The Blackbirder

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  She turned away from remembrance. She was hungry. Hunger was one essential which could never be beaten. She put on her hat, took gloves, bag, her room key in her purse. She wouldn't need her coat if she decided to walk out. Yesterday's cloud web had been a false alarm. Sunshine beat down from the dark blue sky.

  She passed the door of 346 quickly. It did not open. She didn't want conversation with the gray man, not until she learned more about him. She mustn't jeopardize Fran's chances. She might inadvertently give something away. Blaike wasn't in the lobby. No familiar face there, no curious one. There was no coffee shop; the dining-rooms were closed at this hour. She bought the Monday papers, left the hotel. She crossed the street, continued on down to a restaurant. It wasn't prepossessing but there was coffee, toast, and fruit. She didn't open the papers. Delay the news whether bad or yet inconclusive. When she finished eating she crossed into the barren Plaza. The same somber scarecrow men sat on the same stone benches, spoke the same Spanish, heedless of the mountains pressing down upon the little village. Julie walked to the opposite side, to an unoccupied bench facing the old Palace, a long adobe building, comfortable with age. Under its open portal was a group of Indian women in shapeless calico Mother Hubbards and blanket shawls. A few beads of corn and some black pottery were in front of them.

  Julie opened the Times, began her systematic search. The story had moved farther inside. But it had come at last, the hunt for a girl. The police had been informed that Maximilian Adlebrecht had been seen with a dark-haired young woman in a Yorkville rathskeller shortly before the killing. No clues to her identity. The Herald Tribune offered little more. It did mention the brown coat she had worn that night.

  She folded the papers slowly. The name would come later. The police would find out that Juliet Marlebone had disappeared from her West 78th Street apartment on that same night. If Mr. Tolfre would only believe that postal card from Chicago. He wouldn't. Not on West 78th Street, where a murdered man had lain. Even if he did, that janitor with the unpronounceable name, released from questioning, would understand from the card. She laid the papers neatly on the bench. The police might have her name already. This news was three days old. Before she could know if they had learned of her identity they could be here, arresting her. She had no guilt of the crime. But she had run away.

  The sun wasn't as hot as it had seemed earlier. Cumulus clouds were again beginning to drift across the turquoise sky. She shivered there in the small emptyish plaza, open to all attack. The gray man wasn't the only enemy to outwit; the New York police would close in soon.

  She must move quickly. See Jacques. Not wait for tonight. Get the information he must have been about to impart when Blaike interrupted. See Popin alone, ask him to arrange quickly her escape from this country. She dare not wait for Fran now; she must ask Popin to take care of that for her. She must get out before it was too late. Even now, every train into New Mexico, every bus into Santa Fe, carried presumptive danger.

  Her jacket was too thin. The wind was blowing a few torn brown leaves across the flagstones. The sound of them was of someone running in fright. She was chilled through. She rose, walked swiftly down the path to the memorial shaft, rounded it. There was something more sinister today in the mountains walling this town. They were great beasts lying there behind the Cathedral waiting, their paws quiet, but waiting to pounce, and pouncing crush. She didn't like the feel of the village. She must get away before it was smitten by its crushing destiny, before she was crushed with it. The wind was following her as she crossed one lane to the Botica, crossed another to the hotel corner, past the two black-banged Indians, turquoise-decked, blanket-wrapped, who squatted by the walls.

  She slowed her steps in front of the hotel. It was ridiculous to flee from your own thoughts. Keep them steady, objective. She couldn't be traced to Santa Fe. That was an impossibility, Unless someone from this town sent word to New York that she was here. Someone who knew her true name was Juliet Marlebone. There was only Jacques, possibly Popin had learned from Fran; both were her friends. Blaike couldn't be connected with the Manhattan police; had that been true he would have arrested her at Grand Central. He was perhaps F.B.I. but he wasn't the police. He didn't know the New York police were looking for her; he wouldn't until he read it in the papers; therefore, she would know as quickly as he. She mustn't appear frightened. She must be Julie Guille. She would get her coat and stroll the town. There might be more shops on the two side arms away from the Plaza.

