Free The Blackbirder by Dorothy B. Hughes

crept from the fringes.
    “You should remember him,” Blaike insisted. “Young fellow. Rather good-looking in a dark way. Neat dresser.” He was describing the New York Maxl. She listened without expression. He stated deliberately, “He was a friend of Fran's.”
    He wasn't. Fran's friends were not poor students. The corners of her mouth taunted but her voice was milk-mild. “Fran is quite a bit older than I, almost six years. I didn't know many of his friends.” She asked a question lightly. “You knew this"— she forced her lips to form the name—"this Maxl in Paris?”
    He answered slowly, “No, I didn't. I ran into him in New York.” His gray eyes were cold as granite. “It was he who told me he was a friend of Fran Guille's.”
    She dismissed the subject. “Fran had too many friends.” She saw him suddenly, tall, dark, gallant, always gay. Her heart wrenched. Fran in prison. A falcon caged.
    Something must have flickered in her face. Blaike said, “Sorry. I forgot.” He turned to Popin. “Miss Julie hasn't heard from her cousin. She believes he is still in France.” There was something ironical in the intonation.
    She touched the cold of her dessert. Could it be he was looking for Fran? Had he too learned that the bearded man was Fran's friend? Was that, not an interest in art, what brought him here? She couldn't warn Popin to say nothing. She could only pray that intuitive sensitivity would allow him to realize the danger of discussing Fran with an inquisitive stranger. If the gray man were after Fran, from what source did he stem? Not the British secret service, no matter the accent, the pretense of R.A.F. affiliation. Not the F.B.I. That organization would know that Fran was already in custody. She faced it with cold terror. It could only be the Gestapo. Had word somehow failed to reach headquarters that their American agents had put Fran in prison camp? Their men, masked as loyal Americans, bearing false witness against Fran, linking him with Paul's sedition. It was possible. How long had he been locked up? At least a year. But if those agents had been unmasked, also put away? This was credible. But why would they seek Fran, why wish to harm him? Why? Paul Guille was a collaborationist. Why would the Nazis believe his son a danger to them? Fran had been in the United States before the war began. He hadn't been in Paris to bore against the reign of horror. Why? Unless the Gestapo had ferreted the secret which she and Fran alone shared. If they had learned, he was in danger because of her. But she was in graver danger.
    She faced that, meticulously spooning the faint mauve ice. Why hadn't the gray man moved against her before now? The answer came with shocking certainty. Because he didn't know where Fran was. He believed that she knew. He was waiting for her to lead him to Fran. The gray man was not coincidentally on the train west. But how could he have known she would take that train— she hadn't known herself! Unless she had been followed from the apartment that night, followed all the next day. Her spoon clicked against her teeth. She couldn't have been. She would have known. But she realized with sinking heart that she wouldn't have known. The months of inaction had dulled her perceptions. She put down the spoon. It made a definite sound against the china plate. She bent forward toward the gray man. “Maximilian Adlebrecht? Is that correct?”
    His eyebrows pointed in mild surprise. He nodded. “You saw him shortly before you left New York?” Again he nodded.
    Her eyes narrowed. She held a cigarette carelessly between her fingers. “It's rather an unusual name in this country. I wonder. I read in the New York papers of the death of a man of that name.” She opened her eyes wide now on Blaike's face. It expressed nothing.
    It was Popin who asked huskily, “Maximilian Adlebrecht is dead?”
    Blaike's statement was sharp. “Yes, he is dead. He died the night before I left New York.”
    Julie