The Blackbirder by Dorothy B. Hughes Read Free Book Online Page A

accordion.”
    She laughed as if she were not wary of him. It echoed on the drafty stairs. "C'est la guerre," she murmured, and quickly, “As the woman in my lower keeps reminding me.”
    The eyebrows were amused. “I'll wager she doesn't say it in perfect French.”
    A chill encompassed her. They were at their car and he assisted her up the steps. He said, “The man in my lower tells me about his glandular tour through the Mayo Clinic.”
    The sleeping-car was darkened, small blue lights showed the way. They said good night softly. Julie took her week-end bag in one direction while he headed to the other. The mirror startled her. Even in this poor light it was flattering. She didn't appear at all like the girl who had on Friday, only two nights ago, ridden the subway until dawn. Her cheeks had color, the dark hair curled away from her face, her blue eyes were alive. She didn't look as if there were something cold about her heart.
    She made a mouth at herself. She must take care. Because she'd had a moment's conversation with an attractive man, she mustn't forget what any stranger could stand for. She mustn't forget always to be alert. He was handsome and charming. And even now he could be congratulating himself that the fawn had sniffed at the pit. It had been so long since she'd had any pleasant occasions. For three years she had lived in silence, with books alone to keep away the Poulkes of memory. Perhaps that had been why, despite misgivings, she had gone with Maxl after the concert. She had been lonely, cramped into a foxhole for so long. She must remember. Until she and Fran were out of this country, the hole alone was safe.

    * * * *
    A book discouraged conversation. A nap in the afternoon thwarted furthering acquaintance. She exchanged only a few vague nods with the gray man during the wasted day. She listened to a minimum of the uniformed woman's war remarks. The last hours were screamingly leaden. Belen didn't become a fact until past midnight; a small dark way station where a train waited, an unbelievably dirty, airless, and ancient train.
    The uniformed lady sat beside her forestalling the gray man. The Mayo Clinic man and a covey of soldiers were the other passengers.
    The woman said, “This train is a relic. The good trains stop at Albuquerque. My daughter would have met me but for the war. Are you stopping in Albuquerque?”
    “Yes.”
    “With friends? My daughter's husband is at the University. Or did I tell you that? In the Philosophy Department. He's an assistant professor. Who are you stopping with?”
    Julie said, “I'm going to a hotel.”
    The woman's eyes were suspicious.
    She added, “Just for tonight. Tomorrow I go to a ranch beyond Santa Fe.” She felt the need for some explanation to quell the suspicion. She didn't want the woman to wonder about her later. Obviously she was wondering now about a young girl stopping alone at a hotel.
    The woman said, “Santa Fe is a peculiar town. Full of religious cults and refugees. And remittance men. Rich people from the East. Their families get rid of them supporting them out here. And you're going to Santa Fe?”
    Julie nodded.
    The woman snapped open her gray fabric handbag. “I'm going to give you my son-in-law's address.” She spoke almost shamefaced, not looking at Julie, rummaging for pencil and a scrap of paper. “If you should want to look me up, I'll be there a month.” She pushed the scrap into Julie's glove. There was defiance in the shake of her head. “I don't like Santa Fe. It's an unhealthy place.”
    Julie made a sound. She was too tired for more than that. This last hour in the stuffy train with coal soot sifting everywhere was unbearable. The woman subsided. She too looked sooty, too tired for conversation. Only the soldiers exchanged words.
    The conductor whined, “Albuquerue.”
    A Spanish hotel waiting, lying elongated in the bright moonlight below the brick courtyard where the train had stopped. The soldiers strode ahead.