  She went up the walk and into the hotel lobby. She hoped Blaike wouldn't be lying in wait for her; she wasn't up to an encounter at this moment. Her eyes rounded the room quickly. They froze with her faltering steps.

  There was someone on the deep leathern couch in the shadows across the room. A beefy man in a dark, ill-fitting suit, a bowler covering his head. She knew those hands folded against the tight waistcoat. She saw the square red ears. She knew the black eyebrows. She knew the eyes that were turned on her.

  They weren't watching her. No. The man was waiting for someone. He hadn't noticed her. She moved, easily, carefully, toward the right portal and the elevator. She said, “Three,” mechanically to the Spanish girl. On the floor, she walked the corridor softly. She went on unconscious tiptoe past Blaike's room. When she was safe behind her own locked door, she realized how she was quivering.

  She stumbled to the bed, sank down on it. Why was the waiter here? How had he learned her whereabouts? How didn't matter. He was here. He couldn't have recognized her in the poor light of the lobby. There was the chance that he wouldn't recognize her even if he did see her.

  He would. Change of hairdress and attire wouldn't distract him. He hadn't watched unessentials, only her face.

  Before he knew she was here, she must get away. That meant going again into the lobby. Even if she slipped out, paying her bill by mail, her money was in the safe at the desk. She couldn't travel far on what was in her purse. She could go to Jacques and Popin. She could, if it were necessary, tell them what had happened in New York, involve them. She put her hand on the phone and then removed it. She couldn't inform Jacques over the phone, not with anyone able to listen in. Nor could she go to Tesuque now. Not when the path lay through the lobby.

  She must wait until evening. The dubious escort of Blaike would see her through the hotel to the bus. The waiter wouldn't make a move if she were with a stranger. He would bide his time. By evening she could be safe in Popin's house. She would stay there until arrangements for her departure could be arranged. She wouldn't return to the hotel. Her money, the necklace. She would have to return for them. Jacques could bodyguard her when she did, at the last moment, just before the Blackbirder was ready to fly.

  Her door was locked. It was foolish but she put a chair under the round of the knob. She would barricade herself here until evening. She wasn't hungry. She could wait until dinner to eat again. If she couldn't there was still the chocolate box she had bought in New York, barely touched. She wouldn't open the door to anyone until time to leave for the bus. She made herself comfortable in pajamas. The suit would have to serve again tonight. She hung it carefully, stretched herself with the book on her bed.

  She didn't know she had slept until the ringing of the phone awakened her. She fumbled for it, was surprised to hear Blaike's so British voice:

  “You weren't sleeping? I'm sorry. I was afraid you were out. You're still going to Popin's?”

  “Yes.” She wasn't short with him now. She wanted his help. She must have it. “What time is it— wait— ” Her watch read four. “What about the bus?”

  “Leaves at five. If you'll hurry like a good child we'll have a drink before we start out.”

  She agreed. She was sweet femininity. “I'll throw myself together, Blaike. Come over for me in about half an hour?”

  If her friendliness was unusual he didn't mention it. “Right.”

  She was still gay. “Three knocks will admit you.”

  He couldn't know it was deliberate. Not u
nless he knew the waiter, knew the man was here in Santa Fe. The waiter. Maxl. Blaike. She put her hand to her throat.

  The window was leaden. The sound of wind flung light handfuls of white against the pane. This had happened while she slept. Spring had fled, winter returned. It was an ill omen. She scoffed at her superstition. Once she reached Popin's she would be protected from attack. She must chance Blaike's company until then.

  She wore the blue sweater. This cold might continue. She tucked her toothbrush and powder deep into her purse. Her hairbrush was too bulky, the comb must suffice. She was ready when the three knocks sounded. She flung the door wide.

  He touched his knuckles. “Why the code?”

