Blaike passed her a cigarette, took one himself, lighted them. He spoke to the driver: “Shall I light one for you? Where's Popin?”
The Indian took one hand off the wheel, held it back for the cigarette. The car swerved in the snow and he righted it while he took the cigarette, put it between his lips. “He send me. He do not like snow.”
“Who does?” Julie echoed faintly. Evidently neither did Jacques.
“Good for ranges,” the driver stated. He puffed on the cigarette. The car rattled and clanked and crawled along the snow-wet road. They had covered about three miles before the headlights of another car flashed into the mirror. Stolidly the Indian tipped it. She could not resist looking out behind. Her gloved fingers rubbed a circle clear on the back window. The car must be at least a half mile back. It could overtake this turtle driver with effortless ease. She turned to the front again. The following car couldn't, if it obeyed wartime regulations. The speedometer here was holding 35. No hired driver would risk losing a ration card, not for any amount of money. Money wasn't today's most formidable means of exchange. It couldn't restore lost privilege and power.
She was suddenly brutally conscious of the interchange between this driver and the waiter, back there at the intersection. There were no penalties for a staged breakdown, for losing the way. She bent toward the front seat. Her voice was careless; even Blaike leaning back against the worn upholstery, his hat pulled over his eyes, couldn't know her teeth were set.
She began, “We thought we'd been deserted. Particularly when that man went over to your car. What did he want?” She had to wait for answer. The driver was turning now off the highway to a right-hand side road. The wheels slipped, quivered, righted again. This road was leading directly into a mountain. There was no sign of habitation. Her voice shrilled slightly, “Is this the way to Popin's?”
“Maybe a mile now,” the Indian said.
She repeated, with careless curiosity, holding her fear in tight check, “What did that man want?”
“He ask am I a taxi.” There was a grunt of disgust. “I am not a taxi.”
She sat back, looked again out the rear window. No headlights showed. The road was winding upward toward the mountainous mass. Blaike hadn't said a word. She glanced at him. He seemed to be asleep. If unruffled breathing were indication, he was asleep. Her eyebrows drew together. Why? What had he found in that definitely nine o'clock town to so tire him that he could sleep peacefully now in the midst of storm, uncharted roads, a strange driver? For a moment she believed his story, invalided from the R.A.F. But he was too American. Yet— there had been, were Americans, in the Royal Air Force. He hadn't stated he was English. There were American dialects which were scarcely descernible from British. He did not stir under her scrutiny. She took another peer backward.
No car was following. Their own, piloted by the silent young Indian, moved on and on into the night and the storm. Again she felt that frightening isolation from all of remembered reality. Actually where was she? Where was she going? The relief was painful when she could see the dark blur at which the car was slowing, in the headlights, the outline of a low-lying adobe house. Her hand flew out to her companion. She must have touched the bad knee, for Blaike started and his hand went automatically to protect it before he pushed the hat back from his sleep-blinded eyes.
She said, “I think we're here.”
The car had stopped. No light showed from the small house. Unaccountably she edged back into the corner of the car. She was reluctant to step out into the cold darkness, to invade this unwelcoming place.
The Indian said, “This Popin's house.” From him it was impatience.
“I hope he's at home.” Her laughter was shaky.
Blaike put away the robe. “If he isn't, he's having visitors just the same. Even if I have to break a window. I'm hungry enough to eat a tin can.” He opened the door, helped her out.
The few paces to the dark walls were through deepening snow. She jerked back as the door opened before either she or Blaike could touch it. And then a second wave of relief in the short space of time overwhelmed her. For there was warmth and golden light to be seen beyond the door. Popin's gentle eyes and voice offered welcome to them.
Popin shut out the cold, the blackness. He shook his head. “I did not know you would come in this storm. It is a bad one. I should have called you but my telephone has been out since early.” He held out his hands for her coat and hat. “The snow came more soon here.” He hung her wraps in the hall closet, took Blaike's as well, then led down one step into the living-room. It was a good room, small enough for friendliness, comfortable with brown leather, warm with dark red and brown of Navajo weaving, with blue of Chimayo. A sweet pilion log fire burned bright in the Indian fireplace. On the mantel were two five-branched candelabra of black Indian pottery holding shimmering waxen candlelight.
“I did not know you would get through. The radio says the roads are being closed.” He passed a cup of warm spiced wine to Julie. “Do not be distressed. I can give you lodging this night if this is true. There is the guest room above. You, sir, I should be happy for you to use my humble room.”
“And you sleep in the barn?” Blaike took his goblet, tasted. “Good, this.”
