The Blackbirder (17 page)

They have found a pair of gloves, the palms covered with blood. Brown gloves. In a trash can. They have found out a Juliet Marlebone is missing from an apartment on West 78th Street. There is a postcard sent from Chicago by Juliet Marlebone. If you did not kill him, they wish you to answer questions.”

She repeated, “You killed him.”

Blaike broke in harshly, “Did you see who killed him? Did you see him die?”

“No. Certainly not. I said goodby to him at my door. When I was upstairs at my window I saw him lying on the pavement. Dead.”

“You heard the shot?”

“I heard nothing. Not even a backfire.”

“Yet you knew he was dead?” Schein asked heavily.

“I knew. He wouldn't have been lying on the walk— ” She could set him as if he lay at her feet now. “Not in his good coat. Not unless he was dead.”

“You knew he was going to be killed,” Schein stated.

“No. How could I know that? What are you trying to say?”

He said it heavily, chunkily. “Your appearance with him in that suspect pro-Nazi rathskeller was for him the kiss of death.”

“Oh, no!” The horror of it spread over her face. He didn't mean an accidental betrayal; he meant a deliberate signal:
this man is to die.
She appealed to Blaike, “You don't believe that, do you? You can't believe that. Why would I do that?”

“That's one thing we want to find out,” Blaike said. “Why Maxl was killed.”

She closed her eyes. What if they were truly of the F.B.I., actually believed that? What could she say? She knew nothing.

“Jacques,” Schein's voice accused. “Did you kill Jacques Michet?”

She shook her head, kept shaking it.

“If you did not, why did you not report to us what you found? Why did you run away? Why have you been hiding? Why was Jacques killed? Who is the Blackbirder?”

She didn't say a word.

Blaike took over. “What did Maxl tell you that caused him to die? What did Jacques tell you? Why did you come to Santa Fe?”

She broke in, “I don't know. I don't know anything about this.”

“You don't know why you came here?”

“Yes. Of course I know that. I don't know about those deaths.”

“Who is the Blackbirder?” Schein thudded.

Why did you come here? Why did you meet Maxl? Who ordered it? Who is the Blackbirder? What did Jacques tell you? What did Maxl tell you? Why did you kill Jacques? Why did you run away? Why? Why? Who is the Blackbirder?

She had stopped trying to answer. The questions were darts hurled harder and faster at her, the target. She wasn't wearied. She wasn't frightened. She was angry but she controlled it now. Once on the outskirts of Lille she had been questioned for two days. At the end of that time her questioners had been more exhausted than she. She had shut her mind, sealed it in an inner compartment of her consciousness. Even as she had it shut away now. In that faraway other world she had known the purpose of the questioners. She didn't now. Within the closed box she tried to understand. She couldn't. Not without knowing who these men were. She could figure out something more important, escape. For of course she must escape from them. When she had the blueprint she closed her eyes, leaned weakly against the back of the chair.

Blaike believed it. At once his voice was kind. “Here, Julie. Drink this.”

She opened her eyes childwide, took the glass of water. “Thank you.” She didn't know if Schein also believed. He was biting the end from a cigar. She finished the water. She said, “I'll tell you what I know. It isn't much.”

“That's the girl.” Blaike's smile was human. He took the glass, passed a cigarette, lit it.

She kept that wide innocent look in her eyes. “I've told you most of it already. I knew Maxl in Paris. Not well. I don't remember where I met him. He was at the Sorbonne— I don't know whether a refugee or a fifth columnist. He never discussed politics with me. I met him by chance that night— a week ago last night, wasn't it?— at Carnegie. After the Russian Relief Benefit. I thought it was chance. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he had been looking for me.”

“Why do you think that?” Schein's pig eyes horned at her.

She shook her head. “I didn't until you F.B.I. agents insisted he had something to tell me. Actually he didn't.”

“Nothing about blackbirders?” Blaike asked.

“No, nothing.”

“He didn't speak of the Blackbirder?” Schein demanded.

He knew. He had heard; an underling waiter had reported scraps of conversation.

She said, “Oh, yes, we spoke of him. All refugees do.”

“And why do all refugees speak of him?” Blaike asked.

