The Blackbirder

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  She unpacked. She must buy one or two dresses. The chambermaid might be inquisitive about an empty closet. She would have to get away quickly. She couldn't afford to be Julie Guille here for long. At this moment it wasn't fear driving her, as much as economy. She had lost her imminent fear. The lack of news in the papers, the undisturbed sleep of the night before, her acceptance at face value at both hotels. Above all being released from what she had believed was the surveillance of the gray man. It had been foolish of her to be suspicious of him simply because he rode the same train west with her. That sort of coincidence was certainly a frequent one with a traveler leaving New York for the West. If he had been from the New York police, he wouldn't have wasted time on this trip; he would have taken her into custody before the Century departed. She had been silly. Fear created such distortions. Fear magnified curiosity into suspicion. She must remember to keep fear sublimated. Remember the lesson she had learned escaping from France. If you act unafraid, you are not suspected of being afraid.

  What actually had she to fear? The agents of Paul Guille? They hadn't caught up with her in the cities where the representatives of the new order multiplied like rats. They would never have heard of this out-of-the-way village. The F.B.I.? They had not sought her in New York; only if she were brought to their attention would they learn she was an unauthorized visitor. The New York police? Yes. If the identity of the girl with Maxl became known.

  But she was certain she had covered her tracks leaving New York. Only by chance would she come into that again. If her name was given she would learn it from the newspapers in time to twist away on another covered trail. There was no imminent fear to face. There was time to breathe, time to make her arrangements with the Blackbirder. Ticklish business but she wasn't without resources as she had been three years ago. She had learned the tricks of evasion, of escape. She had learned to be sly and wise; she'd learned the animal importance of self-preservation without heed to the method. Only if some uncounted ill fortune touched her, need her plans be changed. If Dame Fortuna would but hold the wheel steady a few more days...

  She would gather information about Popin here, write to him to get in touch with Fran, before she departed. And if Popin did live in Mexico, she could see him personally after the blackbirding ship carried her across the border. Together they could work to effect Fran's release from prison, and his escape too on the Blackbirder's wings. Her heart beat more quickly. If the Dame were kind, she and Fran would be together so soon.

  She was slightly apprehensive of carrying with her any longer the diamonds and the large amount of money. Tickets for escape were seldom bartered for in savory surroundings. No need to add to her burden with fear of possible loss while the hotel safe was below. She removed her money belt, keeping out $50 for current expenses. She rolled the belt neatly; thrust it into her handbag, went down again to the lobby. At the desk she signed a statement, the amount of money; personal jewelry, one necklace. The white-haired woman behind the desk sealed the belt into an envelope, placed it in the safe. She smiled at Julie, “This is your first trip to Santa Fe?”

  Julie nodded.

  “It has an interesting heritage. There are many things you'll want to see.” She passed across a folder.

  Julie walked out onto the sidewalk. She stood motionless there for a moment and then unaccountably she shivered. It could be the small wind that had crept into the golden afternoon, a warning of the falsity of early spring. It could be that the blueness of sky had become flawed by the faintest brush of cumulus white. She didn't know. She looked up the street to the right. The cold brown-gray Cathedral stood rampant on its terrace, its squat towers dwarfed by the mountains pressing behind them. She turned her head quickly to the left. Beyond the straggle of narrow street stood another mountain.

  Mountains. She shivered again. She didn't like mountains. The unyielding, unholy mass of inert matter dwarfed human mind and spirit.

  She turned swiftly, crossed cater-corner to the barren Plaza. It was deserted. The shabby old men huddled together on the soiled stone benches only added to its desolation. They spoke in Spanish to each other. They did not see her. Perhaps in the summer when blades of green might push against the flagstones, perhaps when the trees leafed again, there might be a remnant of the gay festivity here which the word Plaza connoted. Perhaps not. It would still face on three sides the motley shops in their old brick buildings. A few were covered over in copy of Indian architecture, the bank shone marble white, but the faded brick dominated.

