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.
They walked up the portal to the lobby. She said, “I'm stopping at the desk for some money. I gave what I had away.” She went directly to the gray-haired woman. He didn't follow too closely. He was there but he was dividing interest with persons in the lobby.
She said, “I'd like to get my belongings.” She dug into the jeans for her coin purse, removed the receipt, passed it across.
The woman brought the envelope while Julie signed for it. She tore it open, boldly took out the money belt and removed some bills, rolled it again and thrust it into a pocket. Blaike was watching now but it didn't matter. She prattled blithely, “I always divide my money when I travel. Once I didn't. On the way to Ostend. I had to walk the streets until I could get word through to Paris. La Cantina? They advertise a supper.” It was twenty minutes to midnight. “My rations have been pretty scant the last few days. I'll buy you supper, too. I've never been tailed before. Isn't that the word? Not openly, I mean. I have been followed.”
He asked, “How old are you, Julie?”
“I was twenty-two in June.”
“So young?”
She said quietly, “Not so young. Some things make you grow old quickly— death is one. The death of your country. And your friends.”
La Cantina was scarcely a quarter filled. They found a table,
She said, “If you don't mind shall we eat without question, as if we were friends? I'm really very tired. Tomorrow— tomorrow you may start all over again.”
“All right, Julie.” He gave the order: two suppers. “We'll pretend we've just met. We're two normal, healthy, happy— ”
“Americans,” she finished. “Only Americans are even a part of that today.”
“You're in college. I'm training at Kirtland Field. Or is there a war?”
“There's no war. Not anywhere in the world. No one wants war. There aren't even madmen or greedy opportunists who want war. Were both in college. I have on a pink sweater and a blue skirt and those brown and white oxfords American college girls wear. Like the girl I saw in here the night I arrived. She was young and pretty and— and safe.”
He said, “Watch it. You're forgetting.”
“I'm sorry. I won't again.”
“You will.” He spoke soberly. “You can't help it. We are in a war. We can't forget. It's better that way. Until we can finish the job. We'll talk of after the war. What do you plan then? Back to Paris?”
“I'll never go back. I couldn't. It died for me. I wouldn't want to live with ghosts.” She began to eat. “I'd like to stay here. I'm not really French, you know. My name is Marlebone. My father and mother were Americans.”
His fork touched the plate. “Not— Prentiss Marlebone? His face was wondering.
“Yes. I used my, uncle's name, Guille, because it simplified matters. He and Aunt Lily were my guardians. I lived in their house. Aunt Lily was my mother's sister. Both my parents died in an accident when I was very young. I don't remember them.”
“Prentiss Marlebone,” he repeated. “No wonder you were Ritz Bar.”
She apologized. “I know. My father was a wealthy man. Enormously wealthy, I believe.”
“One of the great American fortunes. You're the only heir?”
&n
bsp; She nodded. “My father was an only child, son of an only child. I don't know of any others.”
“No wonder— ” He broke off suddenly. He said, “No wonder your uncle didn't want you to escape him. He was your guardian, you say?”
“Until my twenty-first birthday. But he didn't administer the Marlebone estate. The bank did that. I was sent an allowance each month. Paul administered the allowance.”
“I'Il bet.” He attacked his steak. “And if anything had happened to you, Aunt Lily would be your heir?”
She raised her eyes quickly. “I don't know. I never thought of that. You mean if I'd been— ” She shook her head. “No. He wouldn't have done that. Just to get the money. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. Not with the Nazis in Paris. The bank wouldn't have sent American money to Nazi-controlled France.”
“You're pretty lucky that was the case,” he stated dryly. “And that you had the guts to run away. Maybe you've illusions left about Paul, Duc de Guille. But five'Il get you ten he'd turn his own mother over to the Gestapo for money.”
She said, “You seem to know Paul.”
“Observation plus case history. I've never met the old buzzard. I'd say you're lucky to be in America.”
