Read Online The Blackbirder by Dorothy B. Hughes - Free Book Online

on his gray ones. “Where did we meet?”
    “In Paris.” He laughed. “It must have been the Ritz Bar, of course. You were with your cousin, Fran Guille.”
    She stated deliberately, “I don't remember you.”
    “You wouldn't.” Without asking he'd pulled out the opposite chair, dropped into it. It was done like sleight-of-hand and without seeming intrusion. “You were surrounded by an admiring covey and I was one small visiting fireman. On leave. Even then, it was all of four years ago, I was in the R.A.F.”
    She said rather than asked, “You are English.”
    “Yes.” He passed cigarettes, American, to her. “You don't remember, do you? My name is Blaike, Roderick Blaike. My friends call me Blaike, however, never Rod.” He lighted the cigarettes. “I'm again on leave.” His mouth had gone straight. “Had a little crackup over the Channel— my leg— ” He touched it. “They tell me I'll have to relearn flying.”
    She asked then, “How do you happen to be in America?”
    “I'm recuperating.” There was a moment before he remembered to slant the smile. “How is Fran? With you?”
    She answered, “No.”
    His brows pointed up. “Not still in Paris?”
    She took her time in reply. “I don't know where he is. I haven't heard from him for a long time.” She raised her eyes then. “We don't get much news from Paris now.”
    He accepted that with a grave face. “You're with your aunt and uncle here?”
    “As far as I know, they are in France,” she answered brusquely.
    She didn't like this questioning. Maybe he was only a naive young British flyer; maybe not. Gestapo agents, disguised above suspicion, had been instrumental in placing Fran in internment. There were Germans who could pass for British in Whitehall, much more easily in this remote New Mexican town. She could have been led here deliberately by Maxl, his death not part of the pattern. Reports of Paul's fury at her escape had reached her while she was still in the Paris underground. He had been determined to recover both her person and the de Guille diamonds. The Blackbirder could be Nazi. The whispers about him in New York had always started at the appearance of refugees who could not have entered the United States by legal methods. She rejected, definitely now, the coincidence of this man as a traveling companion.
    She finished her drink, scooped up part of the change. “It so happens that I am an American. I do not hear from the Guilles.” She rose, slid her purse under her arm. “There is no word from France since France's death.”
    He apologized, following her toward the door. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean— I know how you must feel— ”
    She didn't answer; she didn't even hear him. Her eyes disbelieved as she hurried forward. Beyond the man blurred,in the doorway was another man. It was Jacques Michet.
    Julie propelled herself forward, barely excusing herself as she brushed aside the man in the entry. “Jacquesl” She ran to him, caught his arms. “Jacques! Jacques!” She could only repeat his name over and over in wonder, in faith.
    He appeared thin but fit; his dark curly hair cut American; his tight denim levis and blue shirt, New Mexican; huaraches on his feet. His eye lighted for a moment, his lips formed, “Julie,” and then unaccountably both were shuttered. “Pardon?”
    She shook him slightly. “Jacques, I haven't changed that much. It's Julie. I just can't believe you're here.” It was too good for belief. After the years of working alone, to have someone on whom she could depend, who would help. Jacques had been paid by Paul Guille but he had been Fran's man, Fran's friend. The Guille heir and the Guille handyman. The gap hadn't counted. Not with both of them so enamored of planes. That was before planes had become stamped as lethal weapons, when they were incredibly beautiful silver streaks in the sky. Fran had taught Jacques to fly his two-seater. It was the summer when she was fifteen. Fran from his six