I clung to the transom ledge with one toe resting on the doorknob. Bertha Cool slipped off a shoe and pushed it into my hand. I beat out the glass with the heel, then dropped the shoe and slid through the transom.
The gas was terrible. It stung my eyes and made me gag. The room was darkened with the shades all drawn and the drapes pulled into place. I had a glimpse of a bed, and the inert figure of a woman sprawled over a writing-desk, her head on her left hand, her right hand stretched out across the desk.
I held my breath, ran across to the nearest window, jerked the shades to one side, opened the window, stuck my head out, and got a breath of air. I ran across to the other window, opened it, and did the same thing. Then I ran out into the kitchen. The gas stove was going full blast. I could hear the hissing sound of escaping gas. I shut off all the valves and opened the kitchen window.
From the door I could hear the clerk calling, “Open up,” and Bertha Cool’s voice came drifting through the broken transom. “He’s probably overcome by gas. You’d better rim down and call the police.”
There were steps running down the corridor, and then Bertha Cool’s voice, sounding as calm as though she’d been giving me orders over the telephone, saying, “Take your time, lover. Make a good job of it.”
I went over to the desk. Flo Danzer had been writing. There was one letter addressed to Bertha Cool. It was in an envelope. I ran over to the window, took out the letter, and glanced through it. It was a long, rambling account of how she had tried to pose as Amelia Lintig. I saw the name John Harbet, saw the name of Evaline Harris, and then to my dismay saw the name of Dr. Alftmont, of Santa Carlotta.
I slipped the letter back into the envelope, hesitated a moment, then sealed the envelope. I whipped out of my pocket one of the stamped, addressed envelopes with a special delivery stamp in the upper right-hand corner which I used for making out agency reports. I pushed the whole business into this envelope, sealed it, and said to Bertha, “Over the transom.”
I sailed it up. I heard Bertha say, “What do I do with it, lover?” and I said, “Take it over to the mail chute, drop it, and forget it.”
I heard Bertha Cool’s step in the corridor. I was feeling giddy and nauseated. I ran to the window and took a deep breath. Then I went back and looked under Flo Danzer’s head. There was a piece of paper underneath it. She’d been writing, evidently when the gas overcame her. There was a pen in her hand.
I wanted to ease that letter out and see what it contained. I could get the words: To whom it may concern: — the writing seemed to be badly scrawled.