Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 44, No. 5, September 28, 1929

Barry Sloan Runs Afoul of a Sinister World-Wide Plot and the Most Dangerous Man in New York

Chapter I The Girl in Black

The S. S. Leviathan was coming into New York Harbor.

There had been a fog as the mighty ship passed through the Narrows; but as Bedloe’s Island and the huge serene Statue of Liberty slipped up alongside, the curtains of mist rolled away, and the sun came out, flooding the decks warm and bright. Passengers began to line the rails, looking for the first sight of the towering, serrated sky-line of the city.

Barry Sloan, walking on the promenade deck, with his pipe clenched between his teeth, and the cool morning breeze fresh on his face, did not bother to look at that inspiring sight. He had seen it before. Many times before. This made, to be exact, the seventeenth time he had crossed the North Atlantic, and proceeded up the lower harbor, past the Statue, Ellis Island, historic Castle William on Governor’s Island, the Battery, and docked at one pier or another in lower Manhattan.

Seventeen times — and the whole seventeen didn’t amount to much, Barry thought, as he bit down on the pipe stem. Yes, one of them had. The trip after the war—

Barry sighed, and went to the rail and gazed moodily down at the water far below. Something was wrong with life, and he didn’t know what it was.

In all honesty he asked himself at that moment what was the matter. Why should a healthy, single young man, with three and a quarter millions in the bank, not a cloud on the horizon, not a thing to worry about in all the world — why in the devil should he feel that life was a washout after all?

And in all honesty Barry Sloan admitted to himself that there wasn’t a reason in the world why he should feel that way. Still — he did. And he thought as he tapped the ashes out of his briar that he’d spend a couple of weeks in the city, look up a few friends out of town, and then run back to London again, or take a small apartment in Paris, or loaf along the Mediterranean coast—

He didn’t really know what he wanted to do.

Barry went, after a few moments, down to his cabin to make certain that everything was ready to go ashore.

He had left the door unlocked when he went out. There wasn’t anything in the room really worth stealing. Art attempt would have injected a little spice into the dull routine of the days. Now, as his fingers closed about the knob of the door, it refused to open. Barry tried again, for he distinctly remembered that the door had not been locked. It now was.

The room steward must have been around, he thought, as he fished for the key, found it and slipped it in the lock. He walked in.

As the door closed behind Barry Sloan, he was suddenly aware that something was not as it should be. The soft scent of perfume came to his nostrils; the window curtains were drawn — and he had left them back not thirty minutes before.

He stopped and stared around the dimly lit room. There was a little jog in the left wall when one got a yard or so into the cabin. Barry stepped there, frowning, his fists unconsciously clenching. The next moment they relaxed. His mouth opened a little in surprise—

A young woman was cowering back in that corner, eyes wide with emotion. A dress of black silk covered her tall, willowy form. She seemed at first a black shadow. Barry had to look closer to make certain that she was really alive, was really there.

For a moment neither of them moved; and then Barry asked the first thing that came into his mind. “What are you doing in here?”

She made a quick move, like the startled flight of a bird, and then stopped as Barry stepped back, barring the way out of the room. “Not so fast,” he told her curtly. “I want to talk to you first.”

“There is a mistake,” she said quickly. “I must have gotten in the wrong room. Please.”

Barry pressed the light button; the room flooded with illumination, and all the objects stood out sharply. He saw her then, plainly.

The black dress came a little below the knees, and black silk stockings shimmered over graceful legs. Black pumps were on her feet. Soft black hair molded about her face, framed it. Gray eyes gazed at him from under sharply penciled eyebrows. There was strength in her chin, character about her face — and Barry couldn’t decide whether it was good or bad.

He frowned at her. “I suppose,” he said with a trace of sarcasm in his voice, “that you accidentally locked my door on the inside and pulled the curtains together.”

She nodded.

“The number of this cabin,” he told her, “is on the door very plainly. How do you account for the fact that you didn’t notice it?”

He saw the muscles of her alabaster throat flutter slightly as she swallowed. “I wasn’t looking very closely,” she answered. “I am sorry. Very sorry. I will go.”

“What is your name?” he asked.

“That,” she replied without a bit of hesitation. “is none of your business.”

“I think it is. I find you in my room. I don’t remember seeing you about the ship at all. Are you one of the passengers?”

She flushed a little, lifted her chin a trifle. “Yes.”

“What cabin were you looking for when you came into this one?”

“Mine.”

“I see,” Barry said politely. “Your cabin is along here?”

“Yes.”

“Which one is it?”

She hesitated the barest fraction — and then said casually, “The third one down, B-53. I remember now. It was foolish of me to make the mistake.”

Barry smiled slightly. He couldn’t help it.

“Queer,” he observed. “The third cabin down is occupied by a bald-headed hardware salesman from Chicago, who has told me no less than six times in the smoking room that he never was married, never will be, and doesn’t give the wink of an eye for any woman that ever lived.”

A wave of red swept over her face. The eyes closed a little; her mouth set. Before he quite knew what was happening, her right hand had made a quick, lightning-like dive inside the neck of her dress. He looked suddenly into the small round muzzle of a dainty, pearl-handled automatic.

“Put that thing up.” Barry snapped harshly.

“I will shoot you if you so much as move,” she said coldly. “Keep your hands before you, and your mouth closed. I’ve had enough of you.”

She had been merely a woman before — now she was a woman with a gun. Queer what a difference it made. Barry thought of that even as he lifted his hands before him. He wasn’t afraid. Rather — the fact that she was carrying a gun, and had been willing to produce it so quickly made him the more interested in her. There was little doubt in his mind now that she was a crook. A woman crook.

He grinned.

“The man did say it,” he informed her. “I thought there must be something wrong when you claimed his cabin.

“Did you hear me? I have wasted enough time with you. Step aside. I am going out. I will lock you in. If you try to raise an alarm before I’m out of sight, I will shoot you.”

“But you can’t get off the ship,” Barry pointed out.

“That is my affair. Stand aside.”

“I shall try to find you, and have this matter settled. I can’t believe your story about getting in the wrong room.”

