The Blackbirder

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Professor Alberle wound his watch. “I have a class at nine and one at ten. If you like, I'll get in touch with the F.B.I. for you after that. I think I can explain to them. And you will remain here with Mother Helm tomorrow morning? She'll take care of you. I vouch for that.”

  “I'd just like to see that man in gray turn up.” She nodded to him. “I'd just like to lay eyes on him— ”

  Julie's eyes filled. “You are very good. Both of you. Perhaps some day I can thank you.”

  “Nonsense! Come along to bed now. You can have one of Margie's gowns. She's about your size— ”

  “She was,” Otis grinned. “Nine months ago. It's a wonderful baby. Eight pounds, eleven ounces.” He held out his hand. “Don't try to say thank you, Miss Marlebone. When it's all over won't I make the faculty senate pop out their eyes telling them about this!” He was a little wistful. “Of course, they'll never believe me.”

  Chapter Seven

  THE RIGHT TURNING

  Otis phoned before noon. “I talked to one of the F.B.I. men. Jimmie Moriarity. Either he or Duke Palmer will be out sometime today to see you. I hope you don't mind"— she could see the apologetic smile—"I'm afraid they think you're a little cracked. But they promised to come today. I told them it was something about spies.”

  She thanked him, handed the phone over to Mrs. Helm. She returned to the ironing-board in the kitchen. It had been a good morning. She and Mother Helm had cleaned the house like dynamos. She ironed now while the woman made apple pies. This was what she'd have some day. A small and friendly house in a young city. A city where the sun was bright. Where the people were nice people, the kind who made pies and ironed shirts. She'd have dresses like this yellow print of Margie's which she was wearing and she'd sing while she ironed. She didn't sing now. She listened to Mrs. Helm talk. She followed Margie from the day she was born until her child was born. She followed Mrs. Helm, widowed early, raising a child and helping other women to raise their children. Mrs. Helm was neither cheerful nor uncheerful. She was matter-of-fact. She talked and she worked.

  She returned to the kitchen. “Otis eats lunch on the campus now with gas rationing on. War!” She clacked plates on the kitchen table. “Some day we women will get hold of this world and there won't be any more war. Women can settle each other's hash without slugging it with fists or bombers. You wait!” She asked again, “You actually lived in Paris? You saw those dirty Nazis?”

  “Yes.” Julie didn't want to talk about it any more. She folded the shirt. “There. Not as good as you'd do it. But I've learned pretty well. I worked in a laundry for a while. In Havana.”

  “You've been about everywhere.”

  Only the beaten track of a refugee. It wasn't romantic. It was dread.

  They lunched. They washed up after. And they sat in the living-room under the pall of waiting, listening to the news on the radio: no description of a hunted girl. Reading desultory items in the morning paper: no mention of Julie. There was no more housework to be done, nothing to busy the hands. Mrs. Helm pawed with a piece of blue-gray knitting but her needles were spasmodic. There was nothing to do but wait.

  The older woman said frankly, “Any other day the phone would be ringing its head off. Kept me running to tell about Margie's baby. Not today.” She sighed. “It would be something to do.”

  No phone calls. No door chimes. And then they sounded, musical, muted. Julie jerked in her chair. Mrs. Helm whispered, “Let me go. It might be them. It might be— it might be a snoopy neighbor.” After two o'clock.

  Julie remained out of sight listening.

  A man's voice: “Miss Marlebone is here?”

  “You're from the F.B.I.?”

  “Yes.”

  No! The cry stuck in her throat. She recognized the voice too late. Mrs. Helm had him in the little house, at the living-room arch, before Julie could rise and flee.

  “Here he is at last, Juliet.”

  She backed away. “No. Don't you see, Mrs. Helm? It's the Gray Man!”

  There was fright on the woman but it wasn't flabby. It was bolstered with decision. She advanced. “I didn't remember your face. You get out of here. Right now. Before I call the police.”

  “I'm not leaving,” Blaike told her. “Not without Julie.” He stood there, close enough to bar the way if Julie leaped.

  “You'd better go if you know what's good for you, young man. The F.B.I. are on their way here now to protect Juliet.”

