Джон Данн - 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

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.”