A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon

of Marylebone Lane, leading through to Wigmore Street, the man stopped and appeared to be waiting until a constable whose solid tread told his trade unmistakably came up with him. For a moment or two they stood conferring; the man evidently making some enquiry.
    For a moment or two the unpleasant thought crossed the pickpocket’s mind that the man had discovered that he was being followed and was making some complaint about it—the inspector had said that he was a fly bird, and one who couldn’t be taken liberties with. Mr. Regan did not like this conference a little bit; even the safeguard that he was on a job for Detective Inspector McCarthy did not remove a momentary qualm.
    But after a moment or two his quick ears told him that the two had moved apart; the policeman proceeding at the regulation pace upon his beat, while the other slightly quickened his steps in the direction of a telephone-booth which Dan knew stood at a little distance along Marylebone Lane. Into this the man went and, assisted by the beam of a torch he carried, dialled a number and remained there a full three minutes.
    Leaving the box, he returned to Oxford Street and, at an even slower pace than before, proceeded to cross the road and move in the direction of the Marble Arch. Promptly his shadow followed on, making no more sound than a cat stalking a bird. At the corner of Park Lane the man made a sudden stop. After a moment or two, he lit a cigarette; the light of his match giving Danny a chance to make sure he was on his right mark; then he crossed slowly over to the park corner of the lane and there stood waiting—the glow of his cigarette was as good as a friendly lamp-post to his shadower.
    Some five minutes passed without his quarry moving, which halt was as blood and tears to “Danny the Dip,” for across at the corner of the Edgware Road, his almost cat-like eyes showed him a faint haze of light which told him that the coffee-stall which usually stood there was still in full swing. The very thought of it augmented the pangs of hunger which, rat-like, were gnawing at him to a terrible extent. So much did his discomfiture increase that, seeing no sign of movement on the part of his quarry, he determined to take a chance. He had no fear of being knocked down by any traffic at this time of the morning, and in the circumstances, so, keeping his eye upon the glowing end of that cigarette, he made a quick dash to the stall, spent two of his shillings in sandwiches, and was about to take a chance upon a hastily gulped cup of coffee when the light disappeared.
    Grabbing up his bag of sandwiches and his change he rushed across the road to the point at which he had last seen the light; there was nothing of strategy about his movements, all he wanted to do was pick his man up again. Hurrying around the corner and wolfing at his food as he went, he almost ran smack into the object of Inspector McCarthy’s interest. He had simply drawn back into the shadow of one of the park trees, and at the moment that Danny came up with him, lighted another cigarette.
    He took not the slightest notice of the figure which hurried past him. Going on a bit, and in something of a quandary, Danny crossed the road as far as the corner of North Row, from which point he kept his eye fixed upon the glow of the cigarette end, and wished the man would make up his mind to move in some direction or other.
    Presently the light commenced to move along Park Lane, in the direction of Piccadilly; the smoker appearing to travel in the same calm, leisurely manner that he had before. Inwardly, Danny blessed that glowing cigarette tip; it was as good as a lighthouse to him. Letting him get a little distance ahead of him, he, too, crossed the road, and in the same soundless way followed up behind.
    Follower and followed were about half way down Park Lane when a big car which showed practically no lights at all came swiftly up behind him, then pulled up with a scream