  “I am from the F.B.I.”

  “No, he isn't,” Julie said tensely. “He isn't, Mrs. Helm.”

  “And don't I know that! Don't worry, Juliet.” Bravely she moved to Julie's side, stood arm in arm with her. “I'm not going to let him do anything to you.” She attacked again. “You'd better get out while you can, mister. If you wait for the F.B.I., we'll turn you over to them.”

  Blaike laid his hat on the chair, removed his overcoat, smiled the old smile. “Julie— or you, Mrs. Helm— would you mind calling the F.B.I. office? Ask for Moriarity or Palmer. They're the two head men in this territory. I've been with them since noon. Let me speak to them. I'm asking you to put in the call so you won't look for treachery.”

  Mrs. Helm decided. “You stay beside me, Juliet.”

  The phone was in the hall. They had to pass him. He stepped back, still smiling. Julie looked up the number, read it off. Mrs. Helm dialed. Waiting was silent.

  “Mr. Moriarity or Mr. Palmer.” Her eyes brandished Blaike in the doorway.

  Julie's head was a pinwheel. If Blaike were actually F.B.I., where did the pieces fall? Schein and Popin? Fran? Jacques and Maxl? If he were F.B.I., would that office believe her lack of complicity in all that had happened?

  “Hello, wait a minute, please.” She thrust the phone at Blaike, pushed Julie away from him.

  “Hello. Oh, hello, Jimmie. Blaike speaking. I've located the girl. You'll have to get out here and vouch for me.” He laughed. “Afraid a phone introduction wouldn't do. She wouldn't believe it. You get out here fast before she changes her mind about talking. Yeah, it's the same girl. The one the Professor called about. Step on it, Jimmie.” He replaced the phone. “Now, ladies, shall we return to the front room and wait for Jimmie? Because I'm staying right here until he comes. And I'm not letting you out of my sight, Julie.” He bowed them past him.

  Mrs. Helm was reduced to silence, more frightened now. The knitting needles clicked raggedly. Julie sat on the edge of a chair.

  “You are of the F.B.I.?”

  “I am.”

  “How did you find me here? Did they call you?”

  “No. The police located Coral Bly's car this morning. I flew here at once; fifteen minutes it takes. I had Professor Alberle's name before I came down.”

  “But how?”

  “Everyone you spoke to on your trip west was checked, Julie. Even porters, railroad conductors. The woman with whom you had many conversations on the train was, shall we say, double-checked? The F.B.I. is thorough, Mrs. Helm. We learned that you were visiting a daughter and a son-in-law here, that your daughter was going to have a baby, that there was no possible connection between you and Julie Guille.” To her puzzled frown he amended, “Juliet Marlebone.”

  Julie said nothing.

  “With Coral's car located here and no further trace, it was worth taking an outside chance on inquiring your whereabouts from Mrs. Helm. Particularly since she passed an address to you on the Belen train.”

  “You noticed that?”

  “Julie, believe me, I could relate to you every breath you took from New York to Santa Fe. It'd be a pretty dull performance but I could do it.”

  “What you said was true, you were following me?”

  “Yes. I've been on the Blackbirder case for almost two years. When I saw you with Maxl, I knew I'd struck pay dirt. You'd lead me the rest of the way.”

  He had been wrong, yet right. The Dame had favored him.

  “You know why. You know who the Blackbirder is.”

  “I know
now. I didn't last night— night before last.” She thought of the weary wait this afternoon. “Why didn't you come sooner?”

  “I had a good many things to check over with the boys before I came. You wouldn't run out this time. You'd given up.”

  She said, “I couldn't run any farther.”

  “You understand that now? You can't escape your destiny no matter how fast, how far you run. Eventually you've got to face it. It's better to meet it before you've depleted yourself, while you're still strong. You'll never win by retreat unless it has meaning and purpose, unless it's to gather up strength and take a stand.”

  There had been meaning and purpose when she fled. There hadn't been in these latter days. Selfish fear wasn't good enough. She'd rationalized but she'd been rudderless even before she knew of Fran's defection. She hadn't had enough knowledge for planning; ignorance had weakened her, and in her weakness she'd hidden away in New York, excusing inaction as circumspection, caution; her only shield, flight.

