The Blackbirder Page 2

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  The sound was her breath. It was coming and going fast, an animal sound. She turned the corner of the Drive into the snagged teeth of the wind. She put her head down into it and forced her way on to 79th Street. She turned sharp there and started back up the hill toward Broadway. The hill held her back, the wind had followed her. It was like trying to hasten in a dream. She could hear the hunted sound of her breath. The lights of a cab were approaching and she shrank close to the dark hull of the buildings. But she didn't stop walking. She kept on, slowly as in a nightmare, with her heart pumping faster, faster. The cab didn't stop. It rolled down the street, turning north at the Drive.

  She crossed West End without looking. right or left, particularly not looking right. Someone might be on the corner of 78th Street. Her legs ached pushing them up the hill. The crosstown blocks were always long, now they were endless. She might have been on a squirrel tread, moving but not advancing. And then she reached the crest, Broadway.

  There were lights here, not as many as once there had been, the street lamps dimmed, the store windows darkened by war conditions. But more light than on the side ways. She slid her left arm out of the coat sleeve, looked down at her wristwatch. Ten minutes to two o'clock. It had been after one when Maxl left her at the door. The hours since hadn't added to one hour.

  She stood there under the dull street light not looking at the watch. The palms of her gloves were dark; she touched them together, dark, sticky darkness. She had held them tensed, palm to palm, while she braced the wind and the hill and night shadow. She rubbed them frantically; the stain matted. On the right sleeve of her brown coat the dark stuff had crawled like a monstrous spider. It seemed to be crawling still. She was shaking so much that she couldn't move, but she did, darting across the half street, cowering into the downtown subway entrance. On the damp stairs she pulled the gloves from her hands inside out. Her breath was sobbing when she scrubbed them against the right sleeve of her coat. She could throw them away— but not her coat, the night was too cold.

  She ran on down the steps, opened her purse and her coin purse, found a nickel, went through the turnstile. There was no one on the platform, not on the downtown or uptown side. She scurried to the bench, sat there, wishing she were numb, not palsied. Her fingers felt sticky now. A silent scream ached in her throat as she saw the dark red gumming them. They'd been clean before they delved into her purse. The notebook there inside. She fumbled the gloves back on her hands, wiped them over the purse. She opened it furtively, clicked it shut. The color of blood was inside. There were smudges on the front of her coat where the purse had lain. If she pressed it there again, that one stain was hidden.

  Someone was clattering down the stairs. She froze, not daring to look. She heard the nickel's click, the thud of the turning stile. The steps moved away. From under the brim of her hat, her eyes slanted. A man, a night worker. His back turned to her, the early morning tabloid in his hands.

  She rubbed her gloved fist against her coat sleeve. The worst was on the under side where her arm had slid into Maxi's inner pocket. If she held her arm close to her side, it wouldn't be noticed much. If she kept her gloved hands in her pockets, they wouldn't show. The stains didn't look like blood.

  They had the smell of blood.

  The roar of the local came from the tunnel. She stood, waited until the train had stopped before hurrying to it. She entered a different car from the tabloid man. There were only a few persons in the lighted interior, two men with the inevitable tabloids before their faces; one man asleep, his head swaying forward and back and side with the motion of the train. She stood in the darkened vestibule, pressed against the steel wall for support, watching blindly the dark rush of tunnel. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't know where she could go. There was less than five dollars in her purse. Even if she'd had more than that a hotel was out of the question. Without luggage, matted with blood, a girl couldn't walk into a hotel in the middle of the night. The railroad terminals— she didn't dare. She'd be watched. There were signs: No Loiterers. There were all-night movie theaters but she was afraid, afraid of a lighted foyer, of a ticket seller's memory.

  She couldn't leave town until morning. She must have more money; she must get rid of the blood-stained clothes first. Lucky she'd been foresighted about putting her funds into a savings bank. There'd be no questions asked when she withdrew it. A large check offered by a haggard young girl would be questioned. Particularly one with blood on her garments. Her face mirrored in the half-lighted pane of the door was more than haggard. It was the face of a tortured ghost.

