this type.