  She should have attacked; she should have forced knowledge of Fran's whereabouts. Not waited for the letter to the Ritz, his last known address, to be forwarded and answered. She should have asked questions, demanded answers. She had been afraid. For her personal safety. Afraid that what had happened, would happen? She'd been running even while standing still. She should have known Fran wasn't in prison. He wouldn't have had to smuggle out an innocent letter, and the letter, as far as governments were concerned, had been harmless. He could have given an address. She knew that American concentration camps weren't bastilles of horror as in brutalized Europe.

  Yet she had believed, waited, too tired from flight to think straight. She would have waited forever. He didn't intend her to turn up to spoil his game with Coral, more important his Blackbirding. He would never have written again. Only by accident would they ever have met in this vast country. He would exercise care about accidents. Just as when he knew she was in Santa Fe, he remained out of sight. It was sheer accident that she had escaped and returned to Popin's. No one would have expected her to return to the scene of the crime.

  The doorbell sounded. Blaike said, “I'll get it.”

  Julie nodded. “He's what he says he is, Mrs. Helm. I was wrong.”

  Jimmie Moriarity was tall and sandy, a little stooped, without illusions. “Here I am, Blaike. Where's the girl?”

  Blaike made introductions. “Jimmie knew me in Washington before he was transferred here, Julie. I want you to examine his credentials as well as mine. I want you to talk without fear. We are members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  She looked over the papers. She didn't need the reassurance. She knew. Mrs. Helm held out her hand, studied the sheets, returned them.

  Moriarity asked, “You're the same girl Professor Alberle phoned about?”

  “Yes.”

  “What's the dope?”

  She said, “I want to give myself up. I came into this country on a false passport.”

  “Blackbirding?” Blaike asked.

  “No. By way of Havana. Even if I'd believed your credentials in Santa Fe, I'd have run again, Blaike. Because the F.B.I. was after me just as much as the Gestapo. But last night"— she shrugged—"I decided to turn myself over to the F.B.I. I'll tell my story.”

  Blaike said, “That's not important now. We have to get back to Santa Fe.”

  The residue of doubt of him remained although she had certain knowledge. He had had Jacques's death suppressed. She said, “Not until I say what I'm going to say. I want it all on record, on F.B.I. record.”

  Blaike told her, “I know most of it. I've told Jimmie most of it.”

  She repeated stubbornly, “I want to tell it.”

  Moriarity looked at Blaike for orders. She saw that. The Santa Fe police had done the same. She wouldn't leave until she'd said it. After that, if Moriarity wanted to let her go with Blaike, she'd go. She couldn't do otherwise.

  Blaike said, “Go ahead,” and she heard the click of the front door. She stiffened.

  It was only Professor Alberle entering the hall. He apologized, “I thought I might be needed. I hurried home.”

  Mrs. Helm said, “These are the F.B.I. men, Otis. Only this one"— her hand jabbed at Blaike—"is the Gray Man too. You come in and keep quiet. Juliet's going to tell about it.”

  His eyes quickened. That was why he had come. He was on time for the show. He faded into a chair.

  “I'll try to be brief as I can. My father was Prentiss Marlebone. He and my mother died when I was a baby. My mother's sister and her husband, Paul Guille, raised me. Perhaps you don't recognize that name. Your State Department would. He is a friend of Laval's. I escaped from his house the night the Nazis entered Paris. I took with me a fabulous diamond necklace, the de Guille necklace. It had been in the family from the time of Louis the Twelfth. I didn't want the Nazis to have it. Uncle Paul was a traitor. When I was stealing out of the house, I saw him and Aunt Lily drinking toasts with the Nazis, toasts to the fall of France.” She went on. “It took me more than a year to get out of France. As soon as Paul knew I had escaped, he sent the Gestapo after me. Because of the necklace.”

  “And because of your money,” Blaike said. “He was your legal guardian until you were of age. You were only— ”

  “I was nineteen. I could never have escaped without Tanya, the maid, and her friends. She wouldn't leave with me. She stayed behind to help others. They found her— and they killed her.”