“Stand aside!” She gave a little flirt with the automatic. A decidedly menacing movement.

Barry obeyed. After all, there was no point in risking a shot. He had caught her red-handed in his room. It might be possible for her nerves to bring her to the point of shooting.

In silence she went to the door. In silence Barry watched her, realizing anew what a striking looking young woman she was.

The door closed, the spring-latch clicked into place, and she was gone. Gone without locking him in with his keys as she had promised.

Barry lowered his hands and stepped toward the door. He didn’t think she would shoot him if he looked out after her. If she did, she’d probably miss. He’d take the chance at any rate. He jerked open the door and looked out.

The corridor was empty.

Barry glared up and down, and then stepped out. She had not been out of his sight many seconds. Certainly not long enough to get out of the corridor. And yet she was gone. It could only mean that she had gone into one of the staterooms along the corridor. In that case she might have been telling the truth.

But, if she had been telling the truth, what had she drawn the automatic on him for? Why had she been so eager to get away? And why had she lied about her room? There was no chance of her being in with the hardware man from Chicago. Barry had been in that cabin himself. There was never a trace of perfume there, never a chance that a woman could be traveling with the fellow.

Barry turned back, biting his lip thoughtfully, frowning. What could it mean?

Chapter II More Mystery

He went over his luggage to see if she had been in it. The two kit bags had been locked. They were still locked.

As Barry bent over the kit bags, the sheen of light on metal, in the corner where the girl had been standing, caught his eye. It was a small safety-razor blade, lying there on the rug where she had dropped it. And she had dropped it. The room had been freshly cleaned when he went out. In addition, the blade was a different brand than he used.

He picked it up with thumb and forefinger, and smiled slightly as he saw that the sheen of the metal was marked plainly with finger prints. The girl in black had slipped up on one point. She had left behind as evidence of her visit, proof more damning than the word of half a dozen witnesses.

Barry found a small match box in one of the bureau drawers, and emptied it, and carefully dropped the blade inside. He had no definite plans as to what he would do with it, wanted only to have it safe if he did need it.

And as he closed the match box and laid it on the top of the bureau, he puzzled over the use the girl in black could have had for that razor blade. It was the last thing in the world he would have looked for her to leave. What had she been doing with it, or what had she intended to do?

Cut the kit bags open?

She had evidently had plenty of time to do so if she cared to — and had not.

Steps sounded outside in the passage. Some one knocked on a door. Voices followed. There was more knocking, more talking. It moved nearer.

Barry took notice after a few minutes, during which he had been sitting on the edge of the bed, thoughtfully smoking, pondering. Something was up out in the corridor. He opened his own door and looked out. Three men were standing before a door, on which one had just knocked.

Two of the men were ship’s officers — the mate and the purser. The other man was a short, unassuming, grizzled person, in the fifties. He wore a black derby, striped suit, in a style decidedly too young for his age, and chewed a dead cigar, that had never been lighted.

This man looked around as Barry’s door opened. He spoke without taking the cigar from the corner of his mouth. “Want to see you, mister, wait a minute.”

The mate knocked several more times on the door, but no one came out. The purser made a mark on the list that he carried.

The short grizzled person came to Barry, biting on the end of the dead cigar. “Looking for a young woman dressed in black,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Seen her any time during the trip?”

Barry was startled, but he managed to cover most of it, although he had a feeling that the other was looking past all barriers and seeing what was down in his thoughts. “Woman in black?” Barry asked in genuine surprise.

The other nodded. His eyes narrowed a trifle. “That’s right,” he assented. “Young woman in black. Where did you see her?”

By that time Barry had control of his emotions. He said with a poker face: “What makes you think I saw a young woman in black? I didn’t say so.”

The mate and the purser had come over also, and were standing behind the grizzled man, watching. Barry looked at the mate. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked coolly.

“There seems to be a young woman on board who is wanted at the captain’s cabin,” the mate replied noncommittally. “She was seen in this passage a short while ago. We are making a check of the cabins to see if she is in them, or has been seen.”

“Hasn’t she paid her fare?” Barry asked.

“I can’t say,” the mate replied.

The purser said nothing.

The small, grizzled man tipped his derby back a little farther and shifted the dead cigar to the other corner of his mouth. He seemed to be getting bored with the matter. “Well, have you seen her?” he asked.

Barry had made up his mind in the few moments he had sparred with them. She had been a plucky girl, able to take care of herself. If they wanted her, let them get her, especially since they wouldn’t tell him why they wanted her.

One of the three knew, probably all. Certainly the short grizzled man, who was not even a member of the crew, or at least did not function so. Barry had seen him several times since the boat sailed, sitting around, chewing a dead cigar, saying nothing, seemingly bored with life.

“I can’t tell you where to find such a young woman,” Barry told them truthfully. “And I certainly haven’t seen such a one in this passage. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

“Thanks,” said the other. He turned away to the next door, where the mate was already knocking.

Barry stood there and watched with interest.

The two ladies who had the next cabin were in their forties, modishly dressed always, great bridge players. One of them was in. Her voice sounded plainly. “No, I have not seen such a person.” The door closed with a little slam.

The next door was opened by a man. He, too, disclaimed any knowledge of the girl. The hardware salesman from Chicago was in the third. “Me?” he said loudly. “No! I haven’t seen a young woman in black — and I hope to the good Lord I don’t. Is there anything else you want?”

The mate answered him politely while the purser made another check on the list he carried. The third man chewed on the end of the cigar in silence.

At that moment the second door down, on the other side, opened. The young woman in black stood there, eyeing the three men.

The grizzled man took the cigar from his mouth for the first time. “Hello, Olga,” he said with a distinct air of satisfaction in his voice. “I thought we would root you out of one of these cabins.”

Olga looked, as he spoke, down the hall and saw Barry standing in his doorway. No expression appeared on her face at all. She might never have seen him before. But their eyes locked together for an instant. Barry had a distinct feeling that she was smiling inwardly at him. Then she turned the same blank gaze on the man who had addressed her.

