The Blackbirder (22 page)

“You noticed that?”

“Julie, believe me, I could relate to you every breath you took from New York to Santa Fe. It'd be a pretty dull performance but I could do it.”

“What you said was true, you were following me?”

“Yes. I've been on the Blackbirder case for almost two years. When I saw you with Maxl, I knew I'd struck pay dirt. You'd lead me the rest of the way.”

He had been wrong, yet right. The Dame had favored him.

“You know why. You know who the Blackbirder is.”

“I know now. I didn't last night— night before last.” She thought of the weary wait this afternoon. “Why didn't you come sooner?”

“I had a good many things to check over with the boys before I came. You wouldn't run out this time. You'd given up.”

She said, “I couldn't run any farther.”

“You understand that now? You can't escape your destiny no matter how fast, how far you run. Eventually you've got to face it. It's better to meet it before you've depleted yourself, while you're still strong. You'll never win by retreat unless it has meaning and purpose, unless it's to gather up strength and take a stand.”

There had been meaning and purpose when she fled. There hadn't been in these latter days. Selfish fear wasn't good enough. She'd rationalized but she'd been rudderless even before she knew of Fran's defection. She hadn't had enough knowledge for planning; ignorance had weakened her, and in her weakness she'd hidden away in New York, excusing inaction as circumspection, caution; her only shield, flight.

She should have attacked; she should have forced knowledge of Fran's whereabouts. Not waited for the letter to the Ritz, his last known address, to be forwarded and answered. She should have asked questions, demanded answers. She had been afraid. For her personal safety. Afraid that what had happened, would happen? She'd been running even while standing still. She should have known Fran wasn't in prison. He wouldn't have had to smuggle out an innocent letter, and the letter, as far as governments were concerned, had been harmless. He could have given an address. She knew that American concentration camps weren't bastilles of horror as in brutalized Europe.

Yet she had believed, waited, too tired from flight to think straight. She would have waited forever. He didn't intend her to turn up to spoil his game with Coral, more important his Blackbirding. He would never have written again. Only by accident would they ever have met in this vast country. He would exercise care about accidents. Just as when he knew she was in Santa Fe, he remained out of sight. It was sheer accident that she had escaped and returned to Popin's. No one would have expected her to return to the scene of the crime.

The doorbell sounded. Blaike said, “I'll get it.”

Julie nodded. “He's what he says he is, Mrs. Helm. I was wrong.”

Jimmie Moriarity was tall and sandy, a little stooped, without illusions. “Here I am, Blaike. Where's the girl?”

Blaike made introductions. “Jimmie knew me in Washington before he was transferred here, Julie. I want you to examine his credentials as well as mine. I want you to talk without fear. We are members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

She looked over the papers. She didn't need the reassurance. She knew. Mrs. Helm held out her hand, studied the sheets, returned them.

Moriarity asked, “You're the same girl Professor Alberle phoned about?”

“Yes.”

“What's the dope?”

She said, “I want to give myself up. I came into this country on a false passport.”

“Blackbirding?” Blaike asked.

“No. By way of Havana. Even if I'd believed your credentials in Santa Fe, I'd have run again, Blaike. Because the F.B.I. was after me just as much as the Gestapo. But last night"— she shrugged—"I decided to turn myself over to the F.B.I. I'll tell my story.”

Blaike said, “That's not important now. We have to get back to Santa Fe.”

The residue of doubt of him remained although she had certain knowledge. He had had Jacques's death suppressed. She said, “Not until I say what I'm going to say. I want it all on record, on F.B.I. record.”

Blaike told her, “I know most of it. I've told Jimmie most of it.”

She repeated stubbornly, “I want to tell it.”

Moriarity looked at Blaike for orders. She saw that. The Santa Fe police had done the same. She wouldn't leave until she'd said it. After that, if Moriarity wanted to let her go with Blaike, she'd go. She couldn't do otherwise.

Blaike said, “Go ahead,” and she heard the click of the front door. She stiffened.

It was only Professor Alberle entering the hall. He apologized, “I thought I might be needed. I hurried home.”

Mrs. Helm said, “These are the F.B.I. men, Otis. Only this one"— her hand jabbed at Blaike—"is the Gray Man too. You come in and keep quiet. Juliet's going to tell about it.”

