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 the 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 city 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 snowpacked 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—”
He spoke at last. “Why, darling, you’re shaking all over.” He set her away. “Sit here. You’re frozen, poor child. Popin, bring some wine quickly. Let me help you.”
Fran here. It was Fran. Free. Removing her bandanna, pulling off the jacket, instilling strength and courage and love into her again. She clung to his hand. “Don’t go away.”
His brown eyes were laughing. “Silly little goose. I’m just going to put these things aside. Here, drink this.”
Popin held out the glass to her. But it was Fran who took it, brought it to her lips. Fran.
She cried to the small bearded man, “You helped him escape! Why didn’t you tell me you had planned this? I’ve been so worried.” She explained to Fran, “He couldn’t tell me. They were always here. I didn’t have a chance to talk to him. And I had to leave. Jacques—”
His sensitive mouth moved. “Popin told me.”
“The others.” She started up. “Bolt the door. They might discover I’ve gone.” Fran didn’t understand. Nor Popin. “They found me. Blaike and Schein. I ran away from them. I couldn’t be locked up. I had to stay free. I had to get back here to ask Popin to help you escape. But he’d already done it.” She smiled at the artist. “If I’d known—” She stroked Fran’s sleeve. Prison hadn’t broken him. It must have been a western one where he could work out of doors. He was tanned and strong. He’d grown bigger. The muscles under his coat sleeve were hard.
He said, “Haven’t I often told you, do not worry for me, Julie?”
She nodded. She loved him so much, the ache of it burned hot. “But always I do, Fran darling. You were locked up so long. And I was afraid you would be hurt. But you aren’t.” She smiled a little. “I think it agreed with you.”
His face darkened. “Let’s not talk about that, Julie.”
“No.” She didn’t want to see his anger, not tonight. “We must get away, Fran. As quickly as possible. Those men—Blaike and Schein—say they’re from the F.B.I. I don’t know. I think they’re Nazis. I know one thing. Whatever they pretend they’re after, I think they’re looking for you. They’ve questioned me and questioned me tonight—”
“About what?”
“About the Blackbirder. But underneath I knew there was something else. They wanted me to talk of you. And I didn’t. I didn’t mention your name.” Only that lapse with Blaike. Nothing dangerous. She sat very straight suddenly. “I understand now. They know you’ve escaped. That’s what it is. They’re looking for you because you’ve escaped. To send you back to prison. Nazis or F.B.I.—either way—they don’t want you free.”
His hand smoothed her hair. “I believe that’s about it, my sweet.”
“You know them?”
“Popin told me. They came here asking questions.”
“They killed Jacques.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Because he wouldn’t talk. Because he wouldn’t betray you. Oh, Fran.” She turned in the chair, looked up at him. “We must get away. Before it’s too late. If we can get in touch with the Blackbirder.” She appealed to Popin. “You know. You must ask him to take us out of the country quickly. I have the money to pay for it. Whatever he wants.”
“You have—? But of course.” Fran stood away from the chair, looked down at her. His eyes were bright. “It hadn’t occurred to me. The estate—”
“It isn’t the estate. I couldn’t go to the bank.” She laughed. “I didn’t know what bank to go to. You can’t imagine how many banks there are in New York, Fran. Paul never told me which it was. He wanted to manage my affairs without interference.” The bitterness tasted in her mouth.
“How have you lived?”
“I’ve worked. I’ve learned how to work. And”—she savored the surprise—“I have the necklace.”
He didn’t seem to understand. “The necklace?” The import of it reached him. “You have the de Guille necklace?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“I took it, Fran. Before I left. Because I wouldn’t leave it for the Nazis.” She shut her lips. She must be careful. She couldn’t tell him, not yet, that his own father was one of them. Give him time for peace first.
“Where is the necklace, Julie?”
“Here. I’m wearing it.” She laughed up into his puzzled face. “Not where it shows, silly.”
He shook his head, unbelieving. “You’re an incredible child, Julie.”
“Not a child now, Fran.”
“No, no longer.” His thoughts were years away. His eyes turned back to her. “But you are tired. And I keep you here talking.”
“There is so much to say, Fran. I have so much to tell you.”
“Not all in one evening. We will have time.” He smiled. “The rest of our lives to talk. You must sleep now. Popin.”
She had forgotten the bearded man nodding by the fire. His head perched awake at the call.
“Julie may remain here?”
