The Blackbirder (13 page)

Popin smiled happily. “It is good when men like your work, speak of this to their friends. Yes, there is satisfaction in it then.” His hand fluttered to the paintings. “You see I am trying something new. The New Mexican scene. That means my homesickness is over. No longer I paint out of the past.”

He was enthusiastic speaking of painting. This was his true work. He had taken a small painting from the wall, was explaining technique, brush work, mixing of colors, to the disinterest of the other men, to Julie's half mind. It wasn't blackbirding, he cared about. That was doubtless a self-imposed task, to help refugees. There was always a gauze of wariness over him when Blaike forced the conversation from painting to the generalization work.

The gentle brown-bearded man was afraid, that was it. Julie had seen fear in too many of its guises not to know it. Popin feared. Rightfully so. He wasn't a man of violence but he was involved in a violent movement, fraught with ever attendant danger. Danger from within and without. She realized now that he couldn't be a lone wolf. There must be someone to fly the black plane; there must be agents outside the states; there must be some way to make contact with them, possibly shortwave radio; and there must be more agents in this country to handle the dissemination of the refugees upon arrival. A nucleus of strangers in this poorly populated would attract attention, investigation. She recalled Blaike's words: a depot, the station master. That explained the ability to put up any number of guests. Refugees were landed here by the blackbirding ship, kept out of sight until they could be shipped compass-wise into other states. The Indian servants? What did they understand about the presence of strange guests at any hour? They didn't need to understand; they weren't interested. No. Popin wasn't a lone blackbirder.

There must be an organization. Jacques to fly the plane? Other men in other cities. Maxl in New York? Was that what he had been hinting? Why had Maxl been murdered? Always the imminence of danger. Blackbirding was illegal. The F.B.I. must even now be seeking its source. Not the U.S. government alone. The Gestapo didn't remain dormant when prey escaped its bloody fists. It too would be hunting this American underground. It wasn't an underground. It wasn't moles burrowing through degradation for the promise of escape. It was clean and sharp, a bird's talons snatching the harassed, the hopeless, cutting escape through infinity. Smuggling in the sky.

And poor little Popin, knowing all the dangers, feared. He wasn't meant for reckless uncertainties. He was born for painting, for puttering in his garden, keeping his neat little house. Even now he didn't know whether he could trust these men who came knowing his work. He kept on deliberately confusing work with painting. Neither Schein nor Blaike had as yet forced him to open discussion. He feared. Because Maxl had died. He might be next. An organization such as this couldn't be carried on without conscienceless men involved, men unafraid of violence. Men who would kill if need be, men who didn't flinch at meeting death. They would be selected for this quality. If someone within the organization wished Popin out of the way, he wouldn't be safe. And he didn't know who killed Maxl. He hadn't known that Maxi was dead. He had cringed at the knowledge.

She had been listening only faintly to the conversation. She yawned now. She was surprised at the lateness, already by her watch it was eleven o'clock. “Would you mind if I excuse myself, Mr. Popin? I'm frightfully tired. The punch has been my stirrup cup.” She was on her feet.

So was Schein, even before the other men. He pointed a pudgy finger. “Where is she going?’

She herself answered, smiling, seemingly at ease. “Well, really, Mr. Schein.” She saw something else then. He was afraid of her. It didn't dissipate her fear of him. For he wasn't one to scurry from fear; his answer would be brutal liquidation of its source. He had been the driver of the taxi. He was afraid she had witnessed Maxl's death. He was the murderer.

He said now, heavy, ugly. “She was with Maxl.” He looked with import at Popin. “The night he died.”

No one said anything. All were watching her, Schein with stones for eyes, Blaike with suspicion alert on his face, Popin just a little timidly.

And she laughed, brightly, without care. “I haven't the least idea why you're saying that.” Her face lifted to the others, shone with quiet truth. She knew it did. She'd practiced it often. “I didn't know this Maxl. I was never with him.” She turned her shoulder on Schein. “You will excuse me, Mr. Popin?”

“I will show you the way.”

“You needn't. I've already been up, you know.” Blaike stated, “I'll go up with Julie, Popin. See that her fire's shipshape, all that.”