  Julie walked slowly, past the ugly stone monument, to the far corner of the square. This was a grim little town. She hadn't known it would be so small. She hadn't known it would be a mountain town. She was familiar with others, in Germany, Switzerland, the Tyrol. Save for language, modifications of architecture, she might again be in one of them. Even in the winter-sports season, she had realized that gayety was not spontaneous in such villages, it was deliberately generated in defiance of the oppression of nature. The mountains only tolerated man.

  She turned on her heel, started back to the hotel. She walked more rapidly now. Lingering in a sinister town was out of the question. She must find the Blackbirder without delay, make arrangements. Get out of this trap. Not only the encirclement of the merciless hills but the very smallness of the village trapped her. If she were followed here, there would be no place where she might hide. Anonymity would be out of the question. If she could set the wheels in motion, it might be better to return to Albuquerque, wait for passage there. She would be safer in a city.

  She entered the hotel, grateful for its dim lobby, its room warmth. The white-haired woman was still behind the desk. Impulsively Julie moved to her. She asked, “Have you ever heard of a place— Tesuque?”

  The woman smiled. “Tesuque.” Julie's pronunciation had not been accurate. “It's about ten miles out. The Tesuque valley. There's the village and the pueblo.” There was a shade of regret. “Before the war we conducted tours to all the pueblos and places of interest. Now we can't. But there's a bus.” She pointed to the folder. “The information is there.”

  Julie clutched the unopened pamphlet, was patient until the woman had finished. She said, “Thank you so much.” She hadn't allowed her face to express the triumph that surged within her. Popin was that near at hand. Everything was simplified. Perhaps slit wouldn't have to flee without Fran. She felt his actual nearness again as she hurried toward the carved wooden doors of the telephone booths. Everything, even her meeting with Maxi and his death which put into her hands the black notebook, was part of a magnificent cosmic plan. Dame Fortuna had twirled the wheel upward. It was meant that Julie find Popin. It was meant that she and Fran after these endless years should be reunited.

  She closed herself in the booth, dropped her coin, read the number from Maxi's notebook: Tesuque 043J3. The operator repeated. Julie heard the three metallic rings. She waited, breathless. The call was answered.

  The woman's voice at the other end of the wire was accented. “Mr. Popin, she ees not here now.”

  Julie accepted the deferment. “When will he return?”

  “When I don't know.” The voice shrugged. “He ees gone to Santa Fe for dinner. Maybe tonight later?”

  Julie said, “I will call him tomorrow.” She didn't leave her name. The lazy voice didn't ask it.

  She came out of the booth, refusing to admit the keenness of her disappointment. It had been ridiculous to believe that because one sign had been favorable there would be no delay. She knew the maneuvering of escape better than that. The trouble was that the seven months of comparative safety in New York had left her responses rusty.

  But those months had had therapeutic value. She was rested, she was calmed, she had a reservoir of physical and mental strength on which she could draw to carry through her escape and now Fran's as well. She had no doubts that Fran would be at her side winging to a new and safer refuge; if not that, if she were impelled to sudden departure, that he could follow on the next blackbird
ing flight. Fran. She hadn't allowed herself the luxury of thinking about him for so long a time. She wouldn't now. There was too much to be accomplished.

  Her watch marked past 5:30. Too early for dinner. A cocktail bar was always the best place to observe those with more money than intelligence. It didn't matter if it were the Ritz, Paris, or La Fonda, Santa Fe; that verity remained unchanged. The Bible called them prodigal sons, the past knew them as remittance amen, today they were playboys. The refugees would be there too, feeding nostalgia with the universal sameness of all bars. The Blackbirder would follow to offer his wares. If he were more elusive than that, a bar would brew loose talk, gossip. The refugees always gossiped. It was a way not to talk of the past. If she were a man and could browse at the bar with constancy, she would learn soon what she wanted to know. As it was she could enter upon occasion, sip and listen. She was confident she would hear the whisperings soon. Maxl had tied the Blackbirder to Santa Fe. If the refugees in New York whispered of him, those here would certainly hold the forbidden knowledge.

