The man didn't move, didn't speak. Julie was very still. He was looking at Blaike, at her, now at Popin.
The artist said, “Yes, Mr.— ?”
“Albert Schein.”
“Mr. Schein, Mr. Blaike. My dear Miss Julie, I forget you have rejoined us. Miss Guille, Mr. Schein.”
She didn't have to speak. Blaike continued, “Another art fancier?” He had the coat, the bowler. The man's head wasn't all stubble now. There was a neat, red-brown, center-part toupee pasted atop it. It didn't fit very well. There was black stubble beyond the fringe. “However did you get here?” Blaike asked. “Popin and I just heard by radio that the state police closed all the roads a bit after six o'clock.
Schein stated, “I came by the bus. I have waited and waited for a car to come this way. At last one brought me to the turn.”
Popin said to the man's feet, “You walked it from there?”
Schein said heavily, “Yes, I walked.”
“For God's sake— in the snow?” Blaike drew Schein to a chair close by the fire. “Here. You do need attention.” Julie moved away from the hearth. “Let's get that punch moving, Popin. How about a shot of straight while you're waiting?”
“I am not a drinking man,” Schein stated. “I will smoke.” He took a thick brown cigar from his pocket, bit the end, spat toward the fireplace. He put a match to the tip.
He too would remain overnight. Popin would invite him. The studio was rich in couches. There were two against the back wall, another in the narrow aisle, one against the right, the one here facing the fireplace. Popin could put up many guests. Nor was there chance that she could get away tonight. And her bedroom was far and away at the opposite pole of the house, unprotected against danger in the dark. While the others were in wine sleep, one who was not a drinking man could move.
Popin said, “I will see to the ingredients at once.”
She wandered to the plastered walls, hung with bright blurry landscapes. The queer shape of the room was because of another room jutting into it. No doubt Popin's own bedroom. It looked as if it had been a late addition to the old adobe house. Its walls were of plywood. Heavy brown curtains from their sides covered two great windows, north light at the rear, east from the side.
Blaike was on the couch, conversational with Schein. “Where you from?”
“I am Alsatian.” Were the black eyes boring into her back?
“Seems to me I've seen you before. In New York.”
“For twenty years I have worked in New York. You saw me there.”
“Possibly. I was in the city a couple of weeks before starting west. You are here on business?”
Schein said, “No.” A final, unelaborated no. “Are you?”
“I'm trying to do a little business along with pleasure. I was invalided out of the R.A.F.— crackup over the Channel— but I helped drop tons on Cologne before the bastards stopped me. The experts say a man can't fly with a silver plate in his knee. I could show them.”
He was playing a part. Of that she was certain. He wasn't normally chatty, informative. The part might be for the waiter; it might be they played the game of strangers for her. Popin was returning bearing a bowl of Mexican silver. The Indians followed with trays of glasses and bottles. The artist's elbow cleared a space on the crudely carved refectory table.
Quincy and Reyes set down their loads. Quincy said, “We go home now.”
“Good night.” Popin was busy with the punch bowl.
Blaike said, “Let me do it.”
Schein put down his cigar. “I know better. I am a restaurateur.”
“That's it.” Blaike had quiet triumph. “I knew I'd seen you.”
Julie's hands pressed tightly to her side. He mustn't say it. He did.
“Yorkville. The bierstube. Yorkville.”
Schein said, “Yes.” He turned to Julie. And he looked away.
She was cold. She returned to the hearth, stood backed to it, waiting to see where the man would be placed before she sat down. She would drink a mug of punch, make early excuse for bed. Before the conviviality of the men was diminished, while they remained by the fire with the overflowing bowl, she would steal out, the front way, get to Jacques. He would surely be in his little house by now. He would allow her to stay there. This night, he would guard her. Popin couldn't be offended. He wouldn't have to know.
The men were coming to the hearth. Blaike carried her mug. Schein took his same chair, Blaike motioned her to the couch. She sat in the far corner, he beside her. Popin was cross-legged like a gnome on the rug. It was he who said, “A night like this. It. is good. Without, the storm. Within, good companions gathered round the fire.”