Her hands were icy. If anyone was to go it should be Popin. She needed a moment alone with him. She had refused only to keep the men together. They mustn't break up their bibbing this early; they must give her a chance to reach Jacques. She began, “Really, you needn't— ”

“But I will.” He smiled and his smile was cold as her hands. He wouldn't be disputed. Popin settled uncertainly back on the rug.

She said, “Good night. I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Popin.” She didn't speak to Schein. She led through the cold dining-room. She was wordless through the living-room, the hall, the stairs. At her door she turned to the gray man. “Good night.”

The smile remained on his lips. It wasn't in his eyes. “Remember me? I'm the fireboy.” He waited until she opened the door, followed her. The fire was ash. He built it professionally again, kneeling awkwardly until the kindling caught. He rose, dusted his hands.

“Thank you very much,” she said without expression.

He looked down from his height. “You were with Maxl.”

She didn't move.

“I saw you together. There at Bert's beer garden. You left together. At one o'clock. By two, he was dead.”

Her lips alone moved.

“Who are you?”

“A partner in crime. A deserter from the R.A.F. They're on my heels. That's why I had to reach Popin. I have to get away.” The smile was carved across his face. “In war times desertion from the force is as bad, or worse, than murder.”

It came as a slap across the face. She cried out, “I didn't murder him.”

He looked over his shoulder. No one was behind him in the doorway. He said, “Earlier and with the same verity you said you didn't know him.”

She repeated with violence, “I didn't murder him.”

“The police are looking for you. You came to Popin for the same reason as I, for his help in running away. There's one thing you didn't count on. Neither did I. This storm.”

She was uncertain. “The storm.”

“Planes can't fly without a ceiling. The Blackbirder won't fly again until the storm lifts.”

She hadn't thought of that.

“You'll have to be careful until then. Very careful.”

There was ice, a lump, within her. He seemed to be speaking out of certain knowledge. He knew why Schein was here. She knew one thing only. Schein was a Nazi. She was an animal, she could smell the Nazi spoor. She asked passionately now, “Why was Maxl killed?”

“You don't know?”

“How could I? I didn't know him well in Paris. I didn't know he was in New York until I met him that night. Why was he killed?”

“I don't know.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“I honestly don't know. I know two things. He was a minor Nazi agent.”

Her nails cut into her palms.

“And he was a Blackbirder.”

“No!” But it was what she had been formulating below: an organization of Blackbirders couldn't be certain of every man they must trust within their ranks. Which side was Maxl selling out? Whichever had killed him. She wondered again now, “Who are you?”

“I told you that.” He had turned. “Your door hasn't a key. Do you know how to balk a latch?”

“Yes.” She knew most of the makeshifts of protection. She had learned that one the night the Nazi officer had tried to get into her room. After she had maimed him. That had been somewhere north of Vichy. A long time ago when she was very young. She said, “I think my toothbrush will do it.” And she looked at him swiftly. But he hadn't noticed it: that she had come prepared to stay.

He had picked up a bit of kindling. He broke a piece to fit. “Don't forget to use it. Good night.”

She closed the door after him. He didn't know she wouldn't need it. Nearing 11:30 now. She listened to his uneven descent of the stairs. She would wait at least ten minutes, perhaps fifteen. Not too long. It must be done before the three men went to bed. Before any one of them would separate himself, be prowling the halls. Blaike knew that Schein menaced her. He knew the waiter was a Nazi. He knew or he sensed that the Gestapo was after her. It was proved now. First Maxl. The meeting at Carnegie had not been accidental.

She felt no terror of it at this moment, only a great weariness. She had run so far and so long, she was winded. That was despair. She had had a respite. She could run again. Schein had killed Maxl. He had left the restaurant before them, put a greasy cap on his head, counted on the customary disinterest of passengers in a cab driver. He had killed Maxl when Maxl returned to the cab. But why, if they were on the same side? Now he had come after her. Whatever reason there was to kill Maxl, he thought she had guilty knowledge of it. She had run away; he had sensed that she would run to the blackbirders. It was the only quick means of escape for a foreigner in a country at war.

