The Blackbirder (21 page)

Julie took one breath. She walked up and rang the bell.

The porch light beamed. She held her fists clenched. A man opened the door, the same young rumpled professor she'd seen at the station. She asked, “Professor Otis Alberle?”

“Yes?”

She saw beyond standing in the living-room the grizzled woman, in a housedress now. Julie called, “Please. It's I.”

The man's puzzled head turned toward the older woman. She came into the hall.

Julie said, “Don't you remember? You told me should I need— ”

The man didn't stop her. She stepped into the hall. The woman said, “Why, it's the girl I told you about. The one from the train, Otis.”

Julie said, “I do need help.” Her voice faded. “I need it terribly.”

The woman's name was Mrs. Helm. She said, “Now whatever you have to tell us can wait until you've had this hot milk. I know when a person's used up. I haven't been a settlement nurse for years in Chicago for nothing. I can tell a person's condition quick enough.”

Her son-in-law had a mild smile. “I'm sorry we've no extra coffee.”

“Hot milk's better,” Mrs. Helm stated. “Time like this it's better. You drink it up then you can tell us anything you want. I spotted you on the train. I told Otis, didn't I, Otis? I said, ‘That girl's in trouble. She doesn't want anyone to know but she's in trouble.’ Cool as you please but every time that man— you remember the one?— looked at you, you shivered. Inside you. I know. I've seen people in trouble.” She broke off proudly. “I'm a grandmother.”

“I'm a father,” the professor twinkled. “Don't forget that, Mother Helm.”

“Your daughter?”

“A boy. Three days ago. Both of them fine. I'm staying to help out when Margie— that's my daughter— gets home from the hospital. She'll need me. You can't get help these days. The war. Feel better now?”

“Much better,” Julie said.

The two watched her, waiting, trying not to be curious, trying to ignore the unprecedented intrusion of something strange in their nice normal existence.

“I'm in trouble,” she began.

“That man?”

“Partly. I want to talk to the F.B.I. They aren't at the office tonight, Sunday, you know. I was afraid to stay alone until tomorrow, afraid if I did I wouldn't get a chance to talk to them then.”

It was like a movie, a cheap book. They were amazed to but they pretended they weren't.

“I feel— I feel ashamed coming to you this way. You don't know me. You don't know anything about me. But I didn't know what to do.”

“You did right,” Mother Helm decided. “And what good are any of us if we can't tell when a person's in trouble and give them a hand?” She looked defiance at Otis.

He said, “We'll do anything we can, Miss— ”

“Juliet Marlebone.”

“Well now, Juliet,” Mrs. Helm began, “you want to stay here tonight. No, it's no trouble at all. There's twin beds in the guest room. I can only sleep in one of them at a time. There's a bassinet, too— that room's going to be the nursery— but you won't crowd me and I won't crowd you. If Otis doesn't mind. It's Otis's house.”

The mild man couldn't have refused the dominant mother-in-law if he'd wished. But he didn't wish. He was undeniably enjoying this vicarious entrance into raw life. It wasn't something that normally dared invade the University cloister. He said, “Miss Marlebone is welcome.”

“Then tomorrow— ” Mrs. Helm looked down her nose. “Are those all the clothes you have?”

Julie nodded. “I lost mine. I borrowed these.” She took a deep breath. “I can't let you do this without knowing that it might make trouble for you.”

Mrs. Helm bristled. “Trouble? Because a friend stays the night?”

Otis was a little dubious. “You're not an escaped Nazi?”

“Look at her!” Mrs. Helm snorted. “Just look at her and ask that!”

“I'm not,” Julie told him honestly. “I'm running away from the Nazis. I've been running from them for three years. But I've done things I shouldn't in getting away. There's probably a police alarm out for me now. I hit a woman and took her coat— this one. I only borrowed it but that's hard to prove. And I stole her car— borrowed that too. It's downtown in a parking lot. I'll mail her the stub tomorrow but that won't excuse what I've done. There've been worse things than that— ”

“You've not murdered anyone?” Otis was more dubious.

“No, I haven't. But I've seen two men murdered because they spoke with me. You see, I'm not talking about little trouble when I say trouble. I haven't any right to involve you. I hadn't any right to come here. I came because I was desperate. I haven't a friend.” Her eyes were empty. “Those I thought were friends— aren't.” She held her hands tightly together. “I don't want you to be in trouble. I don't want you to treat me as a guest. If you'd only let me hide tonight in your attic or your basement. Then you could pretend you didn't know I was there. I wouldn't ask that only I must stay safe until I can talk with the F.B.I.”

Mrs. Helm Was subdued now. “You can't have done anything really bad or you wouldn't be trying to reach the F.B.I.”

“I have to tell you the truth. In normal times, under normal conditions, some of the things I've done would be really bad. Nor am I trying to excuse them. It is only that when you are fighting for your life, and for the life of someone dear to you, you forget values. You do things you know are wrong because you must. No one dies easily.”

Otis's eyes were quiet, understanding. He said, “We have no attic, no basement. Few southwestern homes do, Miss Marlebone. If we did, we would still offer you a bedroom. And if trouble comes, we'll stand by you, helpless as we will be in the face of real trouble. We can't do otherwise. We wouldn't know how to turn a beggar into the snow.”

“Thank you.” She raised her eyes. “I want you to know that I was as helpless as you when I left France three years ago. I learned because I had to. To live.”

“We could be forewarned. Who might come?”

Julie said, “I know I wasn't followed. But the police will have my description. If they can trace me, they might come. Or those men— the ones I believe to be Gestapo agents— they might come. I don't believe anyone will. There's only the driver of the bus to remember me, if it occurred to anyone I might stay in Albuquerque. But no one knows I have"— her smile was small—"friends here.”

“Tomorrow you will see the F.B.I.?”

“If I remain free until then. Do you think they would be willing to come to me? They do go around to investigate tips. In New York they once called on a woman I knew. I'm afraid to appear on the street. By tomorrow the police will all be waiting for me. If the police get to me first, I won't reach the F.B.I.”

Otis was dubious again.

“Because the police in Santa Fe believe that Blaike— the man in gray— and his friend are members of the F.B.I. They believe it so entirely that they released me in the custody of those men last night. I know them to be connected with the Nazis.”

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.”

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.”