“Anyway you wish it to be, Fran.”
“Upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a fire laid?”
Fran turned to her. “Come along. I’ll go up with you.”
Popin bowed. “Good night, Miss Julie. Pleasant dreams.”
“Good night and thank you. Thank you so much more than I can say.”
She went hand in hand with Fran to the upper room.
He lighted the fire. “You’ll be safe here.” He stood above her, bent suddenly, and kissed her mouth. “Goodbye, dear.”
“You’re not going?” She was seized with sudden panic. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t dare stay here, Julie. Don’t you understand the danger I am in. Escaped from internment. I would be shot if I were found.” He put his arm about her. “Don’t be frightened. Popin has a hiding-place for me back in the hills. I must stay here until we can get away.”
“You aren’t coming here again?” She clung to him.
“If I can, yes. If Popin thinks it’s safe. Tonight he believed it was. Yet I don’t know. Suppose it had not been you at the door. Suppose it had been Schein and Blaike?”
She whispered, “Suppose they come for me.”
“Popin will take care of you. Do as he says. He knows the ways of these affairs better than we. We can trust him.”
“Yes.” But Popin could not stand up against the gray man and the waiter. Fran didn’t understand. He didn’t know the ruthlessness of these men. She asked, “If he weren’t here and they came?”
“He’ll leave Quincy, the Indian boy, on guard. I’ll warn him. You will be safe. I would not leave you unless I were certain of that.”
In his arms she believed in safety. She closed her eyes. “I have been so alone without you, Fran.”
“We’ll be together again soon.”
“For always.”
He said solemnly, “Until death do us part.”
She spoke with simplicity, “You know I have always loved you. All my life.”
He held her silently for a moment. “Now I must depart. You will go quickly, to bed and to sleep. You have no luggage. There are pajamas in the bureau. I know. I have slept here. A little large for you. But they must fit all sizes. Popin has many calls. Good night, dear one. Until soon.”
She wanted to cling but she let him go, listened until his footsteps descending were soundless. She closed the door, leaned against it peacefully. This was a dream. She’d wake in the morning in the West Seventy-Eighth Street hovel, in the empty Anstey house, in La Fonda with Schein and Blaike across the hall. A dream, yes, but it could be held as long as she was in this blessed sleep.
It was a dream but she blocked the door as Blaike had demonstrated. The windows were inaccessible, a sheer wall to the ground below. She would be safe tonight. The diamonds—she’d meant to give them to Fran. But it was better that she retain them for the present. His danger was the greater. If he were taken again, she’d still need them to help him.
SHE WAS AWAKENED by a rapping at the door. The windows showed morning, the sun filtering through a gray flannel sky. Panic gulped in her. Not this soon!
She slipped from the bed; the bright blue pajamas fell over her hands, crumpled at her ankles, as she approached the door. Her voice was atonal, “Yes?”
“It is I, Popin. And Reyes with your tray.”
She opened to his bright voice.
“Good morning, Miss Julie. Reyes, you will put the tray there.” He might have been an innkeeper, the posture of his hands, the round of his brown corduroy shoulders.
The Indian girl was already placing the tray. She knelt to the fire. When thin smoke arose, she pushed to her feet, padded out without looking back.
Popin waited until she had gone. “I thought it better that you remain here until after our friends pay us a visit.”
“Won’t they search?”
“Search my home?” It was incredible.
“But they are F.B.I. They say they are that.”
Popin said, “I believe I can handle them. If not, there will be ample opportunity for you to move.”
She doubted. This room was isolated. The only way out was down the front staircase. Fran had said trust Popin. There was nothing better that she could do now.
“Very well.” She smiled at him. “Fran is safe?”
“Yes, indeed. I will leave you to breakfast now. It is wise you lock your door as you have. Do not worry.” He closed the door after him. She blocked it.
She didn’t dress until after breakfast. The sun was truly breaking through. If watery, it was good to see after these days of monotony. She realized quickly it was more than good; it meant ceiling, and ceiling meant the Blackbirder would fly again. She was restless for action this near the end of the journey.
She readmitted Quincy with an armload of piñon logs, Reyes to collect the tray.
The girl said, “I bring you the paper. Anything more you will ask me.”
“Thank you. There’s nothing I want now.” Nothing but Fran. And she must wait. After waiting so long it shouldn’t be hard. It was. It was more grueling than before. Because he was so near. Why couldn’t she be with him in his hideout? Perhaps if she asked Popin. She must do as told. It wouldn’t be for long.