“Do I understand that you want to see me, Harris?” she asked crisply, and not at all uncomfortably. Barry was interested to note that she seemed as much master of the situation as any of the three men who faced her.

Harris put the cigar back in his mouth, and nodded.

“Captain wants to see you in his cabin,” he said.

She looked for the briefest moment down the hall again, as though she was studying Barry. Harris noted it with his sharp, shrewd eyes. “You seem kind of interested in the young man,” he observed. “Is he with you?”

Then she did look slightly surprised, before she smiled sarcastically at Harris. “You might ask him,” she suggested.

Harris shot another glance at Barry. “Are you?” he asked bluntly.

Barry smiled also — he was enjoying himself. “You might,” he informed Harris politely, “ask the young lady that.”

Harris flushed slightly, and frowned. He chewed on the cigar for a moment, and then said to Barry: “I guess you’d better come up and see the captain also.”

Barry raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” he drawled, “but you have another guess coming. I know of no business that requires me to visit the captain. He can come and see me if he cares to; or you can take me forcibly — if you care to.”

The girl, Olga, laughed softly, with appreciation.

“There you are, Harris,” she gibed. “Think that over for a minute.”

Harris grinned ruthfully. “If that’s the way he feels about it, he can stay here,” he said. “But I guess you’ll come along and have a little talk, won’t you?”

“If you insist, certainly. Why not? And I’ll leave the door of my room unlocked if it will make you feel any better. Come along.”

No one paid any more attention to Barry as they went down the hall. He stood there in the doorway for some moments, trying to piece together what he had seen. He had said nothing to the authorities about her being in his room, and yet they had come for her. She had not seemed the slightest bit worried that he would report her. Probably she thought he could not prove a charge, knowing nothing of the razor blade.

Barry didn’t know himself as he stood there, why it was that he did not report her. All he realized was that he did not care to. Presently he closed the door behind him, locking it this time, and went back up on the deck.

He remained up on the deck until the boat shut off steam and the busy little tugs took her, and warped her into the dock, and the gangplank went down, and the first exodus began. In that time he had seen no sign of the girl in black. He wondered, as he went down to his cabin, what they had done with her, and for what offense.

The door of her cabin was closed. He knocked. There was no answer. Barry shrugged, rang for a steward, and presently went down to the customs line. There was no trouble about his scanty luggage. The inspector he drew had served him before, and nodded as soon as Barry came up. They had several pleasant minutes of conversation while the government man did his duty. And then Barry was free to go. He did, to the Plaza, where he usually stayed while in town.

The next few days the Leviathan, the girl in black, and all that had happened, faded gradually back in his mind. He spoke about it several times to friends, and they agreed it was interesting; and so it gradually became old news, uninteresting, and due to be forgotten.

Chapter III Secret Service

The morning of his fourth day ashore, Barry took a taxi in front of the Plaza and ordered the driver to take him down town to his bank. They were held up at Forty-Second and the Avenue. For no reason at all, Barry looked out the window on the left, at the taxi alongside them. And his eyes opened wide, and a broad smile came across his face, and he uttered a shout that brought the head of his driver around as though worked by strings.

“Dan!” Barry shouted across at the other cab. “Dan Brady!”

A face peered at him — a face he had not seen for all of four years. Dan Brady, army buddy, good sport, friend! Good old Dan Brady, who was all of thirty-two years of age by now.

Dan’s reply came clearly over the cacophony of the busiest corner of the busiest city in all the world. “Barry! You son-of-a-gun! Come over here!”

The lights flashed again; traffic started forward. Barry shoved a bill at the driver of his cab. “Never mind the trip. Changed my mind,” he called, and opened the door and leaped out, running the risk of getting knocked down by the onward surge of the traffic.

Dan Brady opened the door of his cab just as it started to move. Barry leaped in, the door slammed — and they sat there pumping each other’s hands.

“Dan, you no-account, what have you been doing with yourself?”

“How’s the worthless, idle rich these days?”

Thus they insulted each other enthusiastically, grinning from ear to ear. For there had been a time when they were better than brothers to each other, and the years that had passed had done little to erase that feeling. Buddies, friends — then and now. The fact that they hadn’t seen each other for years made little difference. They were both the kind that could part casually in Piccadilly, and meet years later in Zanzibar just as casually.

As the cab rolled down Fifth Avenue they sat there and brought the last four years up to date. Barry had not a great deal to tell. “Just been hanging around,” he said ruthfully. “Doing nothing for my country or myself. Here to-day, there to-morrow. How’s it been with you?”

Dan Brady was a stocky, open-faced chap, who looked most of the time like a great big innocent boy just in from the country. Other times, when he needed a shave, and was dressed in old clothes, with a sullen look about his mouth, a cigarette drooping from one corner, and a cap pulled low, he appeared a rather bad customer. Unless one looked very closely, one would never see the keenness in his eyes, the brains that were plentiful in his skull.

He grinned now, this Dan Brady, and answered Barry’s question with a shrug. “Still at the same old game,” he declared. “Secret Service. Watchdog of the Treasury, the President, and what have you.”

“I tried to get hold of you last year,” Barry told him. “My telegram to the Treasury brought the information that they did not know where you were.”

“In China,” Dan said briefly. “There was a tricky case that ran all around the world. Had several of us working on it. They didn’t want our whereabouts to be known — although as a matter of fact, they didn’t know themselves half the time.”

“Sounds interesting,” Barry said with a trace of envy in his voice.

“It was.”

“Stuff like that gets me all hipped up. I want to be in on it.”

“Why not try to make the grade?” Dan grinned.

And Barry grinned ruthfully. “I might get by for a few months, but I couldn’t stick the grind. What’s on your program now? Let’s get away and take a little boat trip, or an auto trip, or blow the lid off in some way.”

Dan shook his head regretfully.

“Sounds nice, old man,” he admitted. “But I’m tied down tighter than a circus tent for the main show. There’s a big case on, and I’m doing most of the work.”

Barry noted for the first time that Dan’s clothes were not very new, and they certainly needed pressing. So did Dan’s face need a shave — and his finger nails were actually dirty and untrimmed. That, from Dan Brady, who had been fastidious in the muck of the war, was proof that something was afoot. “Can you tell?” Barry asked.