  La Cantina was off the lobby at left, a small room, Spanish, gay. Great leather chairs were pulled to hand-carved tables, leather couches leaned against the walls. Waitresses swished in bright peasant skirts, embroidered blouses. There were Lantz green and scarlet murals on the walls and over the bar: cactus, cock fights, dancers, horse races.

  Julie moved to a table for two against the wall, sat facing the entrance. A man and a woman, both in blue jeans, were at the table nearest the door. Behind her on the couch by the curtained front window there were two women in city black, modish hats. Another table held a khaki youth and a young girl. The bar was at her left across the room. Leaning against it was a tubby man in a cowboy hat, a lean empty-faced companion in a larger cowboy hat.

  It was all quiet, all pleasant. At the couch facing the bar, his back to her, was a man. The back of his head was pathed with gray. His shoulders were gray.

  He hadn't followed her. This time she had followed him. She wasn't frightened of him. She ordered a Daiquiri. There was no reason why she should not be here. She would sip her iced drink. She wouldn't hurry. If he saw her, a vague nod. She had demonstrated to him on the train that she had no wish to further acquaintance. He had understood. He hadn't spoken to her after Kansas City. It was awkward that he had chosen the same town and the same hotel, but no more than that.

  The swirling calico skirt brought her drink, placed it. Julie laid a bill on the tray. She kept the corner of one eye on the gray man. He was pushing up from the couch now but he didn't turn about. He was some four yards away. He moved to the right, still without turning. The pillar hid him. He emerged from it to cross the small clearance toward the door. She could see his profile. She held the cocktail glass to her lips, her eyes ready to lash if he glanced her way. The bright calico skirt bearing a tray crossed him, returning her change. He was halted and in that moment he sighted Julie. She wasn't prepared; her eyes drooped a fraction too late. He knew she had seen him and he would trespass again. She watched him limp toward her. He stood across the table, his hand on the back of the chair. His mouth wore that small smile, almost an amused smile.

  “We meet again.”

  Any answer must be provocation or snub. She was silent.

  He said, “D'you know, we have met before?”

  She spoke without inflection. “On the train.”

  “I don't mean that.” The smile deepened. “I've remembered. You're Julie Guille.”

  She set the glass on the table without trembling the liquid. Her eyes were expressionless on his gray ones. “Where did we meet?”

  “In Paris.” He laughed. “It must have been the Ritz Bar, of course. You were with your cousin, Fran Guille.”

  She stated deliberately, “I don't remember you.”

  “You wouldn't.” Without asking he'd pulled out the opposite chair, dropped into it. It was done like sleight-of-hand and without seeming intrusion. “You were surrounded by an admiring covey and I was one small visiting fireman. On leave. Even then, it was all of four years ago, I was in the R.A.F.”

  She said rather than asked, “You are English.”

  “Yes.” He passed cigarettes, American, to her. “You don't remember, do you? My name is Blaike, Roderick Blaike. My friends call me Blaike, however, never Rod.” He lighted the cigarettes. “I'm again on leave.” His mouth had gone straight. “Had a little crackup over the Channel— my leg— ” He touched it. “They tell me I'll have to relearn flying.”

  She asked then, “How do you happen to be in America?”

  “I'm recuperating.” There was a moment before he remembered to slant the smile. “How is Fran? With you?”

  She answered, “No.”

  His brows pointed up. “Not still in Paris?”

  She took her time in reply. “I don't know where he is. I haven't heard from him for a long time.” She raised her eyes then. “We don't get much news from Paris now.”

  He accepted that with a grave face. “You're with your aunt and uncle here?”

  “As far as I know, they are in France,” she answered brusquely.

  She didn't like this questioning. Maybe he was only a naive young British flyer; maybe not. Gestapo agents, disguised above suspicion, had been instrumental in placing Fran in internment. There were Germans who could pass for British in Whitehall, much more easily in this remote New Mexican town. She could have been led here deliberately by Maxl, his death not part of the pattern. Reports of Paul's fury at her escape had reached her while she was still in the Paris underground. He had been determined to recover both her person and the de Guille diamonds. The Blackbirder could be Nazi. The whispers about him in New York had always started at the appearance of refugees who could not have entered the United States by legal methods. She rejected, definitely now, the coincidence of this man as a traveling companion.