She again bolted the door. The paper was Friday night’s from Santa Fe. She sat down to read it. War news with more hope in it. Local news. A paragraph. Jacques Michet, Tesuque workman, found dead. Believed he had been attempting to repair telephone lines at home of Yosif Popin, Tesuque artist. Lines down by storm. Dead several days.
She pushed the paper away. No police investigation. No suspicion of violence. Simple accident. Who had suppressed murder? Who could but Blaike, Schein, cooperating with the police. But why? Too obvious. One of those men was the murderer. He had taken in the other as well as the small-town police. That wouldn’t be difficult. What connection had Popin with the suppression? Was he—could he be a third in their plan? Fran said trust. She must trust.
She heard the car, the thump of the knocker. She crept to her door, listened. She couldn’t hear voices. Too far away. She went back to the chair, lifted the paper again, reading unrelated items with eye, not mind. An hour. Two hours. She hadn’t heard the car go away. She remembered only then the car she’d taken last night. Where was it now? Were the police searching for it?
She jumped to the knock at the door. Her voice wasn’t her own. “Yes?”
“It is Reyes.”
Fearfully she opened the door. The girl was alone, again with a tray. She said, “It is early for lunch. Popin say bring it now while they are not in the house.”
“Who is here?”
“The man in gray. The fat one came earlier.”
She hadn’t heard his arrival. “The car—the one I came in—”
“Qi’in Tse took it away early.”
She nodded. She need not have been disturbed. Popin took care of things. Of persons. Of Jacques. She said it aloud. “Jacques?”
The girls eyes were without feeling. “He died.”
“I know.”
“He was buried yesterday. There was no one to mourn.”
I mourn. I, helpless, mourn. “Reyes, he didn’t fall.”
“Popin said so.”
“Who told him to say that? Who came?”
Reyes walked to the door. “Is there anything more you want, you ask me.”
“Jacques?”
“I do not know nothing what happens here.”
Julie quickly bolted the door after her. Reyes saw nothing, said nothing. For that reason she continued to work here.
Julie ate, waited long. There were books but she couldn’t read. At long last she thought she heard a car. Popin did not come. Reyes did not return. Julie walked the room. She sat quietly lest her steps be heard below. She walked again. It was early dusk. No one came.
At five she could endure the silent tension no longer. She opened the door a silent crack. The hall was in darkness. She couldn’t be seen. She heard the muffle of voices from the living room. Her ears ached with listening. She took one step, another, and suddenly she recognized the voice. Fran’s! It was safe to go on. Fran wouldn’t be here if it were not safe.
She started down quickly. Halfway she saw into the lighted living room. Yes, Fran. Fran and a girl. An exquisite girl, copper hair ruffled about her small face, a beautifully curved leg, a silken leg, pointed to the gray whipcord leg of Fran’s.
The girl’s voice was precise. “I see nothing ridiculous about it.”
“But darling.” He said darling. His thin brown hand was under her hair.
Julie didn’t move, didn’t take breath.
“It is so ridiculous.” He spoke with an accent; he had no accent.
“Ridiculous? That you take this girl with you to Mexico and refuse to take me?”
“Listen, my sweet. I take her to Mexico. It is the least I can do. She is in trouble. She is so distant a cousin but she is that. I cannot refuse to aid her. She is young, helpless.”
“Why can’t I go along?”
“Coral, please. Have not I told you? There is so much freight I must bring back for your father. There will be room only for myself on the return. Why must you be so unreasonable? I have told you this girl means nothing whatever to me. I take her to Mexico. That is that. I pick up the freight. I return here. Two days’ time. Can you not give me two days’ time?”
Julie stood rigid. The sickness was all through her, in her lungs, in her knees, in her mind and heart. She watched his hand turn the face of the lovely girl to his, watched him bend to her. Julie didn’t close her eyes. She watched the kiss.
The girl pushed him away, not soon, not with impact. “You can’t get around me this way, Spike. Experienced as you are at that sort of thing. If this girl means nothing to you—”
“I have sworn it, Coral. Shall I swear it again?”
