A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon

there’s no mistaking it for anything but the same that this unfortunate creature has been using.”
    The doctor nodded. “I get it myself,” he said. “It’s queer.”
    It was on the tip of McCarthy’s tongue to ask what was queer about it, but as he did not want to listen to any discourse upon perfumes, generally, and this particular one specifically he withheld the question and turned again to his examination. Everything she wore, shoes, stockings and lingerie all carried the hallmark of expensiveness and quality. There were, as he had been informed by Golders Green, definite signs upon the fingers that she had worn rings upon each hand, and the mark was plainly to be seen where one ear-ring, at least, had been ruthlessly torn from the right ear-lobe. As neither of the ears had been pierced they must have been screw or clip fastenings, and that they had been taken at all seemed to argue that they must have been of considerable value. In the inside of the coat, which now lay wide open and overhanging the slab upon one side, there was a pocket into which he thrust his hand and brought out a solid gold cigarette-case which, however, carried no monogram or other possible means of identification; nor, that he could see upon a cursory examination, were there any markings on the underclothes.
    He gave some little time to a study of the face itself, upon which the grey pallor of death seemed to show strangely through the heavy coating of make-up the woman wore. He decided that it was of a definitely Continental type, and not English; Teutonic, he would have said, with extraordinarily strong features for one of her sex.
    â€œWhat nationality would you put her down as being, Doc?” he asked.
    â€œGerman,” the D.S. answered unhesitatingly. “A perfect Teutonic cast of features; no doubt about that in my mind. Is that the only thing you notice about it, Mac?” he continued, a note in his voice which made the inspector glance at him quickly.
    â€œWhat else is there to see?” McCarthy questioned. “Besides that she was a woman of distinction in her early, or mid-thirties, I’d say, and of a particularly strong cast of features, what is there to see?”
    â€œA devil of a lot that will surprise you,” the medico answered. “That is,” he amended, “if anything can.”
    â€œIt can’t,” McCarthy assured him equably, “but I’ll listen, just the same.”
    â€œWell, if this doesn’t, I’ll eat my hat,” the surgeon said tersely. “Your woman, McCarthy, happens to be a man!”
    It was useless for the inspector to even try to hide the complete and utter surprise which filled him. His eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.
    â€œWell, I’ll—I’ll go to hell!” he gasped. “You’re not codding, I suppose?” he asked quickly.
    â€œIf you think I enjoy being lugged out of bed at this hour of the morning so much that I start codding people, you’re very much mistaken,” the medico growled. “Your lady, I repeat, is a man. To satisfy yourself just run your hand upwards under the chin. If there aren’t bristles enough under the make-up to set your mind at rest upon that point, then you take a deuce of a lot of satisfying.”
    McCarthy gingerly did as he was told, to find, beyond any question of doubt, that under his hand was unquestionably the bristles of a strong beard, but so skilfully covered by the make-up that, in the ordinary way, they were absolutely undetectable.
    â€œA common enough type in Germany nowadays,” the D.S. commented. “The last time I was in Berlin the lounges of the Hotel Adlon, and similar places, were full of them. The pure Aryan,” he continued sarcastically, “seems to have a very definite leaning in that direction. As far as the bristles go, he probably shaves two or three times a day; had he been alive and he’d done that this