“ ’Fraid not,” Dan said regretfully. “It’s heap big medicine, and the Lord help some folks if we don’t make good on it.”

“Here’s hoping, if it’s that bad.”

“Sure is.”

“Maybe I’m gumming up some of your work now,” Barry declared quickly.

“No. I was just riding down to Eighth Avenue and Twenty-Fourth Street to see if my partner has shown up there yet, I won’t even talk to him if he has. We have a code of signals, and I’ll read them as we go past.”

“And then what?”

“Nothing till this evening,” Dan declared.

“Come around to the hotel with me as soon as you get the dope from your partner and we’ll have a little celebration. There’s lots to talk over.”

“Sure thing,” Dan agreed.

All the way down to Twenty-Fourth Street they talked as fast as the words would come. Dan said just before they reached the spot: “My partner is wearing old clothes and a big beard that makes him look like he’s just over from the other side. You’ll see him.” And to the driver of the cab, Dan said: “Slow down when you pass Twenty-Fourth Street. I want to have a look around.”

As they went slowly past the spot, Barry saw the man whom Dan meant; it could be no one else. A tall, poorly dressed fellow, with a ragged beard that swept his chest, and a battered soft hat on the top of his head. He was leaning against a lamp-post, hand? jammed down in his pockets, eyes on the sidewalk, and he did not seem to have a thought in his mind on any subject save himself. He did not look up when the cab went by; could not have known that it was there.

Barry had been looking eagerly for some signal; and when none was given, and they were past, he was surprised to see Dan sit back with a look of satisfaction on his face. “That’s that,” Dan remarked. “Now for the hotel and that little celebration. I hope your drinks are good.”

“Supposed to be, old man. They cost enough. Look here — it’s none of my business, but what kind of signal did you get from that fellow? I was looking at him, and he didn’t make a move. Didn’t even know we were there I’ll bet.”

Dan chuckled. “You’d win the bet, too,” he declared. “I don’t think he did see us pass. He didn’t have to. If things were going one way, he was to stand there with his hands in his pockets. If they were not, his hands were to be down at his sides. That’s all there was to it.”

“I’ll be darned,” Barry said ruthfully.

The driver turned his head. “Where to now?” he asked.

“The Plaza,” Barry told him.

They went back by way of Seventh Avenue. At Thirty-Seventh Street they were stopped again by the change of lights. Barry was surprised to see Dan Brady suddenly cower back in his seat and hide his face.

“What’s the matter?” Barry asked in amazement.

From behind his hat, Dan retorted sharply: “There’s a man at the curb there who mustn’t see me! It’s Ivan Alexandranoff, one of the most deadly men in the country to-day. He’s part of the case I’m working on.”

Several people were standing at the curb, but Barry had no trouble in picking out the man. He was lounging there, smoking cigarette, looking idly at the traffic. He was a medium-sized man with a thin, smooth-shaved face, shadowed somewhat under a dark green fedora hat, whose brim was turned down in front. Barry caught a glimpse of extraordinarily small feet, almost like a woman’s, of soft hands, small and white and womanlike also, and a feline grace about the figure lounging there. He started to study the sharp features of Ivan Alexandranoff, but caught only a fleeting glimpse of a thin cruel mouth when the lights shifted and they went forward again.

Dan came out from behind the shelter of his hat, clapped it on his head, and took a deep breath of relief. “That was a close shave,” he said fervently. “I would have had a devil of a time explaining what I was doing here in the cab with you. You look too damned prosperous to be seen with me.”

“That chap struck me as being decidedly unusual,” Barry remarked thoughtfully. “I don’t know when I’ve seen a man who, well, lingers in my mind so. What’s his history?”

Dan thrust a cigarette between his lips and lighted it, and inhaled deeply before answering. When he did, his voice was solemn. “Blood,” Dan said. “That’s Ivan Alexandranoff’s story in a nutshell. Blood. He’s a spawn of the Russian trouble. We don’t know much about him and his beginnings before he floated to the top of the cesspool of murder, blood, and torture. What we do know is that he was one of Lenine’s right-hand men. Not one of the figure-heads whose pictures and histories were paraded around the world. He was too deadly for that.

“Ivan Alexandranoff was kept under cover, like a snake. Not many men in the inner circles of the party knew about him for a long time. But he was busy. The tales that have come out about his activities would make your blood run cold. He went out of the country shortly after Germany and the Allies signed the Peace Treaty. We know he was in France for a time, and then Italy, when Mussolini routed the unrest and took charge of things. Then he went to England.

“Always where he remained there was unrest, trouble, plots against the government. Down under the surface the Red Menace seethed and bubbled, spreading out through the land. But no trail of guilt ever led to the door of Ivan Alexandranoff.

“Finally he came to America.”

Dan inhaled again from the cigarette, and then said grimly: “The greatest, finest, most contented country in the history of the world only makes them envious We have everything but their rotten gospel of revolution, and ‘justice’ for the masses. So their worms are boring, boring—”

“You think that fellow is making trouble?” Barry asked.

“He is here,” Dan answered cryptically. “We haven’t anything concrete against him; but his record is enough. And there is no doubt that something is afoot. Something — we’ll drag it out in the light of day pretty soon. And then—” Dan fell silent, his face brooding, as though he was looking into the past and the future, seeing things that had best not be put into words.

Barry fell silent also, his mind filled with the memory of the man he had seen back there at the curb. Ivan Alexandranoff. Felinelike, sinister.

Chapter IV Olga Cassarova — Spy

In Barry’s rooms at the Plaza they had a drink, and fell to yarning of old times. Lunch was sent up, and they ate it there, with a bottle of wine, and talked on.

Sight of his kit bags stirred Barry’s memory, and as they sat there, he told of the happening on board the ship.

Dan listened with interest. “That razor blade,” he asked at the last, “do you still have it?”

“I think so.” Barry got up and crossed the room, and felt in the pocket of the suit he had worn the day he came ashore. The box was there, just as he had picked it up and pocketed it when he left the cabin. He gave it to Dan.