“Don’t bother.” The copper of her sweater was against his sandy tweed coat, pressed hard if the voice was cool with hidden laughter. “I know very well if she did mean something to you, you’d swear it just as fondly.” The cigarette between her scarlet lips was thin and white as a stiletto. “I can’t see that she is. A poor cousin throwing herself on your doubtful mercy. And for some reason you’re willing to help her out. She must have something on you.” The girl’s scarlet pointed finger touched his cheek sharply. “You see, darling, I have no illusions about you, none at all. I know you’d dispense with me without regret if something came your way that equaled me in looks, in willingness, and in fortune. And knowing all that, Spike, I still”—the word cracked like a whip—“want you, intend to have you.”
“There’s only one thing wrong in that, Coral. I would dispense with you only with great regret.” His voice held that bantering tenderness Julie knew so well. Eye to eye now, suddenly shattering the tension with laughter, moving together.
Julie closed her eyes. She mustn’t watch again. She’d been a fool, an utter, hopeless fool. This was the kind of woman he’d known always in Paris. She had believed he could turn from one like this to her gaucherie, her inexperience, to her who had nothing to offer but blind adoration. Fran didn’t want devotion, undying love; he wanted something to whet his skill.
She stepped softly, upward one step, another.
“You are a devil, Spike. All the trips you make to Mexico but you won’t ever take me. Always an excuse.”
“Your father has told you.”
Julie was backing up to what? To isolation of a room again. She’d been tricked into staying there. Not because of danger for Fran—the girl called him Spike—but because she must stay out of the way, leave the house to Spike and his woman. The gray man had asked, “What do you know of Coral Bly?” He had known of her. He had known of Julie’s betrayal.
She couldn’t return to that upstairs cell. She couldn’t wait there for Fran to call, Ready. To believe his lies. To believe they were escaping to Mexico together. To pretend to accept the plausible tale he would have for her when he left her there. But she had to get to Mexico. Her danger hadn’t diminished even if Fran was safe. She would accept no favors here, none from him. She would find her own way to safety. She could trust no one here, not again. Jacques had been murdered and the newspaper reported accidental death. Someone was evil here. Blaike and Schein weren’t strangers to Popin. All had worked together to keep her from embarrassing Fran in his new life.
There would be no escape from that upper room. What must be done must be done boldly, chancily. She was at the top of the stairs now. She drew breath, breath that hurt all through her. She ran down again quickly, turned into the living room, stopped short.
She said, “Oh, Fran. I didn’t know you were here. I’ll be back in a minute. I left something in the studio.” She too could lie in her face, in her throat.
She went on past them. She didn’t look at Coral Bly, but she saw every particle of the exquisite copper girl. Without turning back she went on into the dining room, through the kitchen where Reyes prepared dinner. The Indian girl raised black eyes to her and returned them to the vegetables.
Julie went on, out the kitchen door into the dark dusk. She shivered. Jacques’s coat was upstairs. She rounded the house. There was a lean low touring car in the drive. Coral’s car. There were keys in it. Only mechanically did she move. She touched the handle of the front door, refused it. She opened the back door, got down on the floor and pulled the heavy lap robe over her.
If she were discovered she had no resources. She didn’t care. Fran would get rid of the girl quickly now. He wouldn’t accompany her; he’d remain to force his lies on Julie. She wouldn’t be there to listen. She would be riding to the highway with Coral. To reach the highway, that was why she was huddled here, prone on the cold floor. She knew better. She was here to talk to Coral Bly.
She heard their voices now. She couldn’t see but they were approaching the car. Coral said, “I think you’re making a mountain, Spike. What if she did see me?”
“I promised her. No one would see her. I must explain.”
“You’ll be up right after dinner.”
“Absolutely, darling. You explain to Kent why I can’t make dinner tonight.”
“An old friend.” Her laughter and a decision. “If you’re lying to me, Spike, I’ll cut your heart out.”
“I adore you.”
The whir of the engine, the car leaving the drive. Julie lay there, bracing herself so no sound of her body could be heard. She waited long enough before cautiously rising. Speak not too soon, not too late. Her head lifted to the top of the seat. Higher—until she was mirrored.
Even then Coral didn’t notice at first. She must have sensed before she saw. Her voice was hostile but there was fright underlying it. “Who are you back there? What are doing?” She was pulling to the side of the road, slowing the car, obviously not knowing what she should do.
Julie said, “I just wanted a lift.”