  Where could she go until morning? Where could she hide? The train pulled into Times Square. Without volition she left it. The vast underground cavern was curiously empty at this morning hour. She wasn't lost in a throng as she would be during the day and early evening. She was someone to be remembered by the other stragglers. She took the next train that came along. It didn't matter where she was going. She was too tired to remain longer on her feet. She crept into the lighted interior, sat in a corner, hugging her purse and arms close against her, tucking her gloved hands under her elbows. There were two other night-weary passengers. They didn't look at her.

  She rode to the end of the line. She didn't know where she was: Brooklyn, Flatbush, Queens— it didn't matter. When the guard came through, she said, “I slept through my station.” She moved wearily, paid another nickel, and began the long ride uptown.

  She rode until her watch said seven o'clock. Sometimes she dozed from sheer weariness but she was afraid. The jerk of the train entering a station was the jerk of the arm of the law. Always it woke her. She was sly in her terror, leaving trains at odd stations, waiting, sometimes an hour, for the next car. Only once was she spoken to and that by a drunk. He might have caused a scene, remembered her later, but she wasn't alone on the platform then. Two men stared at him and he swaggered away.

  At six there were more persons coming into the trains. She stood then and whenever anyone looked at her, she left the train at the next station. When her watch said seven, she waited for Times Square again. She shuttled to Grand Central, climbed the stairs, entered the women's room on the upper level. She didn't look at anyone; there weren't very many women there. Her face in the mirror was gray; even her lips were gray. Under her eyes were slate-gray circles.

  She used a machine for towel and soap, laid the packet on the ledge, and stripped the gloves from her hands. The palms were stiff now. She thrust them into her bag quickly and closed it. She scrubbed her hands, her face, her hands again. She could still feel the stickiness on her fingertips. She reopened her bag, forced her fingers inside, found lipstick and a comb. Her dark hair was lank about her face. She tucked it behind her ears, pulled off her hat suddenly and thrust it up beneath the crown. The hat didn't look right but it was better that way.

  She couldn't sponge at her coat, it might run red; she couldn't remove articles from her purse, examine them for caked blood. She wasn't alone here. She was afraid to lock herself inside a private dressing-room; someone might become suspicious of the stains. She washed her hands again before she left the room.

  She went up the ramp to 42nd Street. At the door she bought two tabloids and the Herald Tribune. She put the papers under her arm, crossed the yet quiet traffic of the street, went down into the Automat. She had to open her purse again but she knew the bills in the zipper compartment were unstained. She laid the dollar on the counter, swept the two quarters and ten nickels into her ungloved hand, carried them to her tray.

  Out of sheer weariness she dared the steam table for scrambled eggs and bacon. Toast and fruit juice went with it on the special. For a nickel the slot filled her cup with strong steaming coffee. She carried her tray to the farthest corner. She wasn't hungry for food but she was weak. She finished the last crust before she opened the papers.

  There wasn't much in the Herald Tribune, a small item, the body of Maximilian Adlebrecht found on West 78th Street early
this morning. Identified from letters on him. The tabloids were more lurid but they didn't know much more. Not in these early editions. The man was shot twice in the back at close range. She hadn't heard shots. The body was described as about 24 years old, well-dressed, $25 in a billfold, no robbery. The janitor of her house had found him about 3:00 a.m., turned in the alarm. The janitor with an unpronounceable Polish name was being held for further questioning. There was nothing about a dark girl who lived in that apartment house.

  The day in New York didn't begin until nine o'clock. She could do nothing until then. An hour to wait. She was awake now although her eyes felt as if pins held them open. She sat there while the room filled, refilled, over and again, ignoring each pointed look at her continued occupation of a chair. She sat behind the opened newspapers, reading every readable word. She read for an hour. When she left, the Tribune and the News remained on her chair. She carried the less bulky Mirror folded beneath her purse. It helped hide the stains that were not coffee stains.