Dan walked to the window with it, and stared at the shiny surface of the blade. “You have a good print here all right,” he said. “Unfortunately, it would be pretty hard to get any one to believe your story now. She could swear that you found the blade in the passage, or even in her room. She might reverse the charges against you.” He smiled slightly.

Barry shrugged. “I have no intention of doing anything about the matter. I would have proceeded at once if I had.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know myself,” Barry admitted. “There was something about her. And she seemed to be in trouble anyway.”

Dan pursed his lips. “Probably a moll who travels the shipping lines all the time. She must have thought you had something valuable along.”

“But I didn’t. And there was no mark on my bags. That’s the only thing that she could have cut with the blade. She seemed to have plenty of time to cut if she had been minded to. Curtains were down, door locked, and all.”

“By me,” Dan said with a shake of his head, and he closed the box and handed it back. “You say the man who nabbed her was named Harris?”

“That’s what she called him. And he called her Olga. I couldn’t find out anything else.”

Dan looked up sharply. “Olga?” he echoed. “Did you hear her last name?”

“No.”

Dan pursed his lips, and took a turn up and down the room. “It must be the same girl,” he said, more to himself than to Barry.

“What girl?”

“Olga Cassarova. She just came over from England. The Department tried to keep her out, but there was some hitch and she came in as sweet as the flowers in June. She is a Russian agent, and that’s about as much as we know about her. She’s been mixed up with the Bolshies in England — the same crowd that Ivan trained with when he was there. Now she’s here for some reason or other. We think we know, but can’t be sure.”

“What was she doing in my room then?” Barry asked, tapping the match box with the end of a finger nail. “I had nothing that would interest a Russian agent. And if it is the same girl, she wouldn’t be stooping to theft.”

“No,” agreed Dan.

“Then what? I knew subconsciously when I saw her, that there was something funny about her presence there. What was it?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dan confessed. “If you had been connected with international intrigue at any time, or knew any of the gang, or were connected with the Service in some manner, there might be an explanation. As it is, I’m stumped.”

Dan left in the middle of the afternoon, promising to call up the next day. Barry picked up the latest issue of his favorite magazine and sat down by the window to read for a time.

He was occupied in that manner, silent, still, when a key slipped into his door lock with a little rasp of metal against metal. There was something furtive about that sound that quite precluded any thought that it could be the room maid or one of the hotel staff.

Barry sat up abruptly, and then as the key turned in the lock he got to his feet noiselessly and reached the open door of the clothes closet with three silent steps. He barely had time to draw the door partially shut before his own room door opened and a figure slipped in, and closed the door after it.

It was several seconds before that figure moved in far enough to come within Barry’s range of vision. And when it did, he almost gave an audible gasp of surprise. It was the girl in black, the girl of the Leviathan — Olga Cassarova.

She was dressed in black again, a trim, modish outfit for street wear, including a small close-fitting black hat that came down low over her black hair.

She stood in the middle of the room, Olga Cassarova, poised, alert, listening, searching about with quick, keen glances. There was no mistake this time, no chance that she could have got in the wrong room. She was in the right room, and she knew whose room it was, and what she wanted in there.

Barry almost stopped breathing as he stared out through the small opening at her. And as he did so a score of questions rioted through his mind. What did she want with him? What was the meaning of this second visit? How did she know where he was staying? Even to the hotel and the room. How had she got a key that would fit his door, and why?

She stepped to the door of the bathroom and tried the knob, and when it turned she opened the door and looked in. No one was there, of course. The sight seemed to reassure her. She came back into the room, and went without hesitation to the spot where Barry’s two kit bags reposed on the floor. She stooped down over them, looked for a moment, and then picked one of the bags up and placed it on the bed.

She carried a small leather purse. Opening that, she took out a tiny hooked instrument and inserted it in the lock. With a dexterity that was almost an art she worked on the lock, and finally opened it.

All the time Barry stood as though carved from stone, staring at her. He simply could not make himself believe that this young woman was the common thief she seemed to be. Even as he saw her opening the bag he could not believe it. There was nothing inside that had any value. Nothing that would pay her for the trouble of looking him up, getting a key to fit his door and making the risky attempt at entering and stealing.

Still, she worked as if by plan, certain that there was reward of some kind waiting for her. And Barry watched, struggling with himself, not knowing what to do about it.

Finally, as he saw his bag open and her shapely hand dart down inside, he could contain himself no longer. He shoved open the door and walked out into the room.

She heard the sound and whirled, the same small automatic appearing in her hand as if by magic.

This time Barry did not raise his hands; the sight of the weapon, coupled with his knowledge of her record, aroused in him a measure of anger. “Put that down,” he said coldly.

If sight of her had surprised him, his sudden presence almost dazed her. She stood there with the gun in her hand, staring at him, saying nothing.

“Put that gun up,” Barry ordered, scowling at her.

She started to lower it, and then caught herself and held it steady. The same movement seemed to give her self-control. She asked unsteadily: “What are you doing here? I... I thought I heard you go away.”

Barry did not choose to enlighten her. “No matter what you heard, I’m here now. So you were spying on the room, waiting until I went out?”

Her answer surprised him. Her voice was steadier, cooler, with a hint of hysterical laughter burbling down underneath it. “Certainly. You don’t think I would try to come in while you were present, do you?”

“I wouldn’t think, from your looks, that you would ever stoop to it,” Barry told her. He scored too. A bit of red crept up into the white of her cheeks.

Her chin came up. “What you think,” she told him, “does not matter in the slightest.”

“Yes, it does,” Barry assured her. “For on what I think rests the decision as to whether I call the house detective or not.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No? Have you stopped to think that you are a common crook? You have entered my room, and opened my locked bag, and were searching it when I walked out on you. There is only one name for that sort of work, and usually only one treatment.”

All surprise and anger, all emotion, was out of her face now. She looked at him gravely from her big gray eyes.

“Quite true,” she admitted with a slight nod of her head. “Every word that you say is right — but have you stopped to think that I may have had a reason for entering your room this way, and opening your bag?”

