A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon Page B

industrial requirements, a small typewriting and duplicating agency, and one firm to whose activities there was no clue at all. This was a certain Madame Rohner, a name which savoured strongly of German origin, though the “Madame” seemed to suggest a French connection. But the only one piece of correspondence there was for the lady—in an open envelope and bearing a halfpenny stamp—turned out to be from some firm of whom McCarthy had never heard, simply stating that the goods as ordered had already been despatched and should be delivered by the time she received this epistle. As to what those goods might be there was no indication whatever.
    McCarthy’s examination of this particular correspondence was broken in upon by the sound of a key in the front door Yale lock. In the next moment it was opened and a youth entered who, doubtless, was the one spoken of by the sergeant. His amazement at finding the inspector seated upon the lower step of the staircase, and by him the morning correspondence, was profound; it was in no degree lessened when he heard of the crime which had been perpetrated there since his leaving it the evening before.
    But although the inspector questioned him steadily for a good half-hour, nothing in the slightest degree suspicious could be got from him concerning any of the individuals, or firms, renting the offices. They sounded to be very plain, straightforward business people, and not in the least likely to be in any way connected with the crime in any shape or form.
    Going to the back door McCarthy called in the C.I.D. man who had been stationed at the back gate.
    â€œCheck up on everyone as they come in,” he ordered. “Go into the nature of their business and, in particular, who it’s done with, and if they have any definitely foreign connections.” He turned again to the still staring youth.
    â€œHave you a master-key to these offices?” he asked, to be informed that he had not. Each of the renters had his, or her, own key, which was given to them when they completed satisfactory arrangements for tenantry. If there was such a thing as a master-key he did not know of it. If it existed it would be in the hands of Mr. Morris Bavinsky, the owner of the place. That gentleman only put in appearance once weekly—on Saturday morning to collect his rents.
    â€œNow, this lady, Madame Rohner?” McCarthy inquired. “What was her particular line of business?”
    That also the youth, by name, Hubert Wilkins, could not tell him. Whatever it was, it took her away from her office a great deal, for at times days elapsed without her putting in an appearance there.
    â€œDid she have a good amount of correspondence?” McCarthy asked.
    He was told that the lady’s correspondence was not heavy, and mostly seemed to come from the Continent. She had letters from France, Germany, Italy, and other still more remote countries. Upon this point Wilkins was very positive as, being an enthusiastic philatelist, he invariably cadged the stamps from the envelopes.
    â€œNow, just let me understand this,” McCarthy pursued. “Each person renting offices here in this building is provided with a key to the front door?”
    â€œYes, sir; in case they want to come back and work in their offices after closing hours.”
    â€œTherefore anyone holding such a key can come in at any hour of the day or night that pleases them?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAre there any other keys extant that you know of; keys not been returned by former tenants, for example? People giving up their offices in recent months who’ve forgotten, or neglected, to hand them in?”
    There were not. That, it seemed, was a thing about which Mr. Bavinsky was very particular. He, Wilkins, had to collect them before the tenant departed.
    â€œCheck up on all these keys, as well,” he instructed the C.I.D. man.
    In response to a question as to what manner of woman