“Yes. Lucky.” She should have been able to say it with heart. He didn't realize that although to all refugees America was the land of hope, to all the hope couldn't be fulfilled. Some were too deeply smeared by evil before they arrived. Some were Guilles. She had thought Fran lucky to be safe in this country. Now he was in an unknown prison. She herself was an uninvited visitor, deliberately, maliciously entangled in two murders. She and Fran wouldn't even be lucky if they could get away. They would still be hunted. They were among the lost wood children of the present debacle, doomed to wander on and on until the invading ants were exterminated.
She only half heard Blaike's remarks. Something about Midas. Something about not caring for anything unless it were made of gold. He was still talking of Paul.
She answered. without consciousness, “He cares about only one other thing. His son.” It was out of her mouth. She had been determined not to mention Fran. Vaguely, intuitively she had known under pressure that Blaike and Schein had angled for that name.
Blaike's eyebrows were skeptical. “That a fact?”
It was. Paul had two gods. Money and son. And because of his greed— greed alone had welcomed the Nazis— he had lost both. Her money. His son. She wanted him to know. Some day he would know what rewards he and his breed had reaped.
Blaike wasn't allowing the name to be flung aside now. He asked, “Exactly what relation is Fran to you?”
She pretended not to understand the import of that. She hesitated. “Blood relation? None at all. He was Uncle Paul's child by a first marriage.”
“You knew him well?”
“But of course.” Know him well? Know Fran well? She remembered the first time she had seen him, a slight dark boy of about ten years. She couldn't have been more than three or four. His shining brown eyes. His laughter when she pressed on him the golden-haired doll, her cherished doll. She had fallen in love with him, blindly, totally, hopelessly from that baby moment. The Prince Charming of her little girl years. The hero of her school days. And the realization in those few years before war foreshadowed that she had grown up to him, could meet him on equal terms. He was the only one of that family whom she knew at all. Not Aunt Lily, living only to preserve her own exquisite shell. Not Paul with nothing in his vain, mean face but the coddling of his own expensive whims. Not those two who had deliberately welcomed the conqueror as a preservation of their own decadent ways of life. She knew Fran, yes. She knew his answer to the Nazis who had come to him in American refuge, demanded he join with his father. One answer, the acceptance of prison instead.
She was wasting time here. She yawned. “Sorry. I'm falling asleep in your face.” She put out her hand. “I invited you to dine with me, sir. And I still owe you bus fare.”
He held the check. “You can pay another time. You're under my care tonight.”
They left the room, started back to the elevator. He said, “How did you come to know Fran so well?”
“We grew up together.”
“He didn't live with his father.”
“Not after he was older.” She raised her eyes. “Did you truly know him?”
He nodded. “Believe it or not, I did, Julie. I lived in Paris a good many years.” He laughed. “I even met you once. And you don't remember. You were a regular Conover queen. If you don't understand that, I'll say it this way. You were one of the loveliest youngsters I ever laid eyes on.”
She flushed. She was embarrassed at her embarrassment it had been three years since anyone had remembered the Julie who was young and lovely. She said somberly, “I don't look the same. I'm not the same. I'm surprised you remembered her in me.” And she asked, “That's why you were on the train, isn't it? Because you remembered. And that's why you came into my compartment. Because I'd changed so. Because you weren't certain.”
“That's about it.”
They passed his, door, went on to hers. She asked, “How did you know I'd be on that particular train?”
“I didn't.” He took her key from her, opened the door, repeated his earlier search. “All trains, buses, the airports were being watched. I hunched Grand Central. Those who don't know New York well usually gravitate to it. It's better publicized.”
“But you were on the train.”
“Only just before you, when I saw you approaching the gate.”
“How did you get a ticket?”
“I didn't need one. A place would be made for me on any train I wanted to take.”
He must be a government agent. And was it because he wanted her on that train that she too had been able to procure a ticket? And why did he allow her to set out on this journey? She knew but she wanted statement. “Why were you following me?”