  She went up and out into the morning, into crowded streets now. Despite the cold she walked leisurely up to Fifth, turned downtown, looking into shop windows. She walked to 37th Street, crossed Fifth, and turned back uptown. At 9:20 she entered Kresge's. She hadn't wanted to be the first customer. There was almost three dollars left in bills and in change. She held the bills in her hand. For $1.02 she bought a brown, imitation-leather purse. For 590, she brown fabric gloves. She went up to the women's room. Behind the locked toilet door, she took the blood-matted gloves, thrust them into the new paper sack. She opened her old purse. The handkerchief was bloodstained; she thrust it in with the discarded gloves. The coin purse, a pencil, the little black notebook, stiff to her touch, she transferred. Her lipstick and golden compact were clean. The handkerchief had protected them.

  The old purse was larger than the new. The old wouldn't fit into that paper sack. She took the center double-spread of the newspaper, folded it about the purse.

  Again on Fifth Avenue she walked uptown. The paper sack she crumpled under the discarded newspapers in the first metal trash container. The newspaper-covered purse she laid in another container. She walked west and south to the savings bank.

  She made out the withdrawal slip— $1,900, leaving $100 in order that there would be no questions asked, no closing of the account. She hadn't wanted to touch this two thousand until she knew what the future would bring. Until she had found Fran. It was necessary now.

  The cashier asked, “In cash?” and she nodded. “Small bills or large?”

  She said quickly, “Half in small, half large.” She mustn't offer a large denomination until she was safely away from this city. She mustn't attract any attention.

  She pushed the sum deep into her purse and left the bank, caught a Sixth Avenue bus and rode to 34th Street. Safer to buy clothes in a mammoth department store. No questions asked. No remembrance of a girl with coffee stains matted on her coat.

  As soon as she was within the store she removed the coat, folded it inside out, carried it over her arm. She wasn't frightened now. She was hidden in the crowd. She had her ration books in her purse. She selected a navy coat, a navy gabardine suit, a tailored blouse, a frilled blouse, a blue pullover sweater. Underclothes, stockings, nightclothes, a tailored robe. Everything new from the skin out. Hat, shoes, gloves, a new large navy bag. Cosmetics, brush and comb. She went from counter to counter, unhurried. When her arms were loaded she checked her parcels, returned for more. She had spent almost $200 before she bought the luggage, one large suitcase, one small. She didn't buy the more expensive ones but it was almost $50 more. She had to watch her money— $1,900 to see her through. It seemed a vast sum but it wasn't. Because she was going to some far-off place called Sante Fe and she didn't want to be inconspicuous there. She was going as Julie Guille and she hoped someone would recognize the name. Someone who watched for refugees. Someone who was blackbirding.

  She took her bags unwrapped to the mezzanine, retrieved her purchases, put what she could inside. She couldn't carry all the load. She checked the week-end bag with some parcels in it, and she carried the large suitcase and the large box which held her coat. She bumped her way down the stairs and out through the revolving doors.

  On 34th Street again she found a cab, rode the short trip to the Pennsylvania Station. She went to the women's waiting-room, to the inner room, and put a coin in a dressing-room slot. Behind closed doors she changed suit, blouse, hat and shoes. There wasn't time for more. She crammed the brown ones, the Kresge bag and gloves, into the suit box. She tied the string around its bulge. Her large suitcase she checked. The box she put into a locker. She threw the key into a waste container.

  She wasn't tired now and she wasn't afraid. She didn't look the same. She had the courage needed for what must be done. She left the station, walked to the corner of 34th and caught an uptown bus. At 42nd she left it, started eastward across town. No one looked at her. The westward didn't know she was passing, the eastward walkers didn't know she was among them. There was no curiosity on city faces. Even if police officers were watching for Juliet Marlebone they wouldn't recognize her now. Her description would be without identifying marks save for shabby brown clothes. Hundreds of girls had blue eyes, small faces, dark curling hair.

