The Blackbirder (12 page)

Blaike asked with awful quietness, “Or about the girl who had been with him that evening?”

“Girl?” Popin shook his head slowly, back and,forth. “They mentioned no girl.”

Blaike was brusque. “The police are looking for a girl. That was in the papers.” He gazed directly across at Julie now. Her head remained poised, her eyes held no information. “Did you read that story?”

She answered, “Yes. It was in the morning's— I should say Monday morning's— New York papers.”

There was a pause. Blaike passed his cigarette package. “You say you never met him?”

“Not that I recall.” The candle she lifted to her cigarette illumined her face. She knew that nothing was revealed in it. “I may have. One met so many. Teas. Dancing. The races. I may have.”

Blaike shook his head. “He wasn't the Ritz Bar.”

She rose. It was better to end this. “Might I powder my nose, Mr. Popin, before we view the paintings?”

“Certainly.” He was apologetic. “I am not accustomed to young lady guests. I forgot. I will call Reyes. She is Indian, the Tesuque pueblo. However, she speaks English as well as Tewa. Ask what you wish. Reyes!” The Indian woman came softly. “Will you show Miss Guille upstairs to the guest room? Light the fire. The room must be warmed for her if she is to stay the night. Tell Quincy to see that the wood box is filled.”

The woman said, “He did, Popin.” She led the way back through the living-room, into the hall, and up the stairs.

There was in this half story only the guest bedroom and adjoining bath. Reyes lit the table lamp, stooped to the fire. Without words she descended the staircase again.

Julie closed the door after her. The room was comfortable, Spanish. There were windows, heavily curtained at the front and the rear. Stepping between curtains and window, shutting out the lamp, she could see the square buildings beyond the house. The one at the right must be garage. At the left the faint outline in the snow of a smaller place. That must be where Jacques lived. No light shone. Doubtless it was as well equipped for blackout as the main house. She stepped again into the room. The wind was blasting this turret. The fire had caught now. Perhaps Jacques would join them later. Perhaps he had believed, as Popin and the Indians had, guests would not dare this storm.

He wanted to see her. Today. He had stressed it. She might send word out to him that she was here. She rearranged her hair, freshened her lipstick. If she didn't get in touch with Jacques tonight, she could see him in the morning. Before morning, before the roads were reopened, she must think of some reason for remaining here. Some reason Blaike would accept, if not believe. If she could go to bed now, not face him again. He was suspicious of her; he thought she was the police-wanted girl. He didn't know it; he hadn't accused.

She couldn't shut herself away, not this early. The courteous little host would be hurt if she didn't look at his paintings. She must face at least another hour of the gray man before she dared suggest bed. She could endure it. She had faced suspicion more definite than his and dissipated it. She wasn't afraid of him. Not at Popin's. She took a last glimpse in the mirror. Her face was without visible care. She put out the bedroom light, went into the hall. Below it was lightless, she left the night light burning here to guide her steps. She moved slowly, gathering wit and courage in these last moments alone. Halfway down she could see into the lighted living-room.

On the couch was a bowler on a round head, thick fingers intertwined across coated knees.

Her hand froze to the banister. Her foot, poised between steps, didn't move. Some way he had traced her from Tesuque. He was waiting for her now, stolid and menacing as a mountain. If she could only reach the studio where Popin was, but to do so she must pass through the room where the man waited. It might be possible to steal down to the front door, make a dash to open it and reach the guest house. There was too much risk. Not only in reaching the door but, having opened it, in outdistancing the man around the house, up the path, to that blacked out shape in the snow. And no reassurance that Jacques was within. Popin had believed he was working; he hadn't even implied that the work was on the premises. Jacques wouldn't have machines in his bedroom. If he were in his house, he would have heard the car arrive, would have known of her presence here. She only now recalled. Jacques didn't know she was coming here tonight. He hadn't been present when Popin offered the invitation. In the rapid crossfire of more important talk, she hadn't mentioned it during their interrupted interview last night.

She could turn tail, repair to the upstairs room. It wouldn't be possible to stay there forever. But she could remain until she was missed below, until someone came for her. She wouldn't have to walk alone into the firing range of this man's pig eyes. The stair cracked sharply as she shifted her weight. He must have heard, even if he couldn't see her on the darkly lit stairs. He didn't move.

She decided. She would back softly up, up, out of sight, to her room. It was the wiser way. She took one step. She hadn't noticed the sound of the stairs coming down them, each one was a drum now. She looked into the parlor again. The Indian girl, Reyes, was coming through the arch from the dining-room. The waiter hadn't heard her steps. He hadn't stirred. Julie watched Reyes; she moved then swiftly, softly, careless of sound. She reached the foot of the stairs, entered the room as Reyes came behind him.

He saw Julie. He stood on his ugly, box-toed black shoes, high-laced. His big mouth didn't smile but his dull little eyes held glittering recognition.

Julie looked at him the way she would look at someone in a waiting-room. She asked of Reyes. “The men are still in the studio?”

“They are.”

Julie passed without another glance at the man. She heard Reyes's lazy voice, “Popin says you wait a minute. He ees coming.”

Julie didn't turn back. She went up into the dining-room, chilled now, lightless but for the red flicker of the dying fire. She opened the wrong door. Quincy was at a white table, dipping bread on a gravy-pooled plate. He raised his eyes to her, returned them to his meal. For no reason she said, “I'm sorry.” He ignored her. She shut the door on the warmth and light. The studio door had been in back of her at dinner. She moved toward it. Reyes passed her now, ignored her.

She hurried to reach the studio before the Indian woman could vanish. She wasn't quick enough. Her hand was on the latch but there was compulsion to look toward the arch. She stifled a scream. She knew better than to scream in face of danger. He stood there peering at her. The latch clicked under her hand but it didn't give.

He said, “You were with Maxl.”

She must get the door open before he came nearer. His boxlike shoes clodded on the rough brick floor. Desperately she took her eyes from him long enough to press her hand down on the latch. The door opened toward her, she had to step back, nearer to him, to widen it. Two steps below was the studio, lighted, warm, faintly tuned with music. At this end narrow, a mere aisle, beyond a wide room where Blaike and Popin stood near a great fire, one head bent, one lifted, earnest in conversation.

Out of her constricted throat her voice came, a rasp: “You have company, Popin.” She managed the steps without tripping, feeling the weight of his shadow behind her. She almost ran to the men, the clod of his shoes inexorable behind her. Not until she stood clutching Blaike's sleeve did her breath come again.

Popin, head sparrow-tipped, hands in his soft brown pockets, sauntered toward the waiter. “I sent word I would see you in a moment.” The voice was gentle as ever, gentle with rebuke.

“I followed the girl.” There was no accent but the tongue was guttural, “I'm tired of waiting. I have waited all day.”

“You must be tired.” Blaike moved away from Julie. He was hearty. “And cold as well. Lay off your coat— your hat. Popin and I have been hatching a hot rum punch.”

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.”