The Blackbirder

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Julie gave a light laugh but her voice was quiet. “He couldn't. I don't know him.”

  The woman settled that with another brusque nod. “A masher.” She boded him no good. “He should be wearing a uniform.”

  Julie said, “He limps,” and wondered why she should offer the defense.

  The woman ignored it. “Every able-bodied man should be in uniform. They won't take my son-in-law. He's had T. B., has a scar on his lung.” She pointed to the Reader's Digest. “Could I have a look at that?”

  “Certainly.” Julie passed it across. “I think I'll go have a smoke.”

  “No club car. It's the war.” Her teeth clicked. “I say everything we give up is the least we can do for our boys.” But she resented it.

  Julie swayed back to the washroom. It was empty. She sat on the plush wall couch, lighted a cigarette. She wondered if that woman and the gray man would communicate now that she was absent. Did they know each other? The woman's sudden entrance into conversation could have been at a signal from him.

  It didn't matter as long as she remembered to be Julie Guille, unafraid, casual. She wouldn't forget. She hadn't once forgotten not to be Julie Guille when she fled France. If she had once forgotten, she would have been caught. Even if you were as young and witless as that Julie had been, you remembered when it was a question of your life or your death. No. If it had been choice of life or death, she might have forgotten. The alternative of failing to remember had been return toil living death. She rubbed her hands together. She had never forgotten. Tanya had given her the name, Marguerite Duchesme; the part, a domestic. She had given the warning: If it is known you belong to the house of Guille, you are doomed.

  It was Marguerite Duchesme who hid in ditches and under strawstacks during those endless crawling months. It was Marguerite Duchesme who had walked from Paris to Vichy, from Vichy to the Pyrenees. The sandals Tanya had supplied— how long had they lasted? A few weeks? Days? Barefoot over rock and stubble, bleeding foot over the bleeding roads of France. She had not whimpered; for that alone she was grateful. Julie Guille, who had never known what beat beneath the gabled roofs of Paris, who had never walked, whose eyes had never seen those who walked, the empty vessel of Julie Guille had been slowly filled on that long journey. The money Tanya had taken for her was gone too soon. There were so many more helpless than she. How many days before she was reduced to equality? She had never tallied. Her grief was that she had so little to give.

  She learned to wrap straw, sacking, rags about her bleeding feet. She learned to scavenge for papers to pad under her blouse and skirt. When there were no papers there was dried grass, weeds. She gave her coat to a woman with a newborn child. An old, old woman whose black hair grew white at the roots divided with her a worn black shawl. She learned to share as well as to give. Little children, help one another. Those who did not learn fell by the wayside. Without the faith in brotherhood, the strength to go on, faltered, diminished, and died. Only those of the spirit crept on blindly, stubbornly, across the Pyrenees, across the tortuous wasteland of Spain, across Portugal to hope, Lisbon.

  During those eons the Guille diamonds rubbed her flesh sore. They were without value. A loaf of bread, a sausage, a flagon of wine could have fetched over and again the treasure of India. In Lisbon, where every third man wore the fanatic mask of the law of the Reich, to produce the necklace would have meant her death. Only when she left reality behind and arrived again in a world to which once she had belonged, a fairyland, did they again assume value. One stone had opened barred gates to her, a second gave her a rooftree. When the time came a third would release Fran from bondage, would purchase their flight into safety. The other gems must sustain them until Fran was strong again after imprisonment, strong enough to return to the Free French, where both could do their part to conquer the ants.

  Julie put out her cigarette in the small ash tray. Marguerite Duchesme was dead. She had been good, far better than that other Julie Guille, but her usefulness ended in Havana. Three years of flight had taught Julie the necessity of use. Juliet Marlebone had learned how to make a living in Havana, first in a laundry, later as an office worker because she spoke English as well as French. For that one whim of Aunt Lily's, Julie could be grateful to her. Both Fran and herself had been trained by English nursemaids, both spoke English as well as Aunt Lily herself. Some latent pride of her country had remained in Paul's exquisite, American-born wife. It was Juliet Marlebone who, after almost a year in Havana, learned the ways of illegal entry, who entered the port of New York as Señora Vigil y de Vaca. She had believed then that Julie Guille was left behind in Paris forever. She had believed it until Maxl lay dead on the pavement before her apartment house.

