The Blackbirder (8 page)

She faced that, meticulously spooning the faint mauve ice. Why hadn't the gray man moved against her before now? The answer came with shocking certainty. Because he didn't know where Fran was. He believed that she knew. He was waiting for her to lead him to Fran. The gray man was not coincidentally on the train west. But how could he have known she would take that train— she
hadn't known herself!
Unless she had been followed from the apartment that night, followed all the next day. Her spoon clicked against her teeth. She couldn't have been. She would have known. But she realized with sinking heart that she wouldn't have known. The months of inaction had dulled her perceptions. She put down the spoon. It made a definite sound against the china plate. She bent forward toward the gray man. “Maximilian Adlebrecht? Is that correct?”

His eyebrows pointed in mild surprise. He nodded. “You saw him shortly before you left New York?” Again he nodded.

Her eyes narrowed. She held a cigarette carelessly between her fingers. “It's rather an unusual name in this country. I wonder. I read in the New York papers of the death of a man of that name.” She opened her eyes wide now on Blaike's face. It expressed nothing.

It was Popin who asked huskily, “Maximilian Adlebrecht is dead?”

Blaike's statement was sharp. “Yes, he is dead. He died the night before I left New York.”

Julie said, “I'm sorry.”

“You needn't be,” Blaike said.

It was Popin who pressed on, his beard sagging down on the soft brown coat. “How did he come to die?”

Blaike looked at her. Her eyes did not falter. It was he who turned his head, explained, “I know little about it. A friend told me over the phone. I was packing then to leave. We were only chance acquaintances. He was found dead.”

Julie said cruelly, “He was shot in the back. At close range, the story said.”

Popin's soft eyes closed for a moment.

Blaike asked, “You remember him now?”

The brown head nodded. “Yes. I remember him sooner. A young man who would not wish to die.” His voice was metallic. “He had escaped from France.”

Sorrow for the bearded little man, sorrow even for Maxl, hatred for the gray man and for what he stood for emerged from her. She said, “None of us wish to die. No one wishes to die. But there are those who have been bred to kill, who— ” She broke off. “I'm sorry. I too escaped from France.”

Popin touched his beard. He didn't speak. He looked old. He pushed back from the table. “I must not miss the return ride that waits for me.”

“I was about to suggest a liqueur.” Blaike was bland. The head shook. “If I miss the ride, it is a long walk to Tesuque. There are not many rides these days.”

“What about seeing your work? Soon.”

“Yes. My work. Soon.” He was being put together again. The three moved from the table, crossed to the portal. “Tomorrow night? That is soon enough? You dine with me?”

“Good enough. How do I get there?”

“You catch the Tesuque bus outside the hotel. Someone will show you where. Jacques will meet you at the filling station, bring you to my house. And you, Miss Julie? You too wish to come see my work tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“For dinner then. I will expect you.”

She could phone Popin in the morning, make wiser arrangements. The less said before the gray man the better. They spoke good night in the lobby, watched the stooped brown figure vanish down the steps to the side entrance. She held out her hand to Blaike. “Thank you for dinner, and good night.”

He held her withdrawing fingers. “You've no ride to catch. A liqueur?”

“No thank you. I'm tired.” Her hand was free.

“As a matter of fact, so am I. The westward journey wasn't exactly luxury travel.” He walked beside her as if without deliberate thought. She crossed to the newsstand. The bread-and-butter local sheet. The New York papers. Sunday's editions on Tuesday.

Blaike said, “You're quite a reader, aren't you?”

She didn't answer that. He was beside her in the portal. It seemed casual. At the elevator she would extend her hand, speak definite good night.

He gestured to the papers. “Typical New Yorker. Were you there long?”

“Not very.” She had no information to offer him. “But I don't find much world-news coverage in the local products. And, of course, the Sunday papers are more than just newspapers; they're a well-stocked library.”

“Rather.”

The pretty, dark-haired girl, Spanish blouse, wide peasant skirt, opened the elevator door. Julie's hand was ready. Blaike said, “I'm on third. You?”

She didn't appear disturbed. “Third, too.”

They rode up in silence, in silence left the elevator. Julie half turned to the Spanish girl, wanting to clutch the red skirt, to cling. The elevator door closed in her face.