  The bank stood foursquare on the corner of Madison. She hadn't been in it since she rented the box almost seven months ago. No one in so large a bank would remember the girl who had rented it. If the police had her name, they could be waiting here. But they couldn't have it yet. She and Maxl had spoken to no one during the evening. Even if it had been part of a plan, even if Maxl had been deliberately lying in wait for her, he would have talked of her as Julie Guille. He hadn't known her real name until last night when she had given it with her phone number. She had had to spell it out— Marlebone. In Paris she had been Julie Guille. It was simpler that way. She lived with the Guilles; Paul and Lily were her guardians.

  She slipped into the bank, took a breath. She counted the steps descending to the vaults. This was the moment. Experience had taught her over and over how to behave in possible as well as in actual danger. This was only possible. She was aloof, seemingly certain of herself. She stated her name softly, giving it a French accent, “Marlebone.” She passed the guard with no tremor. Alone in the diminutive room she laid the small box on the table. Her gloved fingers opened it, removed the shabby zipper bag. From it she took the soiled lump of cloth, unrolled it.

  There was no aesthetic impulse to her senses, no breathless impact on her eyes, when the blaze of diamonds lay on her palm. Two missing from the delicate, exquisite necklace. Two she had sold, one in a stifling room of a Havana hotel, one in the furtive back streets of downtown New York. Stones for bread. She had no regrets. She wrapped the necklace again in the fold of cloth, pressed it within the depths of the large navy handbag. The zipper bag she replaced empty in the metal box. This was not the time to court identification by relinquishing the box. She followed routine, replacing it, nodded briskly to the guard.

  He said, “Nice day, isn't it, Miss?” He was a prim little Irishman with faded brick hands. He said, “When you were coming down the stairs I was thinking it was my own daughter. She's overseas, a nurse. She used to wear her hair like to yours— on the shoulders that way. It's dark, too.”

  Her hair. There was yet time. She walked more quickly up the stairs, into the cold sunshine. Again to Fifth. She chose an expensive department store. It was restful, the shampoo, the drying, but she didn't sleep. A short swirling haircut. She didn't need a permanent; there was enough curl in her hair. She couldn't have endured that time waste.

  She wasn't at all afraid when she stepped out on the Avenue again. It was nearing four o'clock. She didn't stop to eat. She returned to the great department store, stood in line to retrieve the week-end bag and the other parcels. The girl behind the counter hadn't looked at her when she'd turned them in; if it was the same girl she didn't look now. There were too many faces on the dail
y treadmill.

  Julie walked back to the Pennsylvania for the large suitcase, opened it in the waiting-room and put the parcels inside. A cab took her to Grand Central. A redcap took her bags. To the question, “What train?” she answered, “I'm not certain about my reservations.” She walked down the marble stairs to the great concourse, her head high. Her elegant heels tapped to the Pullman window. No one could see the ghost of a gray girl in stained brown clothes that had flitted here in the early dawn.

  Expense or no she must have a compartment, must be able to lock a door behind her. It didn't matter what train. The harassed clerk didn't look at her. He grunted, “You're lucky. Roomette cancellation on the Century— these Washington big shots— ”

  Lucky. She'd forgotten that with wartime restrictions it might be impossible to find a place on an outgoing train. She held her teeth together.

  She bought her ticket only to Chicago. If questions were asked, if the police discovered who had been with Maxl, Chicago should be large enough to cover her.

  She told the porter, “The Century.”

  There was almost an hour to spare; the train didn't leave until six. She had time for a sandwich and tea in Liggett's. She didn't want more now, she was too tired. She could eat early on the train. She bought magazines, the afternoon papers, World-Telegram, Sun, Post, PM. She didn't let her eyes look at the headlines, not that Maxi's death would be headline material with wholesale slaughter to the East and to the West. She bought a carton of Pall Malls, a box of chocolates. Any young girl on pleasure bent.

  There was yet the final barrier. Her heart was louder than her heels approaching the gate. Were there plainclothes men now watching the departing trains, watching for a small thin girl with long dusky hair, dressed in worn brown? She moved with the mask of pleasant assurance, a taller girl in navy-blue suit, dark hair curled above her face under her navy-blue Breton, color on her lips and cheeks.