  It was Julie Guille who must learn new ways of escape in Santa Fe. Because Juliet Marlebone would be halted for questioning. Escape would be a simple enough matter. She had been able to escape before, ragged, starving, impoverished. Now she had money; she was well-fed, comfortably clothed. There was nothing to worry about, merely a question of finding the right parties. Where was Tesuque? Could it be near Santa Fe? It was among those addresses. If she could find Popin before she fled the country— Her breath came quickly. Popin knew where Fran was. If he could buy Fran's release while she arranged flight— Her eyes were calculating against the mirror. If she could reach him, he could. Bribery was an omnipotent key to prison camps.

  Somewhere in Santa Fe was a connection with the airline to Mexico. The one by which Maxl had entered. The Blackbirder's route. Maxl wouldn't have gone to a small outlying place where no train ran unless there were a cogent reason. Maxl was urban. She shut from her mind the possibility that she couldn't find the necessary information. She had to locate it. It would be secret, yes. But she would uncover it. She had had experience in whisperings. She had had too much experience. All in three years. She closed her eyes wearily.

  When she returned to her seat, Madame Uniform didn't resume conversation. Julie encouraged silence. She kept the magazine in her lap, turned unread pages. The endless hours must end. Dinner. More endlessness. The porter began making up berths at eight o'clock. She moved into unoccupied seats, then to the women's room.

  She sat quietly in the lighted room, not listening to the conversation other women were making to each other, bits of biography exchanged between chance fellows. Deliberately she shut her mind to the importance of the gray man. Either he was a danger to her or he was not. If he was she would move against him when the time was right. If he were not, there were too many other dangers that must be skirted, to weaken herself on imaginary ones.

  It was well after ten o'clock when the plethora of lights against the night brought Kansas City. She put on her coat and hat, went into the corridor, slanted against the wall while the train moved into the yards. She was first in the line.

  Two hours. Time. The fresh air was good to breathe. She climbed the steps into the vasty Union Station. This was smart, urbane, filled with bright shops. Chicago's grimness could be forgotten. This station was a smaller, less hurried edition of Grand Central. She didn't stand out as she had in the small and grimy Chicago depots. She was only one of a smartly dressed crowd.

  She strolled to the newsstand. The New York papers were the same ones she had bought in the city yesterday morning. She took the Sunday edition of the lone Kansas City paper and tentatively studied the book jackets. If she could engross herself in a book tomorrow perhaps the time would be less leaden. Julie Guille wouldn't hesitate over a few dollars.

  The lunchroom was large and bright, crowded with normal human beings, persons who could laugh and banter together, persons who were not hunted. There was a small, yellow-leathered cocktail lounge with subdued lights, beyond that a dining-room muraled in early Missouri Americana. She chose the yellow room, ordered Dubonnet. She sipped it, at ease here, in soft pleasant surroundings. She unfolded the paper, read the first page. War. Losses and gains. Defense work. Rationing. Alphabetical agencies. Roosevelt and Churchill. Nothing of a murd
er. She went carefully up and down each column, into the inner sheets. There was no mention of Maxl. This city was too far away to care about one little man's murder. She folded the paper and looked up into the eyes of the gray man.

  He smiled a little. He said, “Haven't I seen you before?” He said it with just the right humor.

  She took time before answering. There was no inflection to further conversation. “On the train from New York. My compartment.”

  “I don't mean that.” He sat down unasked beside her. “I felt it then, that I'd seen you somewhere. You're not a Hollywood actress?”

  She couldn't help smiling but she clipped her answer. “No. I'm not.”

  “I thought that might be it.” The busboy brought him a Scotch and soda, set it on her table. “On the screen, you know.”

  She couldn't be led into volunteering information. She made a polite answering smile.

  He was opening his wallet to pay the waiting boy. He asked, “Won't you have a drink with me?”