She turned left. He walked beside her. Her hands knotted over the papers.

Halfway down the corridor he said, “I stop off here. I can't tempt you with a nightcap?”

“Not tonight, thank you.” She was alert, waiting a move.

But his key turned in the lock of 346. He opened his door. “Good night then. See you tomorrow.” He went inside, his smile closed the door.

That was the end of today. She was actually weakened from relief as she proceeded down the corridor across to the right, 351. Her key was in her handbag, she hadn't turned it in to the desk earlier. She fumbled for it, her elbow holding the heavy Sunday papers awkwardly.

“Julie!”

It was a whisper. She started, then tautness held her. She felt someone moving in behind. She stepped away from the door as she swerved. It was Jacques, his face hunted.

“Julie, quick. Open the door.”

Her fingers had found the key. She passed it to him. He went inside swiftly. She followed, flicking the switch just inside. He closed the door with a thud. Even in room light his face was green as it had been in the dim corridor. He pointed across the room. “Pull the curtains, Julie. Close the windows.”

She didn't question. She knew livid fear; she had experienced it herself. She dropped the papers on the bed as she crossed. She fastened the windows leading to the small balcony, automatically her eyes looked down into the street. It was empty. She pulled the draperies across the panes. She turned then. “No one in sight. What is it, Jacques?”

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He looked young and rugged but he wasn't. Someone must have broken him before he reached refuge.

She urged, “Sit down.” His knees were wavering.

He spoke mechanically in his own tongue. “I do not believe I was observed coming here. I do not believe I was followed. I went most carefully.” He seemed to see her now. “Julie.” His muted voice was sharp. “You must go. Go quickly. You must not remain here. You are in danger. Terrible danger, Julie.” His eyes were impassioned.

“I know.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. flung off her hat. “I know,” she repeated. She didn't know how he knew. He must have recognized the gray man.

“Why then did you come here?”

She hesitated. “I had to come here.” She said steadily, “It is important that I find the Blackbirder.”

He seemed to shrivel before her. His head turned, hunted over his shoulder. He edged the chair in order that his back was not to the door.

“You've heard of the Blackbirder? Certainly you have. All refugees have. Even in the East.” She chose words carefully. “I do not want to involve you, Jacques. It is better you do not know why I am running away. Only that I must.”

He swallowed with difficulty. “That only is why you came? To find the Blackbirder and to go away?”

He knew the Blackbirder. It was in his inflection. She said, “If he will take me across the border into Mexico— I have the money to pay— that is all I want, Jacques.” She lowered her voice eagerly. “It can be arranged?”

“I do not know. Why do you think I know?” His words trembled and he wet his lips. “What makes you think I might know?”

“Don't you know, Jacques?” She laughed a little. She felt so certain, so free from fear in the face of his. “How long have you been here in Santa Fe that you do not know? His headquarters are here. I learned that in New York. He does not ask questions. If I have the fare I can leave without questioning. You must have heard of him, if you have been here— ”

“Almost two years now,” he said dully.

“Then certainly you know. You have heard of him.” Her glance was oblique. “Perhaps you can tell me how I can be put in touch with him?”

He didn't look at her.

“His name?”

He said doggedly, “That is why you came. Only for that? You do not intend to stay here? You wish only to go away quickly? That is all?”

“That is all. Don't you see, Jacques, I must go quickly? You said it yourself. I'm not safe here. There is one small thing I must attend to. That I will do tomorrow. Then as soon as I find the Blackbirder, I must go.”

His voice scratched. “What is this one small thing?”

“It's Fran.",

“Fran?” Terror shrouded him again.

“He's in prison, Jacques,” she said quickly. “An internment prison for dangerous aliens. The Gestapo put him there. Some who were disguised, above suspicion. They— they framed him. That's the American word— you understand it? Somehow they did it. False accusations, false information.” Her voice beat against the gray mask Jacques had laid across his face. “I can't leave him there to suffer. I don't care how decently he's treated, it's indecent to be locked up. Like an animal. Caged. Helpless. I know.” Her voice whispered the horror. “I was locked up once in Paris.”