  She finished her drink, scooped up part of the change. “It so happens that I am an American. I do not hear from the Guilles.” She rose, slid her purse under her arm. “There is no word from France since France's death.”

  He apologized, following her toward the door. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean— I know how you must feel— ”

  She didn't answer; she didn't even hear him. Her eyes disbelieved as she hurried forward. Beyond the man blurred,in the doorway was another man. It was Jacques Michet.

  Julie propelled herself forward, barely excusing herself as she brushed aside the man in the entry. “Jacquesl” She ran to him, caught his arms. “Jacques! Jacques!” She could only repeat his name over and over in wonder, in faith.

  He appeared thin but fit; his dark curly hair cut American; his tight denim levis and blue shirt, New Mexican; huaraches on his feet. His eye lighted for a moment, his lips formed, “Julie,” and then unaccountably both were shuttered. “Pardon?”

  She shook him slightly. “Jacques, I haven't changed that much. It's Julie. I just can't believe you're here.” It was too good for belief. After the years of working alone, to have someone on whom she could depend, who would help. Jacques had been paid by Paul Guille but he had been Fran's man, Fran's friend. The Guille heir and the Guille handyman. The gap hadn't counted. Not with both of them so enamored of planes. That was before planes had become stamped as lethal weapons, when they were incredibly beautiful silver streaks in the sky. Fran had taught Jacques to fly his two-seater. It was the summer when she was fifteen. Fran from his six years of seniority had promised to teach her when she was older. Another summer.

  Fran was in prison. But Jacques was free. He would help. “I've so much to tell you, Jacques.” She didn't understand his restraint, then she realized.

  The gray man was standing there watching. The man she had brushed in the doorway was also watching. She hadn't looked on him until now. Slight, no taller than she, with a sad monkey face and a beautiful silken brown beard. It was the exact color of the corduroy jacket he wore. His eyes were brown, cinnamon brown. When she turned he peered and asked, “You have a fr
iend, Jacques?” His voice was gentle.

  Jacques spoke formally to Julie. “It has been good to see you, M'mselle. Give my regards to your family.” He took a step away, toward the beard.

  She shook her head slightly. She was puzzled but she accepted it. There must be a reason. Her eyes suddenly lifted to the gray man, to that faint amused smile.

  The bearded man was in front of Jacques. “Your friend— ”

  Jacques's back was to her but she heard his words. “We are late now, Popin.”

  “Popin!” She echoed it aloud.

  He had sidestepped Jacques. “I am Popin.”

  She was delighted. “But amazing! I tried to reach you by phone only a little while ago. The— maid?— said you were in Santa Fe for dinner.”

  “So I am.”

  “For dinner with me,” the gray man said. “Mr. Popin, I am Roderick Blaike.”

  Popin's laughter was unrepressed. His long fingers gestured to one and to the other. “It couldn't happen.” He shook his beard. “No carnation in the buttonhole. No seeking a face for a name. We meet. We are all friends. That easy it is. We will dine together? Miss— ”

  Jacques spoke. His face was a graven thing. “She is Julie Guille.”

  “Yes?” If there was a flicker of surprise behind the silken beard it was swathed. “And you are an old friend of my friend Jacques? How pleasant. A reunion. Mr. Blaike, you do not object if the young lady joins us for dinner?

  Popin didn't know Blaike, the meeting was of strangers. He distrusted the gray man too, obviously; otherwise he would have mentioned Fran. She didn't want to dine with Blaike but possibly he could be eluded after dinner. If there could be granted just one moment alone with the bearded man, to speak Fran's name, to hear it spoken.

  “I'd be delighted,” Blaike said. He might have been laughing at her. He looked from his height down into her face. “You will join us, Miss Guille?”