  She said, “No, thank you,” set down her glass, gathered her purse, book, and newspaper. “I believe I'll go to bed before the train starts up again. Good night.”

  “Good night.” He rose with her, bowed pleasantly, and made no further attempt at pursuing acquaintance.

  She walked out as if his eyes weren't following her, strolled through the station. She was tempted by the doors to the street. The night air was gentle; spring had arrived in this midwestern town. The great grassy sward across with the tall lighted pyre was peaceful to look upon. A cenotaph for the dead doubtless; every town had its memento from the war to end wars. War seemed remote in this peaceful midland town. The men and women here wouldn't breed mad warriors; that could happen only in the old decadent slum of Europe.

  If she could but have come into this country as her right— her father and mother had both been American. But they had adopted France, expatriates; it was chic at one time, fashionable. And she was without a country. She had a right to be here in this cleanness, not hunted into exile. She walked in the mild night, there at the station square, until 11:30. Regretfully she entered the station again.

  She couldn't escape the man. He was crossing to the train entrance. His limp was slight. She felt impelled to explanation. “I decided a walk before bed was a good idea. It's such a beautiful night.”

  He didn't behave as if she had snubbed him earlier. His face accepted her words, mere conversation. “It is. They've just called the train. Early. I was afraid you'd miss it.”

  Had he been watching her while she thought herself unobserved save by taxi drivers there on the square?

  He was continuing easily, “It's too bad we must crouch on upper shelves instead of sleeping under the stars.” They descended the long flight of steps together. His smile was disarming and the way his eyes slanted with his lips. “It won't be so bad for you. I'll have to fold up like an accordion.”

  She laughed as if she were not wary of him. It echoed on the drafty stairs. "C'est la guerre," she murmured, and quickly, “As the woman in my lower keeps reminding me.”

  The eyebrows were amused. “I'll wager she doesn't say it in perfect French.”

  A chill encompassed her. They were at their car and he assisted her up the steps. He said, “The man in my lower tells me about his glandular tour through the Mayo Clinic.”

  The sleeping-car was darkened, small blue lights showed the way. They said good night softly. Julie took her week-end bag in one direction while he headed to the other. The mirror startled her. Even in this poor light it was flattering. She didn't appear at all like the girl who had on Friday, only two nights ago, ridden the subway until dawn. Her cheeks had color, the dark hair curled away from her face, her blue eyes were alive. She didn't look as if there were something cold about her heart.

  She made a mouth at herself. She must take care. Because she'd had a moment's conversation with an attractive man, she mustn't forget what any stranger could stand for. She mustn't forget always to be alert. He was handsome and charming. And even now he could be congratulating himself that the fawn had sniffed at the pit. It had been so long since she'd had any pleasant occasions. For three years she had lived in silence, with books alone to keep away the Poulkes of memory. Perhaps that had been why, despite misgivings, she had gone with Maxl after the concert. She had been lonely, cramped into a foxhole for so long. She must remember. Until she and Fran were out of this country, the hole alone was safe.

  * * * *

  A book discouraged conversation. A nap in the afternoon thwarted furthering acquaintance. She exchanged only a few vague nods with the gray man during the wasted day. She listened to a minimum of the uniformed woman's war remarks. The last hours were screamingly leaden. Belen didn't become a fact until past midnight; a small dark way station where a train waited, an unbelievably dirty, airless, and ancient train.

  The uniformed lady sat beside her forestalling the gray man. The Mayo Clinic man and a covey of soldiers were the other passengers.

  The woman said, “This train is a relic. The good trains stop at Albuquerque. My daughter would have met me but for the war. Are you stopping in Albuquerque?”

  “Yes.”

  “With friends? My daughter's husband is at the University. Or did I tell you that? In the Philosophy Department. He's an assistant professor. Who are you stopping with?”

  Julie said, “I'm going to a hotel.”

  The woman's eyes were suspicious.

  She added, “Just for tonight. Tomorrow I go to a ranch beyond Santa Fe.” She felt the need for some explanation to quell the suspicion. She didn't want the woman to wonder about her later. Obviously she was wondering now about a young girl stopping alone at a hotel.

