The Blackbirder

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Fran wouldn't do it. He loved her. Not as he loved other women, the sleek sophisticated animals who arched at his touch, but she had been his little sister. He had had love for her. It could not be eradicated by expediency. She would tell him on the plane, he was free to return to Coral. She wouldn't attempt to hold him by any artificial thread that might once have bound them. But there wasn't to be any plane.

  Why didn't Blaike come? Fran's fingers stroking the nape of her neck, touching her throat. She shivered not as once she had but in horror. They were sinewy fingers, they might be flexing for strength. Popin's cat eyes blinking at the fire. What had Blaike said? An opportunist. Would he blink at murder if the loot were sufficient?

  Fran's voice came softly: “Where is the necklace, Julie? I want to see it.”

  Her laughter sounded silly. There was nothing at which to laugh. But she spattered it. “I wear it. I can't show it to you now, darling. It's safe.”

  “But where?” He was insistent. He didn't want to waste time after on a dead body.

  Her teeth were chattering. She countered, “Where do you think?”

  “I want to know.” There was an evil strength in him that had been there before, but she hadn't recognized what it was then. She had dismissed it as temper, taken care always not to anger him.

  She glanced at Popin, spoke rapidly under her breath, “In a money belt, of course.” She lifted her voice. “Fran how did it happen you sailed to America when you did? Was it that Paul knew then what was coming, didn't want you subjected to it?”

  “No, it was business. I told you at Cherbourg that day, remember? Business for the Bank of France. That was why I couldn't take you with me. It was state business.”

  “You told me that.” She couldn't be in worse danger than she was. “But if Paul wanted France overthrown, why was he attempting to save it?”

  “Why bother your head?” He kissed her; she didn't allow her rigidity to be sensed. “My father didn't want France overthrown, merely the corrupt government of those days. He wished her returned to her hereditary rulers. He took what he considered the best way to achieve that purpose.”

  She said, “I wonder if he believes now that it was best.”

  Fran didn't answer at once. Had he heard a car? His reply was soft. “I wonder. I'm thankful you and I are out of it, Julie. Let's have another drink, Popin.”

  She jumped a little as the cat eyes opened. “Yes, Fran.” He started back to the far table.

  Fran said wondering, “And you never once made contact with your bank, Julie?”

  “I couldn't. I didn't know how. Which is it?”

  “Manhattan National.” Where she'd held a deposit box. “A man named Tyler takes care of your properties. Until I talked with him— ”

  “You talked with him?”

  His eyes lidded. “Yes.” Suddenly he laughed outright. “That was one reason for the trip, Julie. My father wanted a bigger hand in directing your affairs. Tyler said— but it would not interest you what Tyler said. He was outraged at the idea.” He frowned. “And outrageous, I must add.” He turned to her gently. “But you are no longer nineteen, are you, my Julie? You have come of age. You have passed into your heritage.” His fingers touched her again and she was as frozen as if they were angered. And he laughed.

  Where was Popin? Had the request for a drink been a signal? She half turned on the couch where she might see behind her. She wouldn't be taken unawares. The little man was approaching, bearing three glasses on a tray. She was afraid to take the drink. She put it to her lips and she did not swallow.

  Popin sat again by the fire. His voice sounded strange. “What time is it now, Fran?”

  “Only fifteen minutes.” He drank. He said, “Fifteen minutes, Julie, and we may fly away.”

  The knocker pounded against his words. Julie quivered back into the corner of the couch. Blaike hadn't returned her here to die.

  Fran set down his glass. He was on his feet. He spoke to Popin, “We are at home to no one.”

  The knocker was hullabaloo. If they didn't answer it, she would. She'd leap, run, fling open the door before either man could restrain her.

  “To no one,” Fran repeated. His head tilted to Popin. “Look out.”

  Popin crept to the window. He peered between the curtains. “I can see no one.”

  The pounding rose; a voice was heard, distorted by the night.

  Popin was uneasy. “We cannot have disturbance. It is not wise. Someone might be passing.”

  Fran hesitated. Julie listened for the knocker. It would come again. He wouldn't have gone without entry. She had ‘to speak. She urged casually, “Answer it, Fran. We can't listen to that racket longer.” But there was no racket. It had ceased.

