The Blackbirder Read Free Page B

entering a station was the jerk of the arm of the law. Always it woke her. She was sly in her terror, leaving trains at odd stations, waiting, sometimes an hour, for the next car. Only once was she spoken to and that by a drunk. He might have caused a scene, remembered her later, but she wasn't alone on the platform then. Two men stared at him and he swaggered away.
    At six there were more persons coming into the trains. She stood then and whenever anyone looked at her, she left the train at the next station. When her watch said seven, she waited for Times Square again. She shuttled to Grand Central, climbed the stairs, entered the women's room on the upper level. She didn't look at anyone; there weren