His eyes quickened. That was why he had come. He was on time for the show. He faded into a chair.

“I'll try to be brief as I can. My father was Prentiss Marlebone. He and my mother died when I was a baby. My mother's sister and her husband, Paul Guille, raised me. Perhaps you don't recognize that name. Your State Department would. He is a friend of Laval's. I escaped from his house the night the Nazis entered Paris. I took with me a fabulous diamond necklace, the de Guille necklace. It had been in the family from the time of Louis the Twelfth. I didn't want the Nazis to have it. Uncle Paul was a traitor. When I was stealing out of the house, I saw him and Aunt Lily drinking toasts with the Nazis, toasts to the fall of France.” She went on. “It took me more than a year to get out of France. As soon as Paul knew I had escaped, he sent the Gestapo after me. Because of the necklace.”

“And because of your money,” Blaike said. “He was your legal guardian until you were of age. You were only— ”

“I was nineteen. I could never have escaped without Tanya, the maid, and her friends. She wouldn't leave with me. She stayed behind to help others. They found her— and they killed her.”

The scratch of Moriarity's match was livid.

“It took me almost another year to reach Havana. I was there a long time. I had no visa.”

“An American wouldn't need one,” Moriarity said.

“I don't know what I am. I was born in Persia. I lived in France for sixteen years. I had never been in America. From Cuba I wrote to the one person who could help me reach the United States.” She held her lips firm. “My cousin, Francis Guille. I wrote him where he'd last been, a New York hotel. It was months before I heard. He was in an American internment camp as a dangerous alien.”

Blaike leaned forward, eyes crackling.

“Nazi sympathizers had— had framed him— because he wouldn't collaborate. The letter was smuggled out of prison, mailed from Mexico by a friend of Fran's, a man named Popin.”

Blaike's mouth was open.

She ignored him. “I knew then I had to get to America. I had to free Fran. I also knew I couldn't hope for a passport. If I told who I was, a member of the Guille family, I'd be returned to France or interned. I bought a false passport and I came to the United States, to New York. I wrote Fran again, to the same hotel, to be forwarded. I knew eventually it would reach him as my first letter had. I found work. The good jobs— defense jobs— were closed to me. Because I was an alien. I waited. Months. And months. And then one night— ” She broke off. It wasn't months ago, it was only ten days past. “I was at Carnegie Hall. I saw a boy I used to know in Paris. I didn't want him to see me. But he did.”

“That's Maximilian Adlebrecht,” Blaike interpreted.

Moriarity nodded.

“Yes. Because I didn't want to make him suspicious, I went with him to a beer garden in Yorkville.” Her eyes widened. “I noticed a waiter watching me. He didn't move. He just stood there and watched. He looked like a Nazi. I know what a Nazi looks like. I've known them. I was taken by them many times while I was trying to escape from France.”

“Steady,” Blaike said.

She swallowed. “You know what happened. After I left Maxl, he was killed. In front of my house, I ran away. I knew if I were questioned, the police would find out about how I came into the country. I knew the F.B.I. would be in the case because Maxl was a German refugee.”

“He was a German agent,” Blaike said.

“He may have been.” She sat straight. “Before I ran I took a notebook from his body. It had my name and address in it. I spent that night in the subway.”

“All night?”

“Yes. The next day I left for Santa Fe.”

“And why did you choose Santa Fe?” Blaike's voice was easy.

She lied. She wouldn't talk about the Blackbirder. “Popin's name was in that notebook. He was a friend of Fran's. I wanted to find Fran.”

Moriarity said, “You didn't know the F.B.I. was looking for Fran Guille as hard as you were?”

“I believed Fran was in prison.”

“Okay.”

“That first night in Santa Fe I saw another friend of Fran's. Jacques Michet. He pretended not to know me. Somehow even talking with me meant danger to two men. Jacques came to my room that night, secretly. He told me I was in danger. He didn't get to tell me why. Blaike interrupted.”

“Get this straight,” Blaike charged. “I was following you. As far as I was concerned that made me responsible for your safety. I didn't want you liquidated under my nose. I didn't know Jacques from Adam. I only knew he was part of Popin's outfit. Why did you skip out of Popin's?”