  Fran's hand was in his pocket. He brought out a small automatic. It lay in his palm. He said, “I will answer it.”

  She didn't move, she didn't scream. She was schooled to wait. Blaike had surely faced a gun before. It wasn't essential to warn him. Fran's feet were jungle silent, approaching the door. He opened it a small space, his hand in his jacket pocket. He opened wider, looked out, closed it. Within her there was anguish. Blaike couldn't believe they were elsewhere; he wouldn't have gone away. He had.

  Fran returned alone. “Whoever it was has gone now.” He reached for his drink. He lounged beside her again. “Finish your drink, sweet. Warm you up before we leave.”

  From behind them the voice spoke. “Here I am.” Fran was up and turned, a few drops from his glass splashing on her skirt. She didn't have to turn. She knew the British accent. Popin didn't stir. His eyes were wide.

  Fran demanded. “How did you get in?”

  Blaike came forward. He set his small bag by the hearth. “The back door was open. I pounded at the front but no answer. Figured you must be in the studio. Hello, Popin.” Mild surprise came over his mouth. “Miss Guille. I didn't expect to find you here.”

  She answered with the irritation he had requested. “I am here.” She turned her shoulder to him, watched Fran.

  Popin said, “Spike, this is Roderick Blaike. Mr. Blaike, Mr. Guild.” He was nervous.

  Blaike wasn't. “I figured you must be Spike Guild. What time do we take off?”

  “What makes you believe I am flying?”

  “Heard it in town.”

  “He couldn't have, Spike,” Popin said quickly.

  “I did,” Blaike repeated.

  “Who told you?”

  “Schein.”

  “Schein didn't know!” Popin's voice cracked.

  “He told me.” Blaike spoke directly to Fran. “He'll be along too if he can make it. We're both ready. Here's my fare.” He opened a billfold, counted down ten one hundred dollar bills. He held them out to Fran.

  Fran eyed them. He picked up his drink. “I can't take you tonight.”

  “Why not?” He ruffed the money. “It's all here.”

  “You'll have to wait. I haven't room tonight.”

  “Who else?” Blaike looked at each one in turn. “There are five seats.”

  “I'm carrying freight.”

  He had told Coral he was picking up freight below the border. Fran didn't want another passenger. Julie was still as death. No witnesses.

  “I haven't room for but one passenger. Julie was here first.”

  “I have to go tonight.” Blaike was quiet but unyielding. “There are British agents in Santa Fe. They arrived this afternoon. I must get away tonight. Leave the girl behind.”

  Fran's hesitation was diminutive, while his eyes flicked from the bills to Julie. He said, “I assured Julie she should go tonight.”

  “Take her on the next load. It can't matter to her.”

  She spoke thickly, “It does matter. I am in danger here. I must go with Fran.” She hoped he would understand if anything went wrong, if Fran forced her to leave at the point of that gun.

  “You'll go,” Fran stated. “Blaike can wait. Popin will put him up.”

  “You promised me.” Blaike
was belligerent. “I paid Popin a deposit the other evening. I was to go on the next trip. You can't put me off now. I must get away.” He paced to the window, turned. “What's so important about the girl getting away tonight?”

  “That is her affair,” Fran stated smoothly. He was at ease now in the face of Blaike's seeming upset. “I am no more than the pilot, Mr. Blaike. Nevertheless"— his brows arched—"it is I who make the decisions.”

  “You are the Blackbirder?” Blaike demanded.

  “I am the Blackbird?” Fran laughed. “Because the plane I fly is black, I am the Blackbird?”

  “Blackbirder,” Blaike corrected.

  “Blackbird. Blackbirder.” Fran shrugged lightly. “These English words. Come, Mr. Blaike, you will have a drink. Popin will prepare it.” He consulted his watch. “You will find it pleasant at Popin's. All of his guests do. And safe. It will not be long. A matter of a few days, I assure you.” His hand touched Julie's. It was meant to reassure her of the falsity of his statement. “Julie and I must be on our way.”

  She didn't know Blaike's next move. She sat tight. Did he realize that Fran was armed? Fran had her coat, was holding it to her. She rose, let him help her into it.