  The scratch of Moriarity's match was livid.

  “It took me almost another year to reach Havana. I was there a long time. I had no visa.”

  “An American wouldn't need one,” Moriarity said.

  “I don't know what I am. I was born in Persia. I lived in France for sixteen years. I had never been in America. From Cuba I wrote to the one person who could help me reach the United States.” She held her lips firm. “My cousin, Francis Guille. I wrote him where he'd last been, a New York hotel. It was months before I heard. He was in an American internment camp as a dangerous alien.”

  Blaike leaned forward, eyes crackling.

  “Nazi sympathizers had— had framed him— because he wouldn't collaborate. The letter was smuggled out of prison, mailed from Mexico by a friend of Fran's, a man named Popin.”

  Blaike's mouth was open.

  She ignored him. “I knew then I had to get to America. I had to free Fran. I also knew I couldn't hope for a passport. If I told who I was, a member of the Guille family, I'd be returned to France or interned. I bought a false passport and I came to the United States, to New York. I wrote Fran again, to the same hotel, to be forwarded. I knew eventually it would reach him as my first letter had. I found work. The good jobs— defense jobs— were closed to me. Because I was an alien. I waited. Months. And months. And then one night— ” She broke off. It wasn't months ago, it was only ten days past. “I was at Carnegie Hall. I saw a boy I used to know in Paris. I didn't want him to see me. But he did.”

  “That's Maximilian Adlebrecht,” Blaike interpreted.

  Moriarity nodded.

  “Yes. Because I didn't want to make him suspicious, I went with him to a beer garden in Yorkville.” Her eyes widened. “I noticed a waiter watching me. He didn't move. He just stood there and watched. He looked like a Nazi. I know what a Nazi looks like. I've known them. I was taken by them many times while I was trying to escape from France.”

  “Steady,” Blaike said.

  She swallowed. “You know what happened. After I left Maxl, he was killed. In front of my house, I ran away. I knew if I were questioned, the police would find out about how I came into the country. I knew the F.B.I. would be in the case because Maxl was a German refugee.”

  “He was a German agent,” Blaike said.

  “He may have been.” She sat straight. “Before I ran I took a notebook from his body. It had my name and address in it. I spent that night in the subway.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes. The next day I left for
Santa Fe.”

  “And why did you choose Santa Fe?” Blaike's voice was easy.

  She lied. She wouldn't talk about the Blackbirder. “Popin's name was in that notebook. He was a friend of Fran's. I wanted to find Fran.”

  Moriarity said, “You didn't know the F.B.I. was looking for Fran Guille as hard as you were?”

  “I believed Fran was in prison.”

  “Okay.”

  “That first night in Santa Fe I saw another friend of Fran's. Jacques Michet. He pretended not to know me. Somehow even talking with me meant danger to two men. Jacques came to my room that night, secretly. He told me I was in danger. He didn't get to tell me why. Blaike interrupted.”

  “Get this straight,” Blaike charged. “I was following you. As far as I was concerned that made me responsible for your safety. I didn't want you liquidated under my nose. I didn't know Jacques from Adam. I only knew he was part of Popin's outfit. Why did you skip out of Popin's?”

  “Because Albert Schein was the man who had watched me in Yorkville. I knew he'd kill me that night.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Because I knew he'd killed Maxl. And he knew that I knew. I went out to Jacques's house. Jacques would protect me.” She faltered only a little. “Jacques had been murdered.” She turned to Blaike, accused. “You saw Jacques that night.”

  “I saw his body.”

  “You let them call it accident.”

  Blaike said, “I was posing as an R.A.F. deserter. You know that. To get at the Blackbirder. Popin decided if the police investigated a murder the blackbirding activities would come out. He persuaded Schein and me it would be wiser to make an accident of it.”

  “You let them do that to Jacques?”

  “Temporarily, yes. The most important thing has been to get Fran Guille, the Blackbirder. The murder can be taken care of later.”

  Professor Alberle said, “Some of this I don't understand.”

  “Shshsh.” His mother-in-law's eye fixed him.