Blaike stretched out his long legs. “What brought you to these parts, Mr. Schein?”
Again her hands tightened. If he'd only stop talking, let Popin speak of simpler things, kindlier things. He wouldn't. He was playing a part and its purpose was to entrap her. He too had seen her with Maxl. He had long ago recognized her. He had sent for Schein. They were working together against her. All this was angling before the waiter accused her openly.
“I come to see someone.” Schein eyed Popin again, coldly. “All day I have tried to reach you. You do not answer the telephone.”
“Mornings I work in the open, under the sky.” The artist was mild. “This afternoon the storm broke down the wires. I am regretful. Had I known I could have sent the car for you as for my other guests.”
Good that he hadn't known, that Schein had been forced to walk that cold upward mile. His Germanic arrogance had been his undoing. Quincy was not a taxi. Schein was a Nazi; the smell of it exuded from his pores. Alsace? Perhaps. That country had changed hands so often. Or he implied French heritage for his protection in these times.
She had her cup to her lips when Blaike cut in, still pursuing, more determined. “How did you happen to know of Popin?”
Popin perked his head. “Yes. Who was it told you of my work? That you should come so far to examine it. That is good. You are a dealer perhaps, Mr. Schein.”
Schein said, “Your work is well known among the refugees, Mr. Popin.” He rolled his cigar across his face. “Many refugees come to the rathskeller. Where their language is spoken. They are sick for the homeland, even if they have been driven from it by war. I have heard some of them speaking of your work, Mr. Popin.”
Popin smiled happily. “It is good when men like your work, speak of this to their friends. Yes, there is satisfaction in it then.” His hand fluttered to the paintings. “You see I am trying something new. The New Mexican scene. That means my homesickness is over. No longer I paint out of the past.”
He was enthusiastic speaking of painting. This was his true work. He had taken a small painting from the wall, was explaining technique, brush work, mixing of colors, to the disinterest of the other men, to Julie's half mind. It wasn't blackbirding, he cared about. That was doubtless a self-imposed task, to help refugees. There was always a gauze of wariness over him when Blaike forced the conversation from painting to the generalization work.
The gentle brown-bearded man was afraid, that was it. Julie had seen fear in too many of its guises not to know it. Popin feared. Rightfully so. He wasn't a man of violence but he was involved in a violent movement, fraught with ever attendant danger. Danger from within and without. She realized now that he couldn't be a lone wolf. There must be someone to fly the black plane; there must be agents outside the states; there must be some way to make contact with them, possibly shortwave radio; and there must be more agents in this country to handle the dissemination of the refugees upon arrival. A nucleus of strangers in this poorly populated would attract attention, investigation. She recalled Blaike's words: a depot, the station master. That explained the ability to put up any number of guests. Refugees were landed here by the blackbirding ship, kept out of sight until they could be shipped compass-wise into other states. The Indian servants? What did they understand about the presence of strange guests at any hour? They didn
't need to understand; they weren't interested. No. Popin wasn't a lone blackbirder.
There must be an organization. Jacques to fly the plane? Other men in other cities. Maxl in New York? Was that what he had been hinting? Why had Maxl been murdered? Always the imminence of danger. Blackbirding was illegal. The F.B.I. must even now be seeking its source. Not the U.S. government alone. The Gestapo didn't remain dormant when prey escaped its bloody fists. It too would be hunting this American underground. It wasn't an underground. It wasn't moles burrowing through degradation for the promise of escape. It was clean and sharp, a bird's talons snatching the harassed, the hopeless, cutting escape through infinity. Smuggling in the sky.