“You’ll have to get out—” Her voice broke. “You’re—”
“Yes, I’m the girl.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Coral was brusque. “Well, ask it.” But she was nervous. She fumbled for a cigarette, half turned in the seat, let the match lift to Julie’s face. She wasn’t so nervous then. She must have seen in it hopelessness, gullibility, an idiot child. “Ask it. And then you’d better get back. Spike will be looking for you.”
“How long have you known Fran—Spike?” The girl was puzzled. “About two years.”
“Has he been in prison any of that time?”
“Certainly not. How absurd!” Her eyebrows lifted.
“I mean—interned.”
“He is French. Why under the sun would he be interned? He was here before the war started.”
“You’re certain of this?”
“Of course, I’m certain. He’s been working for my father for almost two years.”
Julie knew. She had known it on the steps. She should have known last night. He didn’t have the prison look.
“Is that all?” Coral Bly asked. “If so, you’d better get back. Spike can’t protect you if you’re trailing about the country. I’d take you. But I’m late as it is.”
“Does he want to marry you?”
“I don’t see that it concerns you. But as you ask—” She was brittle. “We will be married soon. We’d be married now if it weren’t for his foolish pride. He has the old-fashioned idea that a husband should be able to support his wife, after his own fashion. When his Parisian estate is released—and it doesn’t look as if it would be long now—we will be married. Now, if you’ll please get out—”
Julie’s hands clenched in her jeans pockets. Clenched on the flashlight still there. She opened the left-hand door. Coral had her hands on the wheel again, the engine running. Julie didn’t plan. She opened the door of the car and she brought the flash down hard on top of the copper head. Coral weaved and Julie hit her again, not too hard, but correctly, behind the ear. The girl slumped in the seat. She was out. She’d be out for at least half an hour.
Julie tugged the coat from her, heavy beaver, laid it on the seat. She went to the other side of the car, took the lap rug, laid it on the ground there at the side of the road. Coral was taller than she and dead weight. But Julie pulled, tugged, edged, supported her until she was out of the car, rolled in the blanket. She wouldn’t freeze. She’d come to. It was she who would walk back to Popin’s.
Julie slipped into the fur coat. It smelled of mimosa. She shut her teeth. The Riviera and mimosa blooming. Fran beside her. She sat behind the wheel and drove away. She hadn’t wanted to hurt Coral. She needed this car.
She had wanted to hurt her. She had wanted to hurt her the way Coral had made her hurt. She’d wanted to kill the beautiful, arrogant girl. She hadn’t killed her. She hadn’t touched her. Coral would go back to Fran’s arms. She mustn’t think of Fran, of Coral. A half hour and a little longer and the alarm would be given. She drove straight to Santa Fe. She didn’t stop. She went through the town and out on the Albuquerque highway. South. To the border. She’d been alone before. She’d been alone a long time. Not this way. Not in desolation. Before she’d had the dream of Fran.
The road went on and on endlessly over the deserted mesa. The moon was out now, misted but shining. It wasn’t until then that she realized. The ceiling had lifted. And Fran was the Blackbirder.
Even now the alarm for her return might be given. The police sent to patrol the road. On and on. Not many cars but each one a menace. Through a town, a gaudy and drab Mexican town. Go on. She switched the radio. She knew the Albuquerque station from the Anstey radio. There was music, no police bulletins. The sky glow of Albuquerque. She took the cut-off road into town. On and on. The gas gauge was low, almost empty. She couldn’t press on without gas. She couldn’t buy rationed gas. She saw a parking lot, drove in. The attendant took the car, gave her a little stub.
She walked away, one block to the main street. There were buses, a few cars. There were soldiers idling, laughing girls. Two M.P.’s swinging their clubs. Men and women. There were voices in English, voices in Spanish. There were picture theaters and restaurants, drug stores, shop windows, everything bright. For the moment she was covered by the city.
She selected a larger restaurant, ordered coffee and a roll. She wouldn’t take time for more. She must get away before they caught her. She’d added another crime: assault on an innocent girl. She was afraid to ask about the Greyhound station; she looked in the telephone booth, Fifth and Copper. She didn’t know where Copper was but she wouldn’t forget the street. The color of the girl’s hair. She found Fifth, standing on the corner she saw the station a block away.
She walked quickly to its doors. She didn’t enter. The bus station would be the first place watched. She turned, crossed to the dark corner opposite. She was helpless, hopeless. She couldn’t run any farther. She was caught. This was the end of the flight. She couldn’t have endured it this long, all the violence and despair, the loneliness and terror, but that at the end of endurance Fran was waiting. He was waiting no longer. The spirit in her had died.