He looked long at her before he answered. “I hoped you would lead me to the Blackbirder.” He didn't appear disappointed in his hope. He went away jauntily despite his limp.
Chapter Six
ASSAULT ON AN INNOCENT GIRL
She had everything now to leave for good. It had been so simple. She unloosed her belt, fastened the money bag about her waist. The necklace shimmered safely in its compartment. Her pockets held all necessities, even the flashlight she'd inadvertently carried from Ansteys'. She sat down on the bed, consulted her watch. Ten past midnight. Plan a half hour to get to bed, to sleep. No longer than that. He still believed she would lead him to the Blackbirder. But not tonight. He believed she would go to bed tonight.
At twenty minutes past she turned out her lamp. There was no sound in the corridor outside. Unfortunately no keyholes or transom. Perhaps fortunately. She couldn't look out but no one could look in.
She opened the windows. The balcony below hers was dark, the small courtyard darker. If Dame Fortuna held the wheel, it was safe. By easy stages. Thirty minutes past. She put on the mackinaw, fastened it, bound her hair in the bandanna, climbed through the windows onto her tiny balcony. No one in sight below. Blaike's windows were on the other side of the corridor overlooking the patio.
She straddled the rail, clung to it with her hands, lowered herself to the one below. All quiet. Another drop, not too far to the ground. In the darkness here she couldn't be seen. A padlock and chain fastened the gate leading to the street. Danger now. She moved wirily, boosting herself up on the chain, climbing over, dropped rapidly to the street. The normally deserted back street. Deserted now.
She didn't hesitate; she turned left, up the narrow pavement, past the convent, walking quickly, quietly, purposefully. Around the corner, the Cathedral shadowy across. She met no one. There were cars, not many. She looked in each as she passed. No one seemed to lock a car in this town. She tried the third. Keys in the ignition. Enough gas registered. Calmly she drove away.
No one tried to stop her. Around the Plaza, up the wide streets past the Cit
y Hall, the police headquarters. Round the Federal building, out on the Tesuque highway. The road was passable now. Mountains lowering on either side. They couldn't hurt her. She didn't think failure; she was certain of success. Blaike wouldn't try to reach her until morning. The trip downstairs had accomplished both planned purposes. Retrieval of her possessions, lulling of any suspicion Blaike might have of her this night. Over the crest of the hill, no lights following.
In the morning he'd waste time looking for her, checking with the desk, the bus, the airport, the highway patrol. He wouldn't believe she dared run back to the place from which she'd fled. Before he checked on Popin she would be hidden. Popin must have hidden other refugees. He would keep her out of sight until the Blackbirder could fly.
Tesuque. Such a short journey now. And on. She wasn't certain of the turnoff. She clocked it, about four miles. It was there. This side road was still snow-packed but without danger. No one was hunting her tonight. A mile and she turned in to the lightless house. Popin might be sleeping. She knew his bedroom window. If she couldn't rouse him otherwise, she'd rap on it.
She went up to the front door, let the heavy knocker thud. She waited, watching the road. It remained quiescent, dark. The door opened just a little and she saw his face peering into the night. He didn't recognize her when she pushed inside. She suddenly realized. The bandanna hiding her hair, the work jacket, the pants. She cried softly, “Popin, it's me. I got away from them,” and then she saw over his shoulder by the firelight into the living-room.
Without volition she began to tremble. Her knees turned to water. Within her there was a wrench of physical pain. She moved one step, another. It was true. Her cry was broken. “Fran— oh, my dear— Fran!”
He rose uncertainly when she pushed past Popin, stumbled down the step, across to him. He didn't know her, not at first. His voice came wondering, disbelieving. “Julie— it's Julie.”
She was in his arms tightly, never to leave them again. She couldn't speak, she couldn't move. She kept whispering his name as if it had been lost from her as he had been. “Fran— Fran— Fran— ”
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