“Because Albert Schein was the man who had watched me in Yorkville. I knew he'd kill me that night.”

“What made you think that?”

“Because I knew he'd killed Maxl. And he knew that I knew. I went out to Jacques's house. Jacques would protect me.” She faltered only a little. “Jacques had been murdered.” She turned to Blaike, accused. “You saw Jacques that night.”

“I saw his body.”

“You let them call it accident.”

Blaike said, “I was posing as an R.A.F. deserter. You know that. To get at the Blackbirder. Popin decided if the police investigated a murder the blackbirding activities would come out. He persuaded Schein and me it would be wiser to make an accident of it.”

“You let them do that to Jacques?”

“Temporarily, yes. The most important thing has been to get Fran Guille, the Blackbirder. The murder can be taken care of later.”

Professor Alberle said, “Some of this I don't understand.”

“Shshsh.” His mother-in-law's eye fixed him.

Julie turned to Moriarity. “I don't know what I should have done when I found Jacques. I ran. Again. That's all I've done for three years. The Indians hid me that night. Later Blaike and Schein found me. I got away from them and went back to Popin's. Fran was there.”

“You saw him then?” Blaike asked.

“Yes. I thought he'd just escaped from prison. I didn't know he'd never been in prison. Not until yesterday. I heard him talking to Coral Bly.” She said wearily, “I couldn't take help from him— the way things were. I hid in her car. And then I bopped her. I borrowed her coat and her car and started for Mexico. When I reached here I realized I couldn't make it. I hadn't enough gas.” She looked at him. “I wasn't going to tell about Fran. Only about the passport. Being locked up didn't matter any more, not much anyway, not as much as getting to rest and being safe from the Gestapo.”

“That's your story?” Blaike asked.

“That's all.”

“You're satisfied I'm bona-fide F.B.I.?”

“Yes.”

“If you aren't, we'll get Washington on the phone and have the big chief okay me. I don't want you to have any doubt when you go with me.”

She said, “I haven't any doubt now. Only Schein— ”

“He isn't. I played his game to keep him quiet while I worked on Popin to get at the Blackbirder. There are no records. There's nothing but word-of-mouth transactions and his bank account. I have to get Fran flying someone in or out, someone who can't travel any other route. I hoped he'd take me. But Schein has become suspicious of me. I don't know if I can work it. You can. No one is afraid of you. That's why we're going back.”

“Going back to them?” She shook her head. “No. I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Don't you see?” He must see. “I know what it is to be hunted, not able to reach a place of refuge. I can't close up any channel of escape to refugees, even if it isn't legal.” She was weak but firm. “I simply can't do it.”

“My dear Julie, do you still believe the Blackbirder helps honest-to-god refugees?” He was exasperated. “From the beginning he's flown for one purpose only, to bring into this country those men and women whom Paul Guille and his bosses want brought in— saboteurs, fifth columnists, Gestapo agents, spies. My God, you don't think any true refugee could afford to pay from one to ten thousand for a blackbirding seat, do you? Those are Fran's prices.”

She begged, “Are you sure?”

“She asks am I sure!” Blaike appealed to Moriarity. The latter grunted. “Listen, child, it's so sure a thing that I was smuggled out of a French concentration camp in a dead horse for one purpose alone, to catch the bird.”

“You were imprisoned too?” She couldn't keep horror from her voice.

His was steady. “I didn't get the bum knee— yeah, it's legitimate— following pretty girls to Santa Fe. Nor from a Channel crackup either. I was on duty in France for five years before the war. My front job was in a news service. Matter of fact, I actually was a reporter before I decided that snooping for Uncle Sam was more important. I didn't run out of Paris after the fall. No one was supposed to know about my extracurricular work but someone with a Boche haircut did. It takes a good many able-bodied men to effect a rescue from a concentration camp, Julie. Do you think any government would have risked that to release one small employee if it weren't important? It was important for one reason. I knew Fran Guille. He didn't know me but I knew him. I'd been keeping my eye on him for a long time. Our government found out it was Fran smuggling Nazis into the country. How? Well, we've spies in the inner circles too. But we didn't know where he was, what disguise he'd adopted, and the U.S. is a darn big country to scour. All of our information came from Paris. We didn't even know what name he was using, or where he operated.”