She steeled the words. “Did you know that? I was locked up. Paul did it. So I couldn't get away.” She wasn't looking at him, not speaking to him now. “I was always afraid of Paul. I didn't know it but I was. There was something cruel in him, the way a beast would be cruel, not for any reason, just because he is. He came to my room in the night. It was the night of Monday, June tenth. Do you remember that night, Jacques? The night Italy marched. Where were you? Somewhere on the front fighting. No, not fighting. The generals wouldn't let you fight, would they? They made you lay down your weapons. The Maginot Line had been broken. We knew it was the end. I told them at dinner, Uncle Paul and Aunt Lily, that I was going to leave Paris before it was too late. I wasn't going to stay to be bestialized by the Nazis. If Paul and Lily wouldn't go with me, I'd leave alone.”

After trying to erase it for three years, the memory was still brutally livid. “Paul came to me in the night. I didn't know what he was going to do. I was afraid to go with him. But if I hadn't he would have laid hands on me. I was more afraid of his hands. I went— up— up— he was behind me on the stairs. I don't know where Aunt Lily was. I don't know if she knew.” She pushed the damp hair away from her forehead. “In the very top attic there was a slant room with a tiny dormer window. I'd never been in it. You could just see the Boulevard far below. He told me the Nazis would march there on Thursday afternoon.” Her eyes closed. “He knew the day. The very hour.”

Jacques's face was empty.

“He locked me in there.” She pressed back the nausea. “He came at night and brought food. Once I tried to break past him. He struck me.” She let out her breath slowly. “The third day— I heard the planes first, then the machines, and then— the feet of marching men, thousands of them, little gray things far below— like ants.” She steadied her voice. “I thought Paul had left me there. For the ants.”

She had to touch the bedstead now, to know the reality of solid form. She had to wait before she could continue.

“That night Tanya came for me. The house was full of Nazi officers. They were having a Victory dinner.” Her voice was dust. “Paul and Aunt Lily were with them, drinking toasts, laughing. I saw them. Tanya got me out of that house, through the streets, into an underground. She started me on my way to freedom. She wouldn't come with me. She said her work was there.”

He spoke now. His voice was empty. “Tanya is dead.”

It was a moment before the import of it smote her. “Dead?”

He said it again. “She is dead.”

“They killed her.” She spoke with tight throat. “Didn't they? They killed her because of me. That was it, Jacques?”

“She helped many.”

“It was because of me. Wasn't it?” Her voice sharpened to pierce through his lethargy.
"Wasn't it?"

He saw her again. His eyes turned on her. “Yes. The Duc was angry. Because you escaped. Because you took the money, and the necklace, the de Guille diamonds.”

“She— ” She couldn't speak Tanya's name, not without her voice trembling. “She took the money for me. Paul was wise. He had filled his house with francs while the banks were operating. We didn't take much. It was all mine.”

Her voice rose. “My money supported all the Guilles for years, since I was a child. That's why Paul had himself declared my legal guardian, so he could have my income without report, for his own purposes.”

Even the diamonds were hers. She had bought them over and again. They hadn't been out of pawn for fifty years before the Guilles found her. She hadn't taken them for that reason. It had been in order that the pride, the ancestral treasure, of the Guilles, wouldn't fall into the desecrating hands of the Nazis. Frozen with fear, trembling through the darkened upper stories of the house, she had halted Tanya while she slipped into Aunt Lily's room, filched the necklace from the familiar blue velvet box. Paul had brought it home from the vaults the day war was declared. Stealing? Not then. She who was escaping would act as their custodian. That was before, peering through the banisters, she saw that scene she could never forget. Emeralds in the gilt of Aunt Lily's hair, the gold green of her Patou model. Paul's waxen toupee, waxen mustache, above his white tie. Nazis in dress uniform and grating medals. The acrid scent of champagne. The shame of laughter.

She turned on Jacques fiercely, as if he had spoken. “Certainly they supported me. They kept me. I was their kept child. I thought I had everything. I had. Everything but freedom. I could say and do and go any place and anything I wanted as long as it was what they wanted. I didn't know it then. They kept me stupid, ignorant, so that I wouldn't know. I've learned in three years.” She halted her words. This personal problem couldn't interest him— more important things had laid their weight. She demanded, “Paul gave Tanya over to them?”