  “You frightened me with your talk of strange men with guns.” Her hand lay on the phone. “Are you certain of that bus time? I thought it was five-thirty.” As she spoke she lifted it from the cradle. “There's no reason to wait in a stuffy bus station.”

  He grimaced. “There's no bus station. We wait on a blizzardy street corner.”

  She spoke to the switchboard. “Is the Tesiique bus five or five-thirty? Mr. Blaike and I aren't in accord.”

  The girl said, “Five.”

  Julie smiled apology at him. “You were right.” But someone downstairs knew now that she and Blaike should be in the lobby soon. If anything happened to her before reaching it, there would be suspicion.

  He consulted his watch. “We still might manage a quick one. We'll need it. Before we brave the street corner.”

  “Yes.” She had bag, gloves, coat. If she did not return, nothing was left here by which to trace her. A few clothes, a few articles of toilette, a suitcase and a weekend bag. Nothing that could not be replaced in Mexico.

  She walked rapidly to the elevator. It was her finger which pushed against the summoning button. She kept words moving in the semi-gloom. “It looks bad out, doesn't it? Unusual I presume.”

  “Usual they tell me. March is a bad month here. They've been expecting it. Denver's just had one of the worst blizzards in years which generally means trouble in Santa Fe.”

  They entered the elevator, empty save for the Spanish girl, were lowered to the main floor. Now came the test. If she could get out of the hotel without being seen by hostile eyes. She slowed her heels to his limp, turned her face up to his, chattered brightly, emptily, any girl to her evening's escort. Her eyes scuttled the lobby as they entered. The waiter wasn't in sight.

  Blaike turned toward La Cantina. Her fingers touched his sleeve. “Have we time? It's quarter to.”

  He laughed. “We don't want fifteen minutes on a street corner. We'd be living snowmen. We have only to walk to the end of the block.”

  She couldn't run for the doorway, not without explanation. She pushed her toes forward. Her chat broke forth with renewed frenzy. The waiter wouldn't be expecting a light-headed girl with boy. She didn't seem to look at anyone when she entered the Cantina. She saw every face. His wasn't there.

  She drank a sherry standing at the bar while Blaike swallowed Scotch. It was five minutes to five when they left the room. She didn't examine the lobby.

  The wind caught her roughly as she stepped out on the sidewalk. The wind was addled with white. She anchored the Breton with the hand holding her purse, with the other buttoned her coat at the neck.

  Blaike took her arm. His voice was a shout. “This is a debacle. Maybe we should turn back, phone Popin to make it tomorrow.”

  The idea was appealing, but turning back was for her. With her mouth she laughed at it. “I think it's a lark. You go back if you're nervous.” She wished that he would, now that she was safely out of the hotel. He wouldn't.

  “I'm never nervous,” he scorned. “A flyer daren't be. I thought perhaps you were.”

  Had he noticed the tension under her false gayety at the hotel? It didn't matter now. The small bus throbbed there across the street by the garage. She and Blaike waited for a truck and two slow cars to round the corner. The bus driver was hoisting himself into the interior as they plunged toward him.

  “We made it,” Blaike exhaled. helped her up the high step.

  The driver was a pointed-nosed old fellow. He said cheerfully, “Almost didn't.” He did something that made the engine more raucous. To Julie's purse he shouted, “Better pay me at the end of the run. Got to get off. This isn't no day for fiddle faddle.”

  Julie turned to the interior. Blaike was at her shoulder waiting for her to move. She didn't. She looked up the short aisle at a man with a black bowler potted on his round head. He was wedged into the exact center of the long back seat. He appeared hot and cramped, yet stolidly unconscious of discomfort. His thick fingers were interlaced on his knees. The lusterless black eyes didn't move nor did they light. But he saw her. He couldn't help but see her.

  It took her a moment to concede this setback. She spoke then, over her shoulder to Blaike, turning as she did. “Let's sit here in front. The air's better.”

  The bus was already buffeting the Plaza. She half thrust Blaike into the right-hand aisle seat. She herself dropped into the one on the left, behind the driver. At the window was a man who looked as if he might be on the five o'clock to White Plains. His brief case lay on his knees, his evening paper atop it. Blaike's seatmate was an Indian woman.