  Blaike crossed to them. “Wait a minute. You can throw off some of the freight. Your boss wouldn't know. Carry it on the next flight. Why toss good money away? I can't promise to sit here until you're back again. I may have to run, find another way across the border. If you're determined to take the girl, all right, but— ”

  The knocker was a thunderclap. The F.B.I. at last. But Blaike didn't expect this interruption. Obvious in the jerk of his head toward the hall, the break-off of his sentence.

  Fran scowled, “What now?”

  Popin opened his eyes, frightened.

  The knocker fell again.

  Blaike demanded. “What can that be?”

  Popin began, “Perhaps I should answer— ”

  “I.” Fran's hand was in his pocket clenched. This time he strode.

  He barely touched the latch and the door was pushed into his face. Schein followed. He blustered, “Why was I not informed you fly tonight?”

  Fran said curtly, “Because I have room for no more passengers. You must wait.”

  “You will take me. The others will wait.” Schein's black shoes were thuds into the room. When his nearsighted eyes saw Blaike, Julie, he halted. “It is these for which I would have to wait?”

  Fran had followed him. His hand remained in his pocket. “I'm taking my cousin, Julie Guille. No one else. There is room for no one else.”

  Schein said with slow menace, “The police will be here tomorrow. You take me tonight. You got me into this; you will see I get out of it, or else— ”

  “Or else what?” Fran was insolent. “Get your things on, Julie. We're leaving.” He faced Schein again. “Or else what, Bertie? You'll talk? You'll have a hard time convincing the police I had anything to do with a death in New York while I was in New Mexico. In case you succeed, have them look for me in Old Mexico.”

  Julie was buttoning, unbuttoning, buttoning the top button of her coat. She didn't know why, she only knew she was doing it. Blaike had pushed back his hat. He plumped down on the couch as if this were planned diversion. Popin watched cautiously from his chair the mottling of Schein's jowls, the apoplectic anger of his corded fists.

  Schein choked, “You are a fool. You are a fool.”

  Fran brought out his hand. His mouth smiled. He pointed the automatic at the man's belly. He said, “I'm running things here, Bertie. I've reminded you of that many times. Again I remind you. If you are good, Popin will put you up until I return for you. You and your friend Blaike. If you aren't— and I will find out so easily— it is the chair for murder in New York, is it not? You'll make a fine roast, my fat friend. I will only be sorry that I cannot witness it. You are ready, Julie? Go to the back door.”

  She moved like a china doll. Blaike didn't look at her. She backed to the hearth. Blaike couldn't mean to let her go like this, with a murderer. He didn't know she was to be murdered too. She hesitated there by the fire. She had to move again, retrieve her hat, gloves and bag from the table. She didn't. Her eyes were hypnotized by the cruel malice scimitared on Fran's lips, the rage on Schein's thick red face.

  “I don't like you,” Fran was saying to the man. “I've never liked you.” He spat. “Fat Boche swine. You giving orders to me! Orders from that popeyed idiot you heilsqueak to. Fah! You turn my stomach. Both of you. I'm through with you— ” His hand lifted slightly.

  It happened then and she caught the edge of the mantel to steady herself. The thick fist crunched Fran's hand. Schein twisted the gun away, smashed it across Fran's face. Fran fell back. The hand which came away from his cheek was wet red. The sickened grunt was from her own lungs.

  Horror was shaking the fat waiter. “You were going to kill me! You were going to shoot me down like a dog!” He shouted suddenly, “Stand away!”

  Fran didn't listen. His eyes were insane. He sprang, his sinewy fingers tensed. There were four shots. Automatically she counted them. And she moved slightly from the candelabra touching her hair. She put her hand to the singe. Fran lay on the floor twitching, face down. Schein held the gun steady. Popin's hands covered his eyes. Blaike was on his feet. Suddenly she started forward, anguish in her throat. “Fran!” It welled, broke there, "Fran!"

  Schein commanded. “Everyone stay where you are.”

  She shrank back as if she had felt the impact of the gun Schein turned on her.

  “He is dead,” he stated coldly.

  Blaike sank down again. “Well.” He lit a cigarette.

