A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon Page B

alley.
    â€œThe possibilities are that there was another reason that made him wait for a bit before venturing forth. Just at that time the glare from the fire was at its height and he probably thought he’d be wiser to hang back for a bit in case someone spotted him in the glare. When at last he did take a chance it was to discover Harper on duty at the back gate. To get out he had to finish him, once and for all; a business that wouldn’t be over difficult to an expert knife-man, as the evidence seems to show that this fellow was. After that it would be comparatively easy to get well away from this place, or even mingle with the crowd and watch events.”
    â€œBut—but Harper hadn’t been dead more than two or three minutes before we found him,” the sergeant objected.
    â€œThereabouts,” McCarthy said, “but a man in a desperate hurry can travel a divil of a long way in that time. It’s quite on the cards that he scaled the fence on the other side of the alley, and made off that way.”
    â€œThat’s possible,” the sergeant said, casting his mental eye over the neighbourhood. “He could have got out and into Chapel Street if he knew his ground.”
    â€œI think we can take it for granted that he did that,” McCarthy said. “We’ll take a look about the place.”
    The rooms upon the first floor were all locked, as McCarthy expected to find; the one upon the immediate right-hand side upon entering the front door seemed to be the office of whatever management there was about the place. That, too, was locked.
    â€œAnd I expect that we’ll find them all the same right up to the attics,” McCarthy said. “If there is such a thing as a board where duplicate keys to the offices are kept, or even a master key, it will be in that office, and unless we’re going to break in every door in the place, which I don’t propose doing, we can’t get very much farther, as far as the offices are concerned. Unfortunately,” he added, a twinkle in his eye, “I haven’t my little pick-lock with me.”
    â€œWe might break into this office and see if there’s a master key,” the sergeant said, though dubiously.
    â€œBreak into a place without a properly issued warrant,” McCarthy said severely. “I am surprised at you, Sergeant! And, at that, a place which doesn’t show one exterior sign that a crime’s been committed in it. D’ye see any spots of blood, or bullet holes through the door or anything else to justify you taking such an action?”
    â€œNo, sir,” the sergeant replied sheepishly.
    McCarthy shook his head, as though grieved beyond measure at even the thought of such an outrage.
    â€œYou want to watch your step, Sergeant,” he said warningly. “One or two of those little larks, and you’ll be getting as bad a name as myself with the higher-ups. We’ll try the basement; I don’t suppose that will be locked up like a bank vault.”
    Descending the stairs, they came upon a set of rooms which must in bygone days have composed the kitchen and other domestic offices of the old house. By the look of them they must have been gloomy holes at the best of times, and at the present moment looked like so many dungeons. The doors were all flung wide open and it needed little more than a cursory glance to show that they were filled with useless lumber of all sorts, buried in the dust of years. In McCarthy’s opinion they certainly had nothing to tell but, before turning upstairs again, he gave the floorings by the doors a careful examination; they too were so thickly covered with dust that a recent footprint would have stood out as plainly as if stencilled.
    â€œThere’s no one entered any of these rooms to-night, Sergeant,” he said didactically.
    At that moment a police whistle sounded at the rear of the house—the signal arranged by the sergeant to