The Blackbirder by Dorothy B. Hughes Page A

to its desolation. They spoke in Spanish to each other. They did not see her. Perhaps in the summer when blades of green might push against the flagstones, perhaps when the trees leafed again, there might be a remnant of the gay festivity here which the word Plaza connoted. Perhaps not. It would still face on three sides the motley shops in their old brick buildings. A few were covered over in copy of Indian architecture, the bank shone marble white, but the faded brick dominated.
    Julie walked slowly, past the ugly stone monument, to the far corner of the square. This was a grim little town. She hadn't known it would be so small. She hadn't known it would be a mountain town. She was familiar with others, in Germany, Switzerland, the Tyrol. Save for language, modifications of architecture, she might again be in one of them. Even in the winter-sports season, she had realized that gayety was not spontaneous in such villages, it was deliberately generated in defiance of the oppression of nature. The mountains only tolerated man.
    She turned on her heel, started back to the hotel. She walked more rapidly now. Lingering in a sinister town was out of the question. She must find the Blackbirder without delay, make arrangements. Get out of this trap. Not only the encirclement of the merciless hills but the very smallness of the village trapped her. If she were followed here, there would be no place where she might hide. Anonymity would be out of the question. If she could set the wheels in motion, it might be better to return to Albuquerque, wait for passage there. She would be safer in a city.
    She entered the hotel, grateful for its dim lobby, its room warmth. The white-haired woman was still behind the desk. Impulsively Julie moved to her. She asked, “Have you ever heard of a place— Tesuque?”
    The woman smiled. “Tesuque.” Julie's pronunciation had not been accurate. “It's about ten miles out. The Tesuque valley. There's the village and the pueblo.” There was a shade of regret. “Before the war we conducted tours to all the pueblos and places of interest. Now we can't. But there's a bus.” She pointed to the folder. “The information is there.”
    Julie clutched the unopened pamphlet, was patient until the woman had finished. She said, “Thank you so much.” She hadn't allowed her face to express the triumph that surged within her. Popin was that near at hand. Everything was simplified. Perhaps slit wouldn't have to flee without Fran. She felt his actual nearness again as she hurried toward the carved wooden doors of the telephone booths. Everything, even her meeting with Maxi and his death which put into her hands the black notebook, was part of a magnificent cosmic plan. Dame Fortuna had twirled the wheel upward. It was meant that Julie find Popin. It was meant that she and Fran after these endless years should be reunited.
    She closed herself in the booth, dropped her coin, read the number from Maxi's notebook: Tesuque 043J3. The operator repeated. Julie heard the three metallic rings. She waited, breathless. The call was answered.
    The woman's voice at the other end of the wire was accented. “Mr. Popin, she ees not here now.”
    Julie accepted the deferment. “When will he return?”
    “When I don't know.” The voice shrugged. “He ees gone to Santa Fe for dinner. Maybe tonight later?”
    Julie said, “I will call him tomorrow.” She didn't leave her name. The lazy voice didn't ask it.
    She came out of the booth, refusing to admit the keenness of her disappointment. It had been ridiculous to believe that because one sign had been favorable there would be no delay. She knew the maneuvering of escape better than that. The trouble was that the seven months of comparative safety in New York had left her responses rusty.
    But those months had had therapeutic value. She was rested, she was calmed, she had a reservoir of physical and mental strength on which she could draw to carry through her escape and now