Barry raised his eyebrows.

“Reason? Certainly. You must have had. I credit you with more sense than to do things like this for the pleasure of doing it. But — it will take a mighty good reason to cover what you have just done.”

She smiled — and the effect was astonishing. It was as if a veil of clouds had been whisked away from a fair, beautiful sky. No longer was she pale, no longer did she appear wearied. Years dropped away from her shoulders. She seemed what, in truth, she was, a beautiful young woman. Young.

“And if I should tell you that there was a very good reason, would it be all right with you?” she asked. “For you must see that I can’t be looking for anything to steal.”

In that moment Barry found it hard to believe that she could be all that Dan had imputed her to be. Olga Cassarova, Russian agent, Bolshevist, fellow-worker with Ivan Alexandranoff. A creature of the Red Menace. A beautiful lily, with roots thrust deep into the mire and muck of World Revolution.

Hard indeed — and yet here she was.

Barry wiped all expression off his face as he faced her smile. Knowing her for what she was, he knew the smile for what it was. A trap. He had caught her, and now she was trying to use her beauty to get out of it. Well — let her.

“I shall be glad to hear what you have to say,” he told her. “It does seem that you are looking in an unlikely place. I never carry valuables with me. In that bag you have just opened there is not a thing of value.”

“Perhaps there is. Listen to me — suppose with me. Suppose there was a girl on board ship who had something that was very valuable to her, and a little dangerous if found on her. And suppose that she saw a man on that ship who could make trouble for her if those papers were found — and who had the power to do so. And suppose she got to her cabin, and got the papers and hid them in the first place that came to mind—”

“Did she?” Barry asked without expression.

And the girl nodded. “Yes — she did; I did. I had been making the trip in my cabin, and I went out for a little walk, not knowing Harris was on the boat. He did not know I was either, until he saw me. I managed to get to my cabin and locked the door before he came up with me. But I knew he would soon find me. I had seen you on the deck, and knew which cabin you had. It would be empty. I took a skeleton key — but the door was unlocked. With a razor blade I slit the inside seam of one of your bags and slipped the envelope containing the papers under the leather lining. You would not be likely to find it, and the customs men would not look. In your effects I found information that you stayed at the Plaza in New York. You would probably go back there.

I was detained on the boat, but I located you here as soon as I was free. I thought it would be easier to get the papers without bothering you. That is why I slipped into your room. But... again I was unlucky, or you have the luck of the devil. You will give the envelope to me, and forget about it?”

She smiled winningly, and put the gun in her purse.

Chapter V Poison Gas

Barry would have believed her if he had not talked first with Dan Brady. Would, without doubt, have done exactly as she wished him to. It was plain that she was telling the truth — as far as it went. Everything jibed in to support her story — and Dan’s also. Olga Cassarova, creature of the Red Menace. This smiling girl, whose hands, perhaps, were tinged with the blood that her associates had shed. He felt a sickish wave of revulsion sweep over him. It could not be true — and yet it was.

“You will let me have the papers?” she asked again, gently, winningly.

Barry heard his voice asking coldly: “They are in the lining of that bag?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.” He crossed to the side of the bed, and bent over the bag.

Her gloved hand pointed. “Down in that corner,” she said. “The tiniest rip of the leather. I am sorry about the damage. I will buy a new bag if you wish it. There was no time to think about the harm when I was hiding the papers.”

Barry found the place all right — a small slit that he would not have noticed for some time, if ever. And as his fingers explored around the spot he felt the slightest crackle of paper underneath. Carefully he parted the leather and drew those papers out.

They were in a plain envelope, two or three sheets by the feel of them. The envelope was sealed with three small drops of wax, stamped with an intricate mark. At the moment Barry did not try to make out that mark. He stood up.

“You see — I have told you the truth. And now I thank you for the help you have given me.” She stretched out her hands for the envelope.

The briefest silence fell over them as they stood thus, Barry with the papers, she with her hand out. In that silence he made his decision, and a tension seemed to fall over them swiftly. With a quick movement he put the envelope in his inside coat pocket.

“Sorry,” he declared coolly, “but I think I’ll keep them until I know more about this matter.”

“They are mine,” she said sharply.

“Perhaps. They are mine right now. Possession, you know, is nine points—”

He had looked for anger, but, at that, he was hardly prepared for the passion that swept over her face. “You will keep what is mine?” she burst out.

“For a time, yes.”

The blood drained from her cheeks. “For the last time,” she uttered in a tight voice, “I ask for what is mine. I did wrong in putting that envelope in your luggage. But it is mine, and I will have it. Give it to me.”

“No,” said Barry.

She jerked open the purse she carried — and Barry sprang at her, anticipating her move. She stepped back just as quickly. And the next moment he was facing the same pearl-handled automatic. Queer how deadly it looked. He stopped.

“Now,” she said passionately, “give it to me!”

“No.”

“I am serious. Give it to me!”

“No,” said Barry stubbornly.

He was not angry at her — yet. Rather, greatly irritated. This young woman had ceased to be just a woman. She was Olga Cassarova, companion of Ivan Alexandranoff. What the papers were he did not know, or what her mission was in the country. But she stood against all that he lived for, the ideals, the love of country, of fellow man. She was the enemy of him and his kind. She was not bringing secret papers to this country for no reason at all. Since they were important to her, they would be doubly important to those who were working against her and her associates. Important to men like Dan Brady.

“Put that gun down,” he ordered.

How white her face seemed. Little lines were running out from the sides of her mouth as her lips tightened. “Don’t be foolish,” she whispered huskily. “Give them to me.” The small weapon was aimed straight at his face.

Barry was not a coward. He weighed chances swiftly, and cast the die in his own mind. His chin thrust forward slightly. “If you’re going to shoot, get ready,” he said grimly, and took a step toward her. A slow step, so that she would not be startled into firing without realizing what she was doing.

He was banking everything on the fact that she was not cold-blooded enough to shoot him down ruthlessly.

She stepped back — and Barry went forward again.

“Stop,” she gasped, and there was a note of pleading in her voice. “Stop,” she said again.

