The Blackbirder by Dorothy B. Hughes Page B

But his name hadn't been synonymous with traitor then. And she and Fran were young.
    No, Paul wouldn't allow Fran, the beloved son, to waste in prison. Even the Nazis wouldn't be as important as his son. Paul was sly. He would attempt to play this hand along with the other hand.
    “Have you found him? Do you know where he is, Jacques?” She wouldn't let Paul help Fran; she would do this alone. Paul mustn't put his smear on Fran. He was tarred with Fascistic France. “We will arrange his escape. Guards always can be bribed. I have the diamonds— ”
    “Julie.” He interrupted, half out of his chair. “What is that?”
    She lifted her head. She had heard nothing. He gestured to the door, slipped behind the chair, against the wall. There was a rap. He gestured again. She saw that in his hand was a gun.
    She walked steadily but slowly toward the door. There must be no trouble here, nothing to call attention to her. Whoever was there must be handled without violence. She opened the door a little, closing her hand tightly over the knob. She hadn't force to hold it against the gray man.
    He pushed into the room. “I wondered if you were through reading your Trib—" He broke off, raised his eyebrows. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company. Particularly a gunman.”
    “Put it away, Jacques. It disturbs Mr. Blaike.” Her lips curved without smiling. “You remember Mr. Blaike, of course.” She looked up at him. “Jacques was showing me how to handle a revolver in case— in case the need for such information should arise. One never knows.”
    Jacques thrust the gun into his hip pocket but he didn't remove his eyes from the gray man. Not while he was saying to Julie, in English now, “I will go. Tomorrow I will see you. Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow we will conclude this conversation. Tomorrow.” He didn't walk to the door. He edged, never once moving the black of his pupils from the intruder. There was moisture on his temples. It shone under the light. The door closed on him.
    The gray man's eyebrows quizzed her. “Your friend doesn't like me.”
    She said slowly, “Why did you come here?”
    “Isn't it a bit dangerous to entertain a man with a gun at this hour in a strange hotel?”
    “I have known Jacques for years. He wouldn't harm me. He was a retainer of my uncle's in Paris.”
    “Do servants usually address the young lady of the house by her first name?”
    “I was a little girl when I first knew Jacques. I hated being Missed. It was stuffy. Un-American.”
    “You are an American?”
    “Surely your good friend, Fran, told you that?” She turned her back on him, walked to the windows, pushed aside the curtains, and opened them wide. The street below was a black, flickering side way, deserted.
    “I wasn't interested in your nationality.” Blaike made it provocative.
    She ignored that, taking a cigarette from the table. “My father and mother were both American. They died when I was young. Lily Guille, my mother's sister, raised me.”
    He seemed dubious. Mention of her father, Prentiss Marlebone, would dissipate that. She must forget the name Marlebone. She lit the cigarette, blew out the match. “May I say good night now? I have not read the news, as you can see. Tomorrow I shall be happy to lend you the Herald Tribune. Meanwhile you have satisfied your curiosity about my visitor.”
    Blaike didn't move. He didn't wipe the amusement from his face. “You win,” he announced. “You won't have it according to Queensberry rules. You want it straight. Very well. I didn't come to borrow the paper. I didn't even come to see who was your visitor. I thought he would have departed long ago. Oh, yes, I knew you had one, although the light was too poor and my door open too slightly to get a good look. I came here to ask you an important question. Who steered you on to Popin?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Where did you hear of Popin?”
    She took the cigarette away from her lips. “I could say that that is not