And poor little Popin, knowing all the dangers, feared. He wasn't meant for reckless uncertainties. He was born for painting, for puttering in his garden, keeping his neat little house. Even now he didn't know whether he could trust these men who came knowing his work. He kept on deliberately confusing work with painting. Neither Schein nor Blaike had as yet forced him to open discussion. He feared. Because Maxl had died. He might be next. An organization such as this couldn't be carried on without conscienceless men involved, men unafraid of violence. Men who would kill if need be, men who didn't flinch at meeting death. They would be selected for this quality. If someone within the organization wished Popin out of the way, he wouldn't be safe. And he didn't know who killed Maxl. He hadn't known that Maxi was dead. He had cringed at the knowledge.
She had been listening only faintly to the conversation. She yawned now. She was surprised at the lateness, already by her watch it was eleven o'clock. “Would you mind if I excuse myself, Mr. Popin? I'm frightfully tired. The punch has been my stirrup cup.” She was on her feet.
So was Schein, even before the other men. He pointed a pudgy finger. “Where is she going?’
She herself answered, smiling, seemingly at ease. “Well, really, Mr. Schein.” She saw something else then. He was afraid of her. It didn't dissipate her fear of him. For he wasn't one to scurry from fear; his answer would be brutal liquidation of its source. He had been the driver of the taxi. He was afraid she had witnessed Maxl's death. He was the murderer.
He said now, heavy, ugly. “She was with Maxl.” He looked with import at Popin. “The night he died.”
No one said anything. All were watching her, Schein with stones for eyes, Blaike with suspicion alert on his face, Popin just a little timidly.
And she laughed, brightly, without care. “I haven't the least idea why you're saying that.” Her face lifted to the others, shone with quiet truth. She knew it did. She'd practiced it often. “I didn't know this Maxl. I was never with him.” She turned her shoulder on Schein. “You will excuse me, Mr. Popin?”
“I will show you the way.”
“You needn't. I've already been up, you know.” Blaike stated, “I'll go up with Julie, Popin. See that her fire's shipshape, all that.”
Her hands were icy. If anyone was to go it should be Popin. She needed a moment alone with him. She had refused only to keep the men together. They mustn't break up their bibbing this early; they must give her a chance to reach Jacques. She began, “Really, you needn't— ”
“But I will.” He smiled and his smile was cold as her hands. He wouldn't be disputed. Popin settled uncertainly back on the rug.
She said, “Good night. I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Popin.” She didn't speak to Schein. She led through the cold dining-room. She was wordless through the living-room, the hall, the stairs. At her door she turned to the gray man. “Good night.”
The smile remained on his lips. It wasn't in his eyes. “Remember me? I'm the fireboy.” He waited until she opened the door, followed her. The fire was ash. He built it professionally again, kneeling awkwardly until the kindling caught. He rose, dusted his hands.
“Thank you very much,” she said without expression.
He looked down from his height. “You were with Maxl.”
She didn't move.
“I saw you together. There at Bert's beer garden. You left together. At one o'clock. By two, he was dead.”
Her lips alone moved.
“Who are you?”
“A partner in crime. A deserter from the R.A.F. They're on my heels. That's why I had to reach Popin. I have to get away.” The smile was carved across his face. “In war times desertion from the force is as bad, or worse, than murder.”
It came as a slap across the face. She cried out, “I didn't murder him.”
He looked over his shoulder. No one was behind him in the doorway. He said, “Earlier and with the same verity you said you didn't know him.”
She repeated with violence, “I didn't murder him.”
“The police are looking for you. You came to Popin for the same reason as I, for his help in running away. There's one thing you didn't count on. Neither did I. This storm.”
She was uncertain. “The storm.”
“Planes can't fly without a ceiling. The Blackbirder won't fly again until the storm lifts.”
She hadn't thought of that.
“You'll have to be careful until then. Very careful.”
There was ice, a lump, within her. He seemed to be speaking out of certain knowledge. He knew why Schein was here. She knew one thing only. Schein was a Nazi. She was an animal, she could smell the Nazi spoor. She asked passionately now, “Why was Maxl killed?”
“You don't know?”
“How could I? I didn't know him well in Paris. I didn't know he was in New York until I met him that night. Why was he killed?”
“I don't know.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“I honestly don't know. I know two things. He was a minor Nazi agent.”
Her nails cut into her palms.
