Read Online A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œStrange case that to-night, sir,” C. 1285 ventured, after a moment.
    â€œExtraordinary,” McCarthy answered affably. “’Tis jobs like that that keep us up on our toes, and, incidentally”—he stifled a yawn—“out of our beds.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œWhat was that?” McCarthy asked quickly.
    â€œOld 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.
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œBy 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œLook 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.
    â€œWhat is it now? ” he demanded, a not unnatural tartness in his voice.
    He