Barry moved toward her deliberately, right into the face of the weapon. It shook a little, but the muzzle did not waver from his head. The little round hole in the end seemed as big as a silver half-dollar. Common sense urged that he stop, and something else drove him on. He could not back down now.

She seemed to sense his feeling. The gun became steady. She straightened. Her left hand fished a small lacy handkerchief down from that sleeve. And the finger that rested on the trigger contracted with a sudden jerk. In the same moment the handkerchief went to her nose.

Nothing happened. No explosion leaped out at him. But the next instant there was a sharp acrid feeling in his nostrils; and then the world began to swim, things went faint, and strength faded from his muscles.

Barry’s mind was working even as he went down. He saw her lower the gun, and sway toward him, still pressing the handkerchief against her nose. He fell soddenly on the floor, and she bent over him, and groped in his pocket, and jerked out the envelope.

The next moment she was away from him, at the door, and gone.

Barry lay there for the space of ten minutes — it might have been fifteen, helpless, but retaining some power of thought. Her weapon had been loaded with gas instead of lead. He was out, how bad he did not know, and she was gone, victorious. He raged at himself for allowing her to get the upper hand in such a manner, and at the same time had to admit that he could not have guarded against it. For how could he have known what manner of weapon she carried?

And in those long minutes there on the floor, one strong purpose was forged from the confused welter of his thoughts. He did not know what it was all about, but the thing had been brought to his very door, and he’d see it through. There was mystery here — and he would tear that mystery aside. There was menace also, and he would scotch that menace as best he could. He had money and brains of a sort. Had also friendship with Dan Brady. If Olga Cassarova was connected with Ivan Alexandranoff, Dan would be interested in her. Perhaps Dan would help, or he could help Dan.

Gradually, as that purpose formed in his mind, the effects of the gas wore off. Strength came back into his body, and his mind cleared fully; and presently he was able to sit up, and then stand up and get to his bed. A little later he was as well as ever, save for a slight shakiness that went away as soon as he got to the window and opened it.

A swift brushing of his suit, a brief look in the glass to see that he appeared all right, arid Barry went down to the desk hurriedly. His question there was answered speedily. A young woman had checked out from that floor less than five minutes before.

A bell boy had taken her bags to a taxi. He did not know what her destination had been.

He would not easily find out either, Barry thought as he turned away. She had gotten clear away, and by now was safe in the wastes of the city, the best place in the world to hide.

It took him one brief moment to realize that he was stumped, unless he could get hold of Dan Brady. And he had not thought to ask Dan where he was staying now. Half an hour of telephoning produced no results. Dan Brady had never been heard of, it seemed, even by some who should have known him.

Barry did not bother to report the case to the police. They might help, and they might not. It would only serve to drag the whole thing out in the papers, to no good cause. That was the last thing he wished. He decided to wait until Dan called him over the telephone in the morning.

Chapter VI Perilous Adventure

Barry was up the next morning, finished with his breakfast, and reading the paper when Dan called.

“You’re just the man I wanted to see,” Barry told him thankfully. “I’ve got some important news to tell you. Come on up.”

Dan chuckled. “I’m not calling from the lobby,” he said. “What is the news?”

“The girl — Olga — paid me a call after you were here yesterday afternoon, and got some stuff that belonged to her. Stuff she had left in the lining of my best kit bag.”

“Are you trying to kid me?” Dan demanded severely.

“No. It’s the last thing in the world I’m thinking of. She put me out with a shot of poison gas, and got away with an envelope. There must have been something very important in it from the way she acted.”

“Listen,” Dan ordered swiftly, “you sound like you’ve had a brain wave. But if any part of it’s true, don’t say anything more. Tell me about it face to face where there is no chance of anyone hearing you. I can’t come up there to see you this morning. You’ll have to meet me in the park. Say along the south shore of the lagoon. Be there as soon as you can.”

“I’ll start right away,” Barry agreed.

He wondered, as he walked into the park with long strides, what the reason was that prevented Dan from coming up to see him. Wondered also why Dan had cut him off so quickly, and insisted that the story come when they were face to face. It seemed a little far-fetched — and yet Dan knew his business.

Dan was not on the walk that skirted the south side of the lagoon. Two nurse-maids were there, pausing a few moments in their slow promenade for a few bits of gossip. A young policeman stood near, looking at them now and then as though he would welcome a chance to make the twosome a trio. And last but not least a shabby and unshaven individual carrying a seedy valise stood at one corner of the lagoon eying the water vacantly, back to the policeman, the nurse-maids, and Barry.

Even as Barry looked at him, he turned and trudged slowly away.

The walk caught Barry’s eye. After a moment he started rapidly after the other. And as he came up, he looked sidewise at the other’s face.

It was Dan, more unshaven, dirtier, far shabbier than he had been the day before. By subtle methods he had completely transformed himself, until he looked thoroughly down and out.

Dan grinned as Barry caught his eye. “Mister,” he whined under his breath, “how about a dime for a cuppa caw-fee? I ain’t had a bite of breakfas’.”

“Go to the devil,” Barry replied, smiling. “What’s the idea of this getup?”

“Business,” said Dan. “Can I sell you a good knife sharpener? One that’s guaranteed to put an edge on the best and poorest steel? Only fifty cents, and cheap at half the price.” He opened the shabby valise that he carried and displayed a stock of slim whetstones.

“Doesn’t the government pay you enough to live on?”

“Shhhh,” Dan husked, closing up the valise and walking along beside Barry. “I’m not working for the government. I never heard the name before, hardly. Whetstones is my line, and I live off of it.” And then Dan’s levity departed and he said: “What’s this you were trying to tell me over the phone? Let’s get a quiet bench arid keep out of sight while we talk.”

They found a bench back in the bushes that fringed a stretch of the walk, and Barry told his story. Dan listened closely, frowning slightly at the last, where the matter of the gun and the poisoned gas came in.

“That’s a new one,” he muttered. “I didn’t know they were getting so scientific. Have to keep an eye out for more gas guns.”

“What do you make of it?” Barry asked.

“Guess there’s no doubt that she’s Olga Cassarova now.”

