“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.