Popin twinkled. “I sleep in the studio. On the couch, yes. A most comfortable couch. A studio couch.” He laughed once. “I have slept there before. We westerners are hospitable.” He tinkled and twinkled, sliding his hands into the pockets of his worn brown corduroy jacket.
Julie was relaxed. That easily it had been arranged.
She would not find it necessary to ask refuge here. It had been offered. Even Blaike's statement didn't disturb her: “Good of you, Mr. Popin, if we can't make it back to the bus.” He had slept; he didn't know how bad the roads were, the progress of the storm. She had faith in worsening snow. Her eyes lifted as the young Indian driver, in overalls and moccasins, entered through the far door.
He said without expression, “I put the car in, Popin. Too much snow. Reyes says come to dinner.”
“Thank you, Quincy.” The Indian went out. Popin said, “Finish the cups before we dine. I trust Quincy— it is actually Qi'in Tse— I say it better like Quincy in Massachusetts— I trust he brought you in comparative safety. I sent for you against his judgment. He said no one would come in this storm. No one wise.” He took Julie's goblet. Blaike set his on the table. Popin led the way to the arch at the far end of the right wall. Two steps up into the dining-room. Another Indian fireplace, another candle-lit room. “Nonetheless, I plan the dinner. If you do not come, tomorrow there is hash.” He sat at the head of the table. “But happily you come.” He raised his voice. “Reyes, bring the feast.”
The woman's face was an Aztec carven mask, not young, not old, not unpleasant, but unsmiling. She wore a print housedress, dull black oxfords. Only her face was Indian— and the quietness of her hands.
“Chicken from my own chicken yard,” Popin boasted. “Carrots, garlic, onions, herbs, squash— all from my own small garden plot. I do not art all of the time. When war makes want, it is well to eat one's own soil, yes?”
He too was a refugee. He had known want, hunger, fear. That was why he helped the helpless. If Blaike were not present she could speak now of Fran. But she didn't know Blaike's true purpose yet.
Popin brushed the shadow aside. “After dinner I take you to my studio, through that door behind Julie. You will see my paintings for which you inquire.”
Incredible, but only then she remembered Jacques. “Where is Jacques? He was to meet us you said.”
Popin raised soft eyebrows. “Where is Jacques? Absorbed in his work, doubtless. An earnest young man. Often he forgets the dinner bell.” He smiled at her. “He does not starve. Reyes remembers him.”
“He does live with you.”
“He does and he does not. There is a guest house there. Always on the rancheritos there are small guest houses, here, there, everywhere.” His gesture over his shoulder was in a va
gue direction toward the kitchen. “Jacques occupies my guest house:”
“What is his work?” Blaike was too carefully casual.
Popin shook his head. “I do not understand much. He is mechanical. I artistic. Here the minds do not meet. I cannot be mechanical.” Popin had been deliberately indefinite. Mistrust, of Blaike.
Julie forestalled further questioning. “Jacques was always that way. Fran— my cousin, Fran Guille"— she explained carefully to Popin—"often said that Jacques was better than half a dozen trained mechanics. He always serviced Fran's plane before the war.”
Blaike asked lazily, “Didn't he ever want to fly himself?”
“He could. Fran taught him.” She wasn't certain after she had spoken. The Blackbirder could be Jacques. He held a pilot's license. She filibustered into Fran's air accomplishments. She held the conversation as long as it was possible.
Blaike had waited for her pause. “Why wasn't Fran in the French Air Corps?”
She said slowly, “France wanted peace. There was no Air Corps to speak of before the war.”
“Or even then,” Popin said softly.
She agreed. “Fran was in the United States on business when war broke. It was impossible for him to return. Events moved too quickly to the fall.”
“Perhaps he is now fighting with the Free French,” Blaike suggested.
“Perhaps,” she said. It was where he would be if he were not imprisoned. Grounded. “I do not know where he is.”
Popin changed the subject eagerly. “This is Mexican chocolate. Perhaps it will please you as it does me. You will notice a strong cinnamon flavor. It makes a good pudding as well, I find. Tonight, however, I give you baba au rhum. In honor of a new friendship.” Again his face shaded. “Although the new is out of one broken forever. I have thought much of that poor young man, Maxl. It is true. He is dead. I have heard this from friends in New York. A lively young man. So pleased to be in these United States, so eager to begin a new and useful life.” He concluded, “Too bad.”
Blaike asked, again with that studied casualness, “Your friends didn't send you any information as to why he was killed?”
Popin's eyes looked beyond the candles. “The police do not know this. Only they know it was violence which killed him.”
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 laz
y 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 Blackbirder Page 9