“Because"— she lifted her head—"because when a refugee runs away from torture or death he can't always make arrangements to reach a place of safety. He hasn't time. Nor influence, nor money. And even if it is against that just but merciless thing called the law, the Blackbirder is doing something that refugees consider above the law. He is helping the helpless.”

“For a price,” Schein sneered.

“Perhaps,” she defended hotly. “There's bound to be great expense in a venture of this sort.”

“You do know something about it.”

She looked quickly, startled, at Blaike's slant smile. “But I don't. Only it's logical. He'd do it for nothing if he could, but he can't.”

“Who is the Blackbirder?” It was Blaike saying it this time.

“I don't know.” At his skepticism she repeated, “I don't know. I thought from something you said that it was Popin but I don't believe a man who knows nothing of mechanics could fly a plane. Do you? It might have been Jacques. But who would kill him? Not those he helped. The F.B.I.?”

“That isn't the American way of solving lawlessness,” Blaike stated.

“I don't know who the Blackbirder is. You can ask me over and over but I can't tell you. I don't know.” She listened to their silence, still skeptical but not denying her. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes. Go on.” Blaike walked to the table. “I'm going to fix a drink. Will you— ?”

“No, thank you.” She repeated what she had said before concerning Maxl's death. “I ran away because I was afraid. I was afraid the police would think I did it. Because I had been with him.”

“And why did you choose Santa Fe?”

She would not mention Fran. She would not mention her fear of government investigation. Her hesitation was only momentary. “I told you I was afraid. I didn't want to be locked up. I couldn't stand it. Once I was locked up— ” She broke off, wet her lips. “I came here because I thought I might need the Blackbirder's help,”

“You knew he was here,” Schein pounced. Smoke clouded his heavy face.

“I didn't. I mean, I didn't have certain knowledge. Don't you see?” She ignored him, turned to Blaike. “I didn't even know there was a Blackbirder, not really. It's all been whispers, a legend, something a refugee believes in because he needs to believe in it, because he might have a desperate need for such a man some day.”

“To escape a murder charge?” Schein pointed.

Her mouth hardened. “To escape Gestapo agents who somehow manage to reach this country despite the F.B.I.”

Blaike's voice was quiet. “Couldn't it be they enter by such a method as blackbirding?”

This was why the F.B.I. was searching for the Blackbirder. They couldn't chance the entrance of dangerous aliens among honest refugees. Nor the escape dangerous aliens over the same route. Somehow she hadn't thought of it that way. The Blackbirder to her had been only a shadowy figure of refuge. He was still that but a sinister blackness darkened his shadow. His helping wings could be abused. She shook away the tremor.

Blaike went on casually, “So you came to find the Blackbirder. You didn't know about him, only so vague rumors"— suddenly he whirled on her—"yet you knew whom to seek! Popin!”

She must walk softly. Whatever these men were she mustn't jeopardize Popin. He was her one link with Fran; with Jacques gone, he was the one hope of escape for her and Fran. If she said Maxl told her of Popin, it couldn't hurt Maxl. But possibly it could endanger the bearded artist. She remembered what she had told Blaike on Tuesday night. “He was kind to a friend of mine. I thought he would help me if I needed help.”

“And you didn't know he was part of this blackbirding?” he mocked.

“Not until you said it,” she retorted.

“What did Jacques tell you?” he countered.

“He didn't have the chance to tell me anything.” She was truly bitter for that. “You interrupted.”

“He was in your room at least thirty minutes before I interrupted. You didn't just sit and look at each other for that time.”

“No.” Her eyes closed. “No, we talked. We talked of his wife, Tanya.” She looked him full in the face. “She was my friend. She died in a concentration camp. Because she was my friend.” She stood up then. “We didn't mention the Blackbirder. You can believe me or not. I'm very tired. I'd like to go to my room if I may. Surely you can wait until morning for anything more. I've told you all I know.”

She swayed while he probed her face, steadily, searchingly. She endured the scrutiny. And he accepted her weariness, her honesty, her innocence. He said, “I'll be right back, Schein. I'll see Julie to her room.” She did not refuse him. Nor did he question her using her own room. They went up the corridor. “You have your key?”

“Yes. I carried it with me.”

The corridor was silent. “You were in the Indian's home at Tesuque?”

