A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon

“Just how long is it since you sent this poor fella round here, Sergeant?”
    â€œNot a minute after you went off in the squad-car, sir,” the sergeant informed him. “I knew that that was what you’d have done yourself if—if you hadn’t had something else on your mind just at the moment.”
    â€œThat damned hunch of mine to follow that fellow,” McCarthy groaned. “In that case, Sergeant,” he went on, “whoever killed Harper must’ve left the house, committed the deed and walked quietly out through that alley and into Soho Square, while Superintendent Burman, the chief inspector and yourself were colloguing at the front door. Harper’s not been dead many minutes—his hands are not really cold yet.”
    â€œIt must’ve been about that time,” the sergeant agreed.
    One thought flashed across McCarthy’s mind instantly: that whoever had done this second killing, it most certainly could not have been the man with the ice-blue eyes. Indeed, why he should be connected with the business in any shape or form was something the inspector would have been at a big loss to explain to anyone. However, he most certainly had not been connected with this ghastly second portion of it.
    â€œWe’ll have to go through the whole place, Sergeant,” he said. “Though I’m afraid we’ll only draw blank.”
    â€œThere’s a mighty big likelihood that we’ll find the other body somewhere at the back of that front door,” the sergeant said stubbornly. “At least, I think there is.”
    â€œYou’re probably right,” McCarthy admitted, a trifle wearily. “I was wrong about the door having been opened; I’m probably wrong about that as well.”
    He led the way across a small paved yard to that partly-opened door, threw it right back and turned the torch into it. Owing to its conformation, it was impossible to see right through to the front door, despite its width, for the staircase which led from the hall was a particularly wide and magnificently carved one, as was also that portion of it which continued down into a basement. Across the hall there were also two pillars supporting arches which also helped to break the view.
    â€œYou’ll notice, sir,” the sergeant mentioned as they stepped into the rear part of the hall, “that this back door has a spring lock.”
    â€œSo much the better,” McCarthy said. “Shut it after you. If there’s anyone hidden in the basement, by any chance, they’ll have a bit of a job to slip us. In any case we’ll search that first—after we’ve made sure that there is, or is not, as it may be, a body in the hall.”
    Turning his torch to the floor, his eyes searching for blood spots upon the old and worn linoleum, the inspector led the way towards the extremely wide front door. No sign was there to be seen of anything out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing to suggest that the victim of whatever tragedy might have occurred outside, had been brought into the actual premises, themselves. Not one drop of blood was there to be seen, except in one place: on the outer fringe of the sunken doormat, which ran right across, and slightly under the door itself. That had evidently trickled down from the outer side of the door, and worked its way underneath.
    â€œWell,” McCarthy asked quietly, “are you satisfied now about the body being brought into the inside?”
    In the light of the torch the sergeant stared helplessly at the wide door mat, and that portion of the hall which lay between it and the stairs. The evidence of his own eyes was irrefutable; most certainly nothing, or no one, bleeding as they must have been doing, had been brought through that door.
    â€œThere we are, Sergeant,” McCarthy said, but in no cocksure way, “let it be a lesson to ye never to be certain of anything, where murder is concerned. I was