The Blackbirder Read online

  “Certainly.’

  Jacques stood apart.

  Popin said, “The New Mexican room is most pleasant. There are the delicate frescoes of Olive Rush. And in this— our new country— there is yet sufficient food.” His voice muted. “We are the fortunate ones.” He raised his cinnamon eyes. “I too am a refugee.” His head turned. “Jacques— ”

  Jacques said unsmiling, “I have the important errands, Popin. You remember. You will excuse me.”

  “But dinner first. You must eat something.”

  “Something I will eat. But first the list for Spike— and other more important things.” He did not wait for response. His huaraches clicked across the lobby.

  Popin shrugged his hands. “You knew him well before, Miss Guille?”

  “He worked for my guardian, Paul Guille.” She made a little face. “I've known him since I was a child— but not too well.” Evidently. She didn't understand. True, she had not known Jacques well but Tanya— Tanya was his wife. It was Tanya who had effected her escape out of France. Jacques knew; he must have known. And he knew her love for Fran.

  A stringed orchestra in the velvet garb of Spanish grandees strummed outside the dining-room door. The room was pleasant, quiet, pastel on the walls and pillars: a delicate faun, a warm gray squirrel, white blossoming cactus. Popin led to a banco against the wall, placed her beside Blaike there. He took the chair across the narrow, painted table. His fingers touched the fat white of the candle. “You have only just arrived, Miss Guille?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Funny thing.” Blaike beckoned the wine boy. “You'll have a drink before we order dinner?” Julie refused. Popin said, “Bourbon, if you please.” Blaike gave the order. “Funny. Miss Guille and I traveled from New York together.”

  She scotched it quickly, her eyes warning the bearded man. “On the same trains.”

  Blaike laughed pleasantly. “Yes. Funnier still, I'd met her in Paris years ago, with her cousin, Fran Guille.” Popin didn't move an eyelash. “I didn't get it remembered until a while ago.” Blaike suggested from the menu. The starched white waitress wrote the order.

  Popin laid his fingertips together. He spoke modestly. “What I do not understand, Mr. Blaike, is how you happen to hear of my painting back there in New York.” His accent was definite, not definable.

  “I've always been interested in modern art. Cigarette?” He was playing the host, easily, practicedly. “A fellow I knew there told me about your work. With great enthusiasm, I might add.” He hesitated. “I'm on leave. R.A.F. Recuperation by travel, that sort of thing. I decided to drop off here and look you up.”

  He was lying. She knew that. It was no sudden decision to drop off here; he had come deliberately as the crow would fly. Popin knew he was lying. He asked with incredible gentleness, “Who was this fellow you know? Did he know me?”

  Blaike finished lighting Julie's cigarette. He blew out the match, laid it in the diminutive brim of the clay sombrero. He said, “His name was Maximilian Adlebrecht.”

  She was as quiet as the small painted burro on the wall. She made no waste gesture with her cigarette nor with an eyelash. He knew. He had known all the time. He was waiting, the way the mountains were waiting, for something, and she did not know for what. She could only wait too. She could not ask.

  Popin was turning the name unfamiliarly on his tongue. “Adlebrecht. Maximilian Adlebrecht.” He was apologetic. “One meets so many.”

  “Young fellow,” Blaike said. “Good broth, what?” He tested again. “He was here last autumn, I believe.”

  “A German?” There was a faint suspicion in the question.

  “Refugee,” Blaike said.

  “I do not know,” Popin decided promptly. He began to eat as if he were very hungry. He repeated, “One meets so many. He told you of my work?”

  “Yes. He was well pleased with it. I was hoping you'd be good enough to allow me a look at it.”

  “Perhaps it can be arranged,” Popin murmured. He put his napkin to his beard. His head tilted at Julie. “You too are interested in my work?”

  She wasn't certain what the answer should be. He was trying to convey to her something beyond the words but she knew too little to decipher the message. It was necessary to fence, neither rejecting nor accepting until she became wiser. “I'm afraid I don't know much about modern art. I was toured through quantities of galleries in Paris, of course, but no one bothered to explain to me what were the requirements of quality. As far as I could judge it was all based on fashion, and as tenuous as that.”

  Popin was smiling under his beard. “You do not know much, do you?”

  She shook her head “I'm the blank page.” Her eyes held his a moment. “Really a find for an artist. And certainly I'd like to see your work, Mr. Popin. But I warn you in advance my personal taste is Rembrandt.”

  “You could not go wrong.” He attacked his plate again.

  Blaike emerged from his. His eyebrows were puzzled. “You must have known Maxl in Paris, Julie.”

  “Paris is a large city.” She raised soft blue eyes at him, deliberately innocent eyes. “My circle was limited.” She was casual as a breath. “This— the fellow was Ritz Bar?”

  He wasn't. He'd been poor. Studio parties, free lectures, music— how had she happened to know him? The Russian choreographer? The Spanish guitarist? Some toast of the town who had crept from the fringes.

  “You should remember him,” Blaike insisted. “Young fellow. Rather good-looking in a dark way. Neat dresser.” He was describing the New York Maxl. She listened without expression. He stated deliberately, “He was a friend of Fran's.”

  He wasn't. Fran's friends were not poor students. The corners of her mouth taunted but her voice was milk-mild. “Fran is quite a bit older than I, almost six years. I didn't know many of his friends.” She asked a question lightly. “You knew this"— she forced her lips to form the name—"this Maxl in Paris?”

  He answered slowly, “No, I didn't. I ran into him in New York.” His gray eyes were cold as granite. “It was he who told me he was a friend of Fran Guille's.”

  She dismissed the subject. “Fran had too many friends.” She saw him suddenly, tall, dark, gallant, always gay. Her heart wrenched. Fran in prison. A falcon caged.

  Something must have flickered in her face. Blaike said, “Sorry. I forgot.” He turned to Popin. “Miss Julie hasn't heard from her cousin. She believes he is still in France.” There was something ironical in the intonation.

  She touched the cold of her dessert. Could it be he was looking for Fran? Had he too learned that the bearded man was Fran's friend? Was that, not an interest in art, what brought him here? She couldn't warn Popin to say nothing. She could only pray that intuitive sensitivity would allow him to realize the danger of discussing Fran with an inquisitive stranger. If the gray man were after Fran, from what source did he stem? Not the British secret service, no matter the accent, the pretense of R.A.F. affiliation. Not the F.B.I. That organization would know that Fran was already in custody. She faced it with cold terror. It could only be the Gestapo. Had word somehow failed to reach headquarters that their American agents had put Fran in prison camp? Their men, masked as loyal Americans, bearing false witness against Fran, linking him with Paul's sedition. It was possible. How long had he been locked up? At least a year. But if those agents had been unmasked, also put away? This was credible. But why would they seek Fran, why wish to harm him? Why? Paul Guille was a collaborationist. Why would the Nazis believe his son a danger to them? Fran had been in the United States before the war began. He hadn't been in Paris to bore against the reign of horror. Why? Unless the Gestapo had ferreted the secret which she and Fran alone shared. If they had learned, he was in danger because of her. But she was in graver danger.

  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 h
ere 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.”