  Her eyes were scorched, blinded. “Fran— dead— ”

  “Do not disturb yourself,” Popin pleaded.

  She made a simple statement: “He was my husband.” She sensed the turn of Blaike's head, Schein's scowl.

  Popin said, “Yes, I learned that. He meant to kill you. To inherit— ” His hands apologized.

  “I know.” Her voice was torn open. “But he is dead.”

  She didn't know the new Fran. He had never been real. She could remember only someone tall and gallant and gay. Cherbourg. The secret marriage in the drab office, secret because Paul would object, object even to his own son controlling her fortune. Fran didn't say it that way, secret because she was young. Fran saying goodby to her that same night. “I can't take you, Julie. This is a dangerous mission. And no one must know of us until I return.” No one had known. No one had ever known. She had waited with her secret. And he. My love was false from hour of birth. He hadn't married her to get control of the money! No! He had loved her then, that one night.

  Blaike suggested, “You'd better stop that mourning. He wasn't worth a damn. You'll make yourself sick.”

  She said only, “Death is so permanent.” She had loved him always, beyond need of forgiving.

  Schein announced, “We are going now. You"— the gun pointed at Blaike—"you, Mr. R.A.F., will pilot the plane.”

  “All of us?” Blaike asked carelessly.

  “You, me. The girl?”

  “She is very rich,” Popin whispered.

  Schein decided. “She may be of some use.”

  “Popin?” Blaike raised an eyebrow.

  “We do not need him.”

  The beard shook in terror. “I too am useful. See how useful I have been to Fran. See— I can help.” He quivered. “I don't want to be left behind. Heil Hitler! I will help you in many ways.”

  Schein pointed the gun.

  Popin screamed, “No!” He flung his arm up over his face.

  Blaike said, “Might as well take him along. He can be useful when he isn't too scared.”

  Schein scorned but he turned the gun away, back to Blaike. “Now,” he ordered.

  Blaike leaned back against the couch. “And suppose I refuse to pilot you. You needn't jab that gun in my direction, you can't frighten me. And if you kill me you won't ever get away. The Manhattan police will
get you on Maxl's death. The F.B.I. will get you as the Blackbirder's receiver in New York. And for that pro-Nazi beer garden you ran, yes, and impersonating an officer of the government— ”

  Schein's face was fury. “You did not fool me, not once. I knew you were of the F.B.I.”

  “But you couldn't find out from any of your spies because I wasn't on the books, eh? I'm not on them. I'll tell you that much. So it's better you believe I'm from the R.A.F. and that you can bully me into taking the plane up. And once we're in the air with your gun at my spine, I'll protect my own life by flying the course you order, yes? It won't work, Bertie. The F.B.I. will be here at any moment. Even if you leave them four corpses you'll still be caught. But I don't believe you are going to shoot. The minute you do you'll cut off any chance, however faint, of convincing me I should perform as your pilot.”

  “The F.B.I. will not be here,” Schein smiled slowly. “They wait in Tesuque for a call from you. There will be no call. Because Papa Popin's telephone wires are not yet fixed.”

  “That is so,” Popin spread his hands. “The company it has too little help and it is very hard to get the materials. The storm did great damage.”

  “So you are here, Mr. Blaike,” Schein said, “and I have the gun. It kills well. If you are F.B.I. or if you are R.A.F. makes no difference. You will choose to help me.”

  “I don't,” Blaike said.

  Schein was patient. “You will now be patriotic, hein? It does not impress me.” There was cruelty deepening under his eyes. “For each man his price. I do not offer you death. I offer you the girl to go free— or that she die. You know Maxl was following her in New York. You know why? There are those in Paris who would have her delivered. Perhaps if I kill you I do not go free. But I will make certain before I am captive that she is in the hands of those who will return her to Paris. To death in Paris. Not pleasantly.” His smile was animal. “We know ways of death. Unpleasant ways.”

  Blaike's words were choked back in his throat. He hesitated. She didn't. She lifted the candelabra and flung its burning flares into Schein's gross face. He howled, the gun falling as his hands went up to protect his eyes. It slid almost to her feet. She picked it up quickly, held it pointed at him. She kept it steady while Blaike stamped on the rug, Schein beat at his coat.