The Blackbirder Read Free Page A

out. Her breath was sobbing when she scrubbed them against the right sleeve of her coat. She could throw them away— but not her coat, the night was too cold.
    She ran on down the steps, opened her purse and her coin purse, found a nickel, went through the turnstile. There was no one on the platform, not on the downtown or uptown side. She scurried to the bench, sat there, wishing she were numb, not palsied. Her fingers felt sticky now. A silent scream ached in her throat as she saw the dark red gumming them. They'd been clean before they delved into her purse. The notebook there inside. She fumbled the gloves back on her hands, wiped them over the purse. She opened it furtively, clicked it shut. The color of blood was inside. There were smudges on the front of her coat where the purse had lain. If she pressed it there again, that one stain was hidden.
    Someone was clattering down the stairs. She froze, not daring to look. She heard the nickel's click, the thud of the turning stile. The steps moved away. From under the brim of her hat, her eyes slanted. A man, a night worker. His back turned to her, the early morning tabloid in his hands.
    She rubbed her gloved fist against her coat sleeve. The worst was on the under side where her arm had slid into Maxi's inner pocket. If she held her arm close to her side, it wouldn't be noticed much. If she kept her gloved hands in her pockets, they wouldn't show. The stains didn't look like blood.
    They had the smell of blood.
    The roar of the local came from the tunnel. She stood, waited until the train had stopped before hurrying to it. She entered a different car from the tabloid man. There were only a few persons in the lighted interior, two men with the inevitable tabloids before their faces; one man asleep, his head swaying forward and back and side with the motion of the train. She stood in the darkened vestibule, pressed against the steel wall for support, watching blindly the dark rush of tunnel. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't know where she could go. There was less than five dollars in her purse. Even if she'd had more than that a hotel was out of the question. Without luggage, matted with blood, a girl couldn't walk into a hotel in the middle of the night. The railroad terminals— she didn't dare. She'd be watched. There were signs: No Loiterers. There were all-night movie theaters but she was afraid, afraid of a lighted foyer, of a ticket seller's memory.
    She couldn't leave town until morning. She must have more money; she must get rid of the blood-stained clothes first. Lucky she'd been foresighted about putting her funds into a savings bank. There'd be no questions asked when she withdrew it. A large check offered by a haggard young girl would be questioned. Particularly one with blood on her garments. Her face mirrored in the half-lighted pane of the door was more than haggard. It was the face of a tortured ghost.
    Where could she go until morning? Where could she hide? The train pulled into Times Square. Without volition she left it. The vast underground cavern was curiously empty at this morning hour. She wasn't lost in a throng as she would be during the day and early evening. She was someone to be remembered by the other stragglers. She took the next train that came along. It didn't matter where she was going. She was too tired to remain longer on her feet. She crept into the lighted interior, sat in a corner, hugging her purse and arms close against her, tucking her gloved hands under her elbows. There were two other night-weary passengers. They didn't look at her.
    She rode to the end of the line. She didn't know where she was: Brooklyn, Flatbush, Queens— it didn't matter. When the guard came through, she said, “I slept through my station.” She moved wearily, paid another nickel, and began the long ride uptown.
    She rode until her watch said seven o'clock. Sometimes she dozed from sheer weariness but she was afraid. The jerk of the train