A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon Page B

bearing the inscription, “Heinrich, London.” But he could find no date or anything else that would give the slightest clue as to who the wig had been made for.
    â€œI’ll want this for a bit,” he said to the attendant. “Parcel it up, and I’ll sign for it. How’s Regan going on?”
    â€œFoine,” he was told. “The tay done ’im all the good in the world, like the D.S. said it would. But there’s one thing, Inspector, ye’ll need get him an overcoat of some sort or other before ye can take ’im out of this. If he goes out on the street the way he is, with the blood dried all over him, he’ll be pinched for murder before he gets a hundred yards, even with you with him.”
    A glance into the office where Regan sat sipping at the scalding tea and pulling horrible faces in the process, satisfied McCarthy of the truth of the observation. “Find him something for the time being,” he requested. “I’ll take him home with me to hear his story, and return anything you can dig him up later in the day.
    â€œHow are you feeling now, Dan?” he asked, as he entered the office.
    The pickpocket looked up at him through still half-vacant eyes.
    â€œBloody awful,” he answered in a tone which left no doubt in McCarthy’s mind as to the truth of his words. “They musta soaked me proper, Inspector, while they was at it,” he continued, with a shake of his head. “Blimey, many’s the time I been put down with bars an’ bottles and coshes, but I never felt like this.”
    â€œThey gave you something else, to make sure of you, Dan,” McCarthy explained. “A shot of something that would keep you where they wanted you for as long as it suited them.”
    As he spoke his eyes were travelling over the thick, dark stains upon Regan’s clothes. “You’ve no idea what happened to you after they knocked you out, Danny?” he inquired.
    Regan shook his head. “After they dotted me, guv’nor, an’ I seen a million stars, I dunno nothink. I ’spect I must’ve been dumped into a car, because it was out of one that they dived on me, and I couldn’t ’ave got all the way to ’Ampstead any other way, like I must’ve done.”
    McCarthy nodded his agreement.
    â€œNo, Danny,” he said, “it was a car, right enough. I’ll take you home with me for a bit of breakfast, and hear your story up to that point there. The thing that’s interesting me most at the moment, is where, and how, did you come by all this blood on your clothes. You certainly never got it from that crack on the skull.”
    Regan shook his head wearily. “Don’t ask me, Inspector,” he returned. “You know as much abaht that as I do.”
    Taking a small penknife from his pocket, McCarthy wiped the blade clean, then carefully scraped some of the glutinous, and still moist in parts, blood from Regan’s coat. Spreading it carefully upon a sheet of white paper he got from the mortuary attendant, he took it back to the doctor and requested him to make a test with that of the man in female clothing.
    â€œI’ve the idea, Doc,” he said, “that the body of this man was already in the bottom of the car that Regan was pitched into, and the blood from this one will be found to be the same that he’s covered with.”
    â€œLeave it here,” the D.S. said brusquely. “I’ll do the lot at the same time. And if there’s anything else you can think up to keep me stuck at it here all day, don’t hesitate to rush it along. My time is of no account whatever,” he added sarcastically.
    â€œI’ll not forget,” McCarthy said, with a grin, and, first seeing his battered assistant arrayed in an ancient rain-coat six sizes too big for him, led the way towards the door.
    Taking a last glance back at the figure upon which the disgruntled doctor was