“And he was a Blackbirder.”
“No!” But it was what she had been formulating below: an organization of Blackbirders couldn't be certain of every man they must trust within their ranks. Which side was Maxl selling out? Whichever had killed him. She wondered again now, “Who are you?”
“I told you that.” He had turned. “Your door hasn't a key. Do you know how to balk a latch?”
“Yes.” She knew most of the makeshifts of protection. She had learned that one the night the Nazi officer had tried to get into her room. After she had maimed him. That had been somewhere north of Vichy. A long time ago when she was very young. She said, “I think my toothbrush will do it.” And she looked at him swiftly. But he hadn't noticed it: that she had come prepared to stay.
He had picked up a bit of kindling. He broke a piece to fit. “Don't forget to use it. Good night.”
She closed the door after him. He didn't know she wouldn't need it. Nearing 11:30 now. She listened to his uneven descent of the stairs. She would wait at least ten minutes, perhaps fifteen. Not too long. It must be done before the three men went to bed. Before any one of them would separate himself, be prowling the halls. Blaike knew that Schein menaced her. He knew the waiter was a Nazi. He knew or he sensed that the Gestapo was after her. It was proved now. First Maxl. The meeting at Carnegie had not been accidental.
She felt no terror of it at this moment, only a great weariness. She had run so far and so long, she was winded. That was despair. She had had a respite. She could run again. Schein had killed Maxl. He had left the restaurant before them, put a greasy cap on his head, counted on the customary disinterest of passengers in a cab driver. He had killed Maxl when Maxl returned to the cab. But why, if they were on the same side? Now he had come after her. Whatever reason there was to kill Maxl, he thought she had guilty knowledge of it. She had run away; he had sensed that she would run to the blackbirders. It was the only quick means of escape for a foreigner in a country at war.
Ten minutes. She wouldn't wait longer. If anyone was below she had her excuse, her coat in the hall closet. She carried her purse with her as she went softly down the staircase. Halfway she looked into the living-room, empty, the hall below empty. She finished her descent
, turned toward the closet at the rear. And she stopped short. She had heard a sound, a possible sound. She had on the blue pullover as well as her jacket. There at the foot of the stairs she was within two steps of the front door!
She made a dash for it.
She hadn't counted on the fury of the storm. It flung itself on her. She huddled close to the house, rounded it, and fought her way into the wind, past the dark curtained windows, living-room, dining-room, kitchen. It was farther than she thought to the guest house, in the unprotected stretch she was battered by scratching flakes, maniac wind. The ground snow was above her ankles. She pushed on, stumbling, pausing over and again to push her heels into slippers.
The little house was dark. She rapped. Above the wind could she be heard? She pounded. He might be asleep. She couldn't stand here freezing. She wouldn't return to the house from which she had escaped. She put her hand on the latch. It moved. Quickly she shoved inside, shot the bolt after her. Her breath was coming fast. She was wet with snow, shivering with cold. She stood there a moment before she could move. The inevitable Indian fireplace gave only faint red ashes, no warmth. She went to it, laid kindling, blew softly on the ash, pushed in two logs. Jacques wouldn't care. The fire caught and she stood to it, thawing, melting. Only when the warmth ran through her blood did she turn again to the room seeking a lamp.
She didn't need light. The fire was enough. She saw the mad disorder, the smashed radio, the broken chair. She saw the dark shape face down under the chair. With hopeless fatality she walked to him, She knew it was Jacques. The waiter had reached him first.
She bent down over him. It hadn't been a clean kill. She set her face away from grief. She hadn't smelled the blood. The room had been too cold. Not cold enough. There had been remnants of a fire. An hour at most. He had been killed since dinner. Blaike hadn't wanted her to talk with Jacques last night.
Terror shook her in its teeth. She must get away from here. The coincidence of her presence at one murder might be explained away, not at a second. Not with Schein waiting to accuse her. Not with Blaike and his self-centered wisdom and his granite eyes. Not to little fear-ridden Popin.
The Blackbirder Page 10