She didn't reply. She remembered Soledad's borrowed clothes left at the Ansteys'. She couldn't involve Porfiro and his family in the danger of Gestapo interrogation or of F.B.I. Later she would evolve some way to retrieve the blanket bundle. Perhaps Popin would see to it. After the Ansteys returned.

Blaike said, “Give me your key.”

She dug into her blue jeans, handed it over. He opened the door, returned it to her, preceded her into the room, switching the lights, examining bathroom, coat closet, balcony. He looked at the bed but not under it, no one could hide under a bed set that near flush to the floor. “Seems to be shipshape.”

She wondered. From whom did he think she was in danger other than himself and Schein?

He started back to the door but stopped in front of her. “Why did you accuse Schein of murdering Maximilian Adelbrecht?”

“I know that he did.”

“But you didn't see the killing?”

“No. But I know. There was no one in the street but Maxl and I and the taxi driver. Schein was the taxi driver. I saw his ears.”

He almost laughed at her.

“I rode behind him from Yorkville to 78th Street. I know his back. There was no one else around.”

“Did it ever occur to you that your cab might have been followed?”

“It might have been.” It would have occurred to her if she hadn't sat at a table while the waiter watched her and Maxl.

“I'd be careful of accusing anyone of murder without proof. I'd be careful even if I felt certain of my beliefs.”

It was deliberate warning. She accepted it without comment.

At the door he said, “I wouldn't try to run away again if I were you. The police have your description. Two of them have had a good look at you. And you know you'd be in the local hoosegow tonight if I hadn't insisted on custody for my own purposes.”

She said nothing.

He turned again, shot the question. “What do you know of Coral Bly?”

Her bewilderment was entire. He didn't even wait for the obvious answer. He closed her into the room.

She hadn't dared look at her wrist before. She didn't want to appear interested in the time. They must believe her beaten. A little past 11:30. The endless questioning hadn't consumed two hours. And they'd learned nothing that could help or harm whether they were F.B.I. agents or the Gestapo. They couldn't be F.B.I. No matter how expert in their roles. Not even with their omission of Gestapo questioning methods. There were questions she could ask of each of them.
Why did you pretend to be an R.A.F. flyer? Why did you serve as a waiter?
She knew the answers:
the better to go about our actual affairs, my dear. As an R.A.F. deserter, meet the Blackbirder face to face. As a waiter, listen in on suspicious conversations. But the same replies would be valid if they were Gestapo. They could not act openly in a country at war with theirs.

Why hadn't she asked them:
Do the police know of Jacques's death?
Because she had feared the answer, feared that it had been suppressed for their own purposes. She was afraid to be curious. They might toss her to the law for punishment.

Would the F.B.I. leave her in her own room, alone, unguarded? Possibly. If the exits were closed, the outgoing roads patrolled, few in a small town; the means of transportation watched. Yes, they might do just that. Because they believed she knew the Blackbirder, and, given hemp enough, might lead them to the man.

She smiled at her watch. They didn't realize she would lead them to no one. Not even if she knew the Blackbirder. She would return to Popin. And she wouldn't be followed. The artist would not deny her the information which evidently he had denied to Blaike and Schein. He could trust her. He would bring her to the Blackbirder. Because of Fran.

She hung Jacques's coat over the chair, removed the bandanna. She brushed her hair, put on lipstick. Boldly she opened her door, closed it with normal sound. Blaike was in his doorway before she reached it. She said defiantly, “I'm hungry. And I'm going downstairs to get something to eat. Do you object?”

“Not in the least.” He smiled. “Mind if I go along?”

“If there's no choice, I don't.” She smiled to herself waiting in the corridor while he spoke to Schein, re-joined her. She walked almost gayly to the elevator, rang for it. She slapped her dungarees. “I've seen girls in these in this town who in Paris wouldn't be caught in a blackout without their Mainbochers and real pearls. It's a strange place, isn't it?” That was what the woman on the train had told her. They entered the elevator. “I'll have to shop in the morning— with your permission. Or will you join me? I can't live forever in a borrowed shirt and pants even if it is the vogue. I seem to have mislaid my other clothes.” She wondered about that parcel at the bus station. Did the police have it? It didn't matter now.