  There was no opportunity for conversation above the chug of the motor. Julie was grateful for the temporary silence. By pushing with her toes against the floor board, she raised herself enough to glimpse the rear-view mirror. The waiter was there, a dark lump amid other dark lumps. The bus plodded slowly into the dervish storm, heading into open country now. There was nothing Julie could do at this moment. When she reached Tesuque, Jacques would be waiting. She could be safe at Popin's long before the waiter could find a conveyance to follow her. Tesuque wasn't even a small town, it was a hamlet. There wouldn't be cabs lined up waiting.

  If the waiter did accost her before she could enter Jacques's car, the dubious protection of Blaike would again be her refuge There had been no recognition of the gray man in the burly waiter's eye. Nor of her. He might have been a dead man there in the back of the bus but for the thin stream of perspiration on either side of his jowls.

  She hadn't realized how short the ride would be. They left Santa Fe, traveled slowly along the empty road, through a cut, down a hill, rolled to a stop in front of a diminutive filling-station. Nor had she realized how much less than a hamlet Tesuque would be. Two small filling-stations, a few small adobe buildings huddled, together in the snow. The storm had turned into darkening dusk during the ride. The shadow of several cars waited by this filling-station.

  She sat tensed, ready to spring, while the driver pulled on his heavy brakes, muttered, “T'sukee,” and spent interminable time with old leather folders, papers, and a small jangling sack. In the mirror she could the passengers beginning to wedge into the aisle. The man was thrust behind them. She moved to block the way, to be certain she wouldn't be left in proximity with his bulk. She could feel how his thick fingers would clutch her arm. If the driver would stop his puttering, she and Blaike would be out of the bus and with Jacques in Popin's car before the man could make his way through the passengers.

  She let her lips smile down at the gray man. His gray hat was tipped over one eye, his overcoat collar turned up against the menace of the storm outside.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Why the rush? You can't get out of a closed door.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Fresh air.”

  The driver eventually released them, clambered wirily out. She was on his heels. Blaike wasn't behind her. The commuter was. He went on to one of the parked cars. The lights went on and it began a turn. That left three cars, but no Jacques called a welcome. She almost started at Blaike's touch on her elbow.

  He muttered, “Wonder where mine host is.”

  The snow was falling more steadily now. They stood there together, peering into the gloom, seeing no face, hearing no voice at all. The other passengers were filing out, one by one,
turning to right and to left, following the lane ahead. A group of women went to another parked car. She shielded herself as best she could near Blaike's shoulder, she saw from slanted eyes the waiter emerge. He stood indecisively for a moment, then made heavy tracks to the two remaining cars. One drove away as he approached. He seemed to be speaking to the driver of the other. But he didn't get in; he turned, entered the filling-station.

  It was like a way station to hell. The snow, the cold, the darkness. Mountain horizon pushing blackly down into the small hollow of the valley. Within the one haven of light and warmth, solidified danger was waiting.

  She put her arm through Blaike's, edged closer to him. “You don't think he forgot, do you?” She remembered. “Our fares!”

  “I paid. Most likely Popin couldn't get through. We'll have to return to town.”

  She wouldn't go into the filling-station, she would climb back into the bus. The starter sounded on the lone car, it maneuvered, its headlights seemed bearing down on them. She clung suddenly to the man by her side. Was this death, hired death? The car halted beside them. She could only just distinguish the square, dark Indian face above the wheel.

  The driver opened the window a narrow wedge. “You the ones? Go to Popin?”

  Her hand clutched more tightly Blaike's arm. In reprieve. “We are.” They spoke in unison.

  The driver should have known without asking. They'd stood forsaken long enough. She and Blaike climbed quickly into the back seat. There was an Indian rug on the floor. He took it, covered her knees and his own. The weight was good.

  The driver nosed the car back to the highway, pointed it beyond Tesuque.