  The woman said, “Santa Fe is a peculiar town. Full of religious cults and refugees. And remittance men. Rich people from the East. Their families get rid of them supporting them out here. And you're going to Santa Fe?”

  Julie nodded.

  The woman snapped open her gray fabric handbag. “I'm going to give you my son-in-law's address.” She spoke almost shamefaced, not looking at Julie, rummaging for pencil and a scrap of paper. “If you should want to look me up, I'll be there a month.” She pushed the scrap into Julie's glove. There was defiance in the shake of her head. “I don't like Santa Fe. It's an unhealthy place.”

  Julie made a sound. She was too tired for more than that. This last hour in the stuffy train with coal soot sifting everywhere was unbearable. The woman subsided. She too looked sooty, too tired for conversation. Only the soldiers exchanged words.

  The conductor whined, “Albuquerue.”

  A Spanish hotel waiting, lying elongated in the bright moonlight below the brick courtyard where the train had stopped. The soldiers strode ahead. The Mayo man trotted. An evident daughter, big with child, a mild unpressed son-in-law, greeted the woman. She had then been harmless all along. Julie lagged, waiting for the gray man to vanish. He was just entering the hotel as she turned the corner of the portal. When she reached the lobby he was not in sight. Evidently she'd been wrong about him. Fear made one suspicious of even the innocent.

  She moved to the desk, registered in her own hand: Julie Guille, New York. The room was up a flight, down a corridor. Relief came over her in a great gulp when she was alone, the door locked for the night. She heard the mournful bell of the little train going away, back to the dark way station. She quelled imagination that it mourned because it left her here alone; she wanted to be alone, and it wasn't ringing her knell. She wasn't afraid now. She had definite plans to carry out. She was safer than she had been for a long time.

  She crossed to the window, opened it to the sharp fool night. Her eyes touched the scrap of paper there by her gloves. She stuffed it into her handbag and then she took it out again deliberately. The woman had meant kindly. A scrap of paper was easily lost. She would never need the information but she copied it into Maxl's little black book: Prof. Otis Alberle, 417 N. Hermosa.

  Chapter Three


  UNSAVORY BUSINESS

  Julie slept late. Breakfast and lunch were one in the old Spanish kitchen which served as the Cantina. Afterward she walked into the patio, dallied over a cigarette in the bright, hot sun. She didn't want to leave this pleasant town. She didn't want to go to Santa Fe. Something held her back, perhaps the grim woman's final remark: “An unhealthy place.” But the woman had mentioned refugees. That held hope.

  She packed, bought the local papers. The New York ones hadn't caught up with her yet. The locals didn't mention Maxl's death. New York was far away. She took the three o'clock bus. It pushed over the highway, past the same scenic barrenness of yesterday's long train ride, endless flat brown land spotted with scrub trees, barren, low-lying mountains on the far horizons. There was but one town, a half hour out, a Mexican village where some passengers left the bus. In the next hour there was nothing but the barren land, occasionally a small brown mud house, twice filling-stations.

  The bus went on and on, climbed through a steep cut, and again there was wasteland. The sun was still high when the bus came into the town, past small tin buildings, past beautiful Spanish pueblo buildings, past the long sprawling barracks of an Army hospital. The wheels crawled through narrow, unattractive streets to the tiny bus station.

  She took a cab two blocks to La Fonda, the inn at the end of the trail. It had been recommended in Albuquerque. It was large and handsome, a dust-colored building in Spanish and Indian style with terraced roofs, a walled garden. The lobby was not as rich as that of the Alvarado but it was pleasant and spacious, beautifully decorated. It opened to a patio, on either side covered portals.

  She followed the boy down the right-hand portal to the lone elevator. Her room was on third; it was unlike a normal hotel room. The windows, opening to a tiny wooden balcony, were curtained with bright hangings. The furniture was painted in Spanish color and design. She had deliberately taken a higher-priced room; she must appear to be well-to-do, well able to pay, when she made inquiries about Mexico. If what Maxl had insinuated was true, blackbirding wasn't a political venture— it was for gain.