This shadow where she cowered was a spired church. Marked with the cross. It would be open to the weary, the oppressed. She could rest a little before they came to take her. She went inside. There was the scent of incense, she remembered then it was Sunday night, vespers must just be over. She slipped into a back pew, lowered her forehead to the cold, unyielding wood. If she could but remain here, if she could sleep until they came. If she could sleep forever. It didn’t happen that way in life. You had to go on, you had to endure the ordeal. To be taken, to be returned, to face Paul’s thin cruel mind, to be at his mercy—not have him at hers, as she had planned. She couldn’t endure that. Yet she must.
She couldn’t. She lifted her head slowly. She needn’t. She would go to the F.B.I., the real F.B.I., tell them everything. All about Maxl’s death, what she knew of Jacques’s death. She could give them the necklace, she didn’t know what they would do with it but it would never be returned to Paul. She could tell everything from the very beginning. Everything about Fran. She needn’t mention Fran. If she confessed to entering the United States without permission, if she confessed that was why she’d run and stolen and broken into houses and hit a girl on the head, they wouldn’t ask about the Blackbirder. There was enough without the Blackbirder. She mustn’t close that door of hope to other refugees. Whatever Fran had done to her personally, he was helping others.
She would be locked up. The F.B.I. would intern her. That was the price of breaking the law. You must pay for breakage. It was so little. It couldn’t be so bad to be locked up. Not in America. She wouldn’t be ill-used. There wouldn’t be marching gray ants below the prison window. She didn’t know she’d been crying until she left the church. She wiped her face, the handkerchief smelled of mimosa. It didn’t matter now. Come to me all you who are weary and oppressed. The words were as true as when He said them. Her burden was lifted. There was peace in capitulation.
There was a hotel on the next corner but she didn’t enter. She must avoid recognition, avoid the police, until she reached the F.B.I. She chose a bright, crowded drug store. The number was in front of the book. She dialed it. Ring upon ring. No answer. She replaced the phone. No one at the office on Sunday night. She went out on the street. She must hide until morning. Hide where? She wouldn’t be defeated now. She started walking, her hands dug into the pockets of her jeans, touching the few bills, the flashlight, the small black book. And out of what seemed a dim faraway she heard the whistle of a lonely train, she smelled the coal soot, she remembered a harsh but kindly voice, If you should want to look me up.
She scuttled to the corner street light to find the address. Professor Otis Alberle, 417 North Hermosa. A taxi, no. She mustn’t mark herself, she must remain a part of the crowd. She was shaking now lest she be taken before she could ask directions, reach North Hermosa. She braved another drug store, spoke to the cashier: “What bus do I take to Hermosa?”
The girl was friendly. “Monte Vista-Sawmill. Going east.” She pointed. “Across the street on that corner.”
Julie crossed, stood in the shadow of the cigar store. She wasn’t alone waiting. There were four or five others. University girls, uniformed boys, a woman and a small boy. The bus came slowly. Julie climbed on in the midst of the others. She spoke softly to the driver. “Will you tell me where to get off to reach the four hundred block of North Hermosa?”
“Sure.”
She sat behind him, her back to the other passengers. The mimosa-scented coat collar half covered her face from the window. The wheels crawled under the pass by the Alvarado, up the hill, past schools, past hospitals, past the wide blocks of the University, on and on into dark residential streets. She was the last one on board. And her eyes were uncertain on the driver. “You didn’t forget Hermosa?”
“No, ma’am.” He was young. He chewed gum. He couldn’t be one of theirs. “You a stranger here?”
“Yes.” She didn’t want to talk but he was talkative. It would be more suspicious if she were silent.
“Army?”
“No. University.”
She let him ramble on about the football team, the coach, the war. He said finally, “Here you are. End of the line.” The bus stopped. “Up that way. This is Hermosa.” There was one young girl waiting on the corner. She and the driver exchanged hello’s.
Julie started up the street. 417. She used the torch. Not this. A few more. This was it. A clipped hedge, leafless now, a small white stucco house, gray in the darkness; a red-tiled roof, black now. There was a wide path, an evergreen garnishing either side of the door. A studio arched window, shades half-drawn, the amber comfort of a lamp shining through.
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 Aberle?”
“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’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 and 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 stupefaction 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 the 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 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 ill cess 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.”