“No. I’m perfectly willing to believe that.”

“Those papers,” said Dan, “must have been pretty important, or incriminating, for her to take all that trouble with them.”

Barry said: “They must have been important. If they’d just been incriminating, she could have got rid of them before friend Harris caught up with her.”

“That’s right. Your head is working nicely. Have you still got that box and the razor blade?”

“Yes.”

Dan fell into a thoughtful silence.

Barry broke it. “I could have called up the police, and given them her name, description, and the razor blade. They should have hauled her in very shortly. But I thought there might be better ways of dealing with the matter. Some way that would give better results. I tried to get hold of you, but you seemed to be out of sight.”

“Was,” Dan said. “Working blind, and the department and most every one else have lost sight of me. Then, too, they’re not giving out information. If I’d been there they might have called me to the phone; but there wasn’t a chance of them telling where I could be found. How did they know who wanted me? Might have been some one on the other side, who merely wanted to get a line on me. All the brains aren’t with the government, you know.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Anyway, I made up my mind to wait until I had a talk with you before I did anything.”

“Glad you did, old man. It looks like you’ve stumbed on something that comes pretty close to what I’m working on. There ought to be a way of getting some good out of it. If Olga Cassarova was bringing such important papers over with her, it jibes in with other things that are happening. Gad — I wish you could have kept that envelope so we could have seen what was inside.”

“I tried to. But I didn’t have any idea she was going to give me a dose of gas.”

“Of course not. Better luck next time. Question is now — how to make the best of it. She’s probably lost herself in the city. The papers are taken care of by now. Won’t do any good to have her up. Just put her and the rest of them on their guard, and give them notice that some one knew more about them than they thought.”

Barry spoke earnestly. “Look — isn’t there some way that I could get in this thing and help work against her and her crowd? She’s made a fool of me, and it certainly looks as if some one ought to take a hand against them. I don’t mean that in any way that slights you fellows.”

“I know.”

“I have the time and the money to do almost anything,” Barry said eagerly. “I’m not exactly a moron, and... I’d like to do what I can.” Barry did not say what had been at the point of his tongue — that he wanted to engage in the business that was woven about Olga Cassarova — he could not put it in words; knew only that if Dan didn’t agree to his suggestion he was going it alone.

Dan did not reply for some moments. His unshaved face was grave.

“Barry,” he said finally, “I wonder if you know what you’re asking.”

“I think I do.”

“You heard what I said yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Heard me say that Ivan Alexandranoff was not hardly human. That his whole career can be summed up in the one word — blood?”

“Yes.”

“I am pretty sure that this girl is connected with him, or will be before long. She comes from circles that are very close to him.”

“Well—”

“It means that if you go after her you will be brought into contact with him. And if he finds that you are liable to get in his way, the chances are almost certain that he will put you out of the way. One of his men, rather. They do things like that without turning a hair.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

“No,” said Dan with a slight smile. “I’m merely trying to give you a picture of what is ahead.”

“Is it ahead? Do you think I can do anything?”

“Pretty certain of it. It’s not at all regular, but there ought to be a way you can do a lot of good. I’ve just been turning it over in my mind. You were coming from the other side when you met Olga Cassarova. She was coming from England, and she’s been there for some time. Now there is nothing to prevent you from coming from Paris.”

“Nothing,” Barry agreed, “since I actually was. Had been there for three months. Paris and the south of France.”

“We have contact with a man high in communistic circles in France who can give you a recommendation that will go a long way with the members in this country. It doesn’t matter whether you have been active over there or not. If you can put across a good imitation of one, a sympathizer, and back it with his O.K., you will be pretty well received over here.”

“Even if they know how much money I have? This Olga Cassarova knows my right name now. I’ll have to be myself.”

“Certainly. That makes it all the better. There’ll be no question about your being an agent of the government. There are plenty of poor deluded fools with money who take up for them. Some actually believe what they profess, and some only think they do. It makes no difference if you are rich. You can get by all the better, backed with word from Rene Garre.”

Barry’s imagination carried on swiftly. “I didn’t know who Olga Cassarova was, or wasn’t supposed to. If I can get in contact with her, I’ll tell her a yarn, and then get friendly with her.”

“Yes. The more I think of this the better I like it. We men are not in the inner circles. They investigate too much. We work from the outside most of the time. But you, obviously not connected with the government, with a past that is clear and open to all the inspection they care to give, can go far. It is so simple that it is good.” Dan smacked a fist into the palm of his hand enthusiastically. Then continued:

“Rene Garre is a little man with a great hooked nose, an apparently fiery temper, a hatred of everything that is not communistic, and a wooden leg. He is vain about that leg. Three times in fights he has been wounded in that wooden leg instead of the good one. He thinks there is a charm about it, and always tells of it and brags about it. One of the standard jokes in the inner communistic circles of France, England, and America, is Rene Garre’s wooden leg. Remember that. His right hand man there is Leon Coline, tall and slim. And there is Jean Didier, who also does good work for Garre.

“I will have a letter from Garre forged, and cable him to-night to O.K. it, if he is queried about the matter. Take the letter to the offices of the Brotherhood, the paper that is the rallying point of most of the breed in the city. The main ones will be found around it, and the paper itself goes all over the country. Once there you will be on your own. What you do is up to you; and you can’t even see me, for it is probable that they will watch you closely at first. Just ordinary caution. Something is afoot. Something big. Keep your mouth closed and your eyes and ears open.

“And you may die.”

Dan said the last as casually as if he was stating a minor fact of little consequence.

The very casualness of it sent a little cold shiver down Barry’s spine. He shrugged and grinned. “Get me the letter,” he said.

“It will be brought to your hotel by a messenger,” Dan said. “When you get it, use it as you see fit. But on no account open your mouth about me, or anything that you have learned. Now I’ve got to get to work myself. Good luck, old man.”

Dan held out his hand. They shook — and went their ways, Barry to the left, toward Fifth Avenue, and Dan toward Columbus Circle. And it was, perhaps, better that neither of them could foresee what the future held in store, both for Barry and for Dan.