A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon Page A

morning, we wouldn’t have found a trace of them. The D.S. at Golders Green must have taken a very cursory glance at him—the teeth alone ought to have told him the truth, though I’ll admit that they are exceptionally small.”
    â€œThey didn’t me,” McCarthy said ruefully.
    â€œWhich is only proof, if you need any, that you don’t know as much as you think you do, Mac,” the surgeon returned dryly.
    â€œBut what the divil is he got up in this way, here in England, for?” McCarthy questioned, though more to himself than anyone else.
    The D.S. shrugged his shoulders. “That’s your job to find out. Personally, I’d say it was a case of espionage in some form or other. There are any amount of them here among the ‘refugees’ and ‘anti-Nazis.’ We’re the dam’dest fools on earth when it comes to that sort of thing.”
    â€œYou’re telling me! ” McCarthy exclaimed. “You want to hear the Special Branch men on that.”
    â€œI don’t,” the other said shortly. “I’ve got plenty of grouses of my own, without having to listen to theirs. However, you’re aware now that it’s the murder of a man you’re investigating, and not a woman. Though,” he amended, “and speak with all caution, I’d say that he was in the habit of wearing female clothes habitually, if I make myself clear.”
    McCarthy nodded. “You mean that I’m investigating the case of the murder of a man who isn’t known in the country as a man at all, but as a woman?”
    â€œThat’s it. And now, I’ll thank you to clear out and let me get on with my job. Unless,” he added, with a jerk of his head towards another still figure stretched out upon a slab at the other end of the chill room, “there’s anything you want to know about the murdered constable. I made a thorough examination of his wound, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s more than likely that he was stabbed with an exact counterpart of that weapon you showed me. The sooner you can let me have it, the better, and I’ll get on with the blood test you wanted.”
    â€œI’ll give the ‘dabs’ artist’s a ring and hustle them up,” McCarthy promised. He was turning away towards the office, in which “Danny the Dip” was now being regaled with a huge mug of tea, which, from the steam arising from it, must have been well-nigh scalding, when something else crossed his mind. “Then that hair,” he said, with a nod towards the cadaver stretched out before them, “must be a wig.”
    â€œOf course; no man living could ever train his hair to grow that way, even though it is on the short side.”
    Lifting the head, the D.S. unfastened several almost invisible hairpins, and drew an amazingly perfect wig of dark brown hair, very slightly touched with grey, from it. “Wonderful piece of real-hair work,” he commented. “Quite the best I’ve ever come across, must have been made by an artist in that line. Practically undetectable in the ordinary way.”
    Holding out his hand for the wig, McCarthy took it, and examined it thoroughly. Among the odds and ends of miscellaneous information he had picked up from theatrical friends, was the fact that first-class wig-makers invariably stitched a tab with their name and the date of making, and very often the name of the person the wig was made for, upon the inside webbing on which the hair was threaded. If by any lucky chance it should be so in this case—and certainly the magnificent wig the “woman” had worn could only have been the work of a first-class maker—then here might be a direct clue which might, eventually, lead to the identity of the murdered man. Surely enough upon one corner of the tapes, which held the springs which formed the foundation of the wig, he came across a small printed tab