Ten minutes. She wouldn't wait longer. If anyone was below she had her excuse, her coat in the hall closet. She carried her purse with her as she went softly down the staircase. Halfway she looked into the living-room, empty, the hall below empty. She finished her descent, turned toward the closet at the rear. And she stopped short. She had heard a sound, a possible sound. She had on the blue pullover as well as her jacket. There at the foot of the stairs she was within two steps of the front door!

She made a dash for it.

She hadn't counted on the fury of the storm. It flung itself on her. She huddled close to the house, rounded it, and fought her way into the wind, past the dark curtained windows, living-room, dining-room, kitchen. It was farther than she thought to the guest house, in the unprotected stretch she was battered by scratching flakes, maniac wind. The ground snow was above her ankles. She pushed on, stumbling, pausing over and again to push her heels into slippers.

The little house was dark. She rapped. Above the wind could she be heard? She pounded. He might be asleep. She couldn't stand here freezing. She wouldn't return to the house from which she had escaped. She put her hand on the latch. It moved. Quickly she shoved inside, shot the bolt after her. Her breath was coming fast. She was wet with snow, shivering with cold. She stood there a moment before she could move. The inevitable Indian fireplace gave only faint red ashes, no warmth. She went to it, laid kindling, blew softly on the ash, pushed in two logs. Jacques wouldn't care. The fire caught and she stood to it, thawing, melting. Only when the warmth ran through her blood did she turn again to the room seeking a lamp.

She didn't need light. The fire was enough. She saw the mad disorder, the smashed radio, the broken chair. She saw the dark shape face down under the chair. With hopeless fatality she walked to him, She knew it was Jacques. The waiter had reached him first.

She bent down over him. It hadn't been a clean kill. She set her face away from grief. She hadn't smelled the blood. The room had been too cold. Not cold enough. There had been remnants of a fire. An hour at most. He had been killed since dinner. Blaike hadn't wanted her to talk with Jacques last night.

Terror shook her in its teeth. She must get away from here. The coincidence of her presence at one murder might be explained away, not at a second. Not with Schein waiting to accuse her. Not with Blaike and his self-centered wisdom and his granite eyes. Not to little fear-ridden Popin.

No, she couldn't go inside, announce, “I've found Jacques. He's dead.”

There was only one thing to do. Chance getting back to town, to the hotel, be gone on the bus to Albuquerque before the men arose in the morning. From Albuquerque on to the border. Chancey, yes. But possible. If she could make it to the hotel it was more than possible. She didn't believe the roads would be patrolled. The storm warnings had been insistent, emphatic, all through the evening. Even if anyone missed the radio warnings, he wouldn't set out at night with the storm still battering, not unless there were reasons more vital than his own safety. She could handle a car. she could get away unobserved she could take it easy, not more than a mile to the highway, about four miles, to Tesuque, five or six miles to Santa Fe.

No one would be disturbing her room early in the morning. She was a guest. By the time Popin learned she had departed, she would be enroute to El Paso. There was another risk. If Schein came to her room tonight or if Blaike returned to it, her absence would be noted. That chance would have to be taken. One thing, this murder was not meant to be discovered as yet. She must get away fast before the time for discovery.

She couldn't start out in the storm without a coat. Jacques must have one she could borrow. She was afraid to leave this front room, enter the bedroom. It might be blind alley. There on the floor was the dark plaid of his mackinaw. She caught it up. It wasn't bloodstained. She enveloped herself in its weight, buttoned it high, clutched her purse under her arm. Her eyes gave one brief eulogy to the man crumpled there. He couldn't have died for her. It couldn't be Tanya's pattern repeated.

But bitterly she knew it could be.

The wind was moaning against the door. She stood inside for a last moment, dreading the plunge into the vicious night. Already there might be someone waiting outside. She opened the door, stepped through, pulled it tight against the wind's struggle to push it wide again. She saw no one, no shadows. The main house was dark. The shortest way to the garage was across the back of the house, past the kitchen and the studio. She stumbled and pushed through the deepening snow to the kitchen wall. She hugged it for a moment before daring the screaming temper of the blizzard again. Past the kitchen, protecting her face from the whiplash with one arm. The studio outer wall to encompass. The blackout curtain made it blank, inscrutable. If she could only know the three were yet about the fire. She had stood between curtain and window tonight, another could do the same.