The Blackbirder by Dorothy B. Hughes Read Free Book Online

didn't stand out as she had in the small and grimy Chicago depots. She was only one of a smartly dressed crowd.
    She strolled to the newsstand. The New York papers were the same ones she had bought in the city yesterday morning. She took the Sunday edition of the lone Kansas City paper and tentatively studied the book jackets. If she could engross herself in a book tomorrow perhaps the time would be less leaden. Julie Guille wouldn't hesitate over a few dollars.
    The lunchroom was large and bright, crowded with normal human beings, persons who could laugh and banter together, persons who were not hunted. There was a small, yellow-leathered cocktail lounge with subdued lights, beyond that a dining-room muraled in early Missouri Americana. She chose the yellow room, ordered Dubonnet. She sipped it, at ease here, in soft pleasant surroundings. She unfolded the paper, read the first page. War. Losses and gains. Defense work. Rationing. Alphabetical agencies. Roosevelt and Churchill. Nothing of a murder. She went carefully up and down each column, into the inner sheets. There was no mention of Maxl. This city was too far away to care about one little man's murder. She folded the paper and looked up into the eyes of the gray man.
    He smiled a little. He said, “Haven't I seen you before?” He said it with just the right humor.
    She took time before answering. There was no inflection to further conversation. “On the train from New York. My compartment.”
    “I don't mean that.” He sat down unasked beside her. “I felt it then, that I'd seen you somewhere. You're not a Hollywood actress?”
    She couldn't help smiling but she clipped her answer. “No. I'm not.”
    “I thought that might be it.” The busboy brought him a Scotch and soda, set it on her table. “On the screen, you know.”
    She couldn't be led into volunteering information. She made a polite answering smile.
    He was opening his wallet to pay the waiting boy. He asked, “Won't you have a drink with me?”
    She said, “No, thank you,” set down her glass, gathered her purse, book, and newspaper. “I believe I'll go to bed before the train starts up again. Good night.”
    “Good night.” He rose with her, bowed pleasantly, and made no further attempt at pursuing acquaintance.
    She walked out as if his eyes weren't following her, strolled through the station. She was tempted by the doors to the street. The night air was gentle; spring had arrived in this midwestern town. The great grassy sward across with the tall lighted pyre was peaceful to look upon. A cenotaph for the dead doubtless; every town had its memento from the war to end wars. War seemed remote in this peaceful midland town. The men and women here wouldn't breed mad warriors; that could happen only in the old decadent slum of Europe.
    If she could but have come into this country as her right— her father and mother had both been American. But they had adopted France, expatriates; it was chic at one time, fashionable. And she was without a country. She had a right to be here in this cleanness, not hunted into exile. She walked in the mild night, there at the station square, until 11:30. Regretfully she entered the station again.
    She couldn't escape the man. He was crossing to the train entrance. His limp was slight. She felt impelled to explanation. “I decided a walk before bed was a good idea. It's such a beautiful night.”
    He didn't behave as if she had snubbed him earlier. His face accepted her words, mere conversation. “It is. They've just called the train. Early. I was afraid you'd miss it.”
    Had he been watching her while she thought herself unobserved save by taxi drivers there on the square?
    He was continuing easily, “It's too bad we must crouch on upper shelves instead of sleeping under the stars.” They descended the long flight of steps together. His smile was disarming and the way his eyes slanted with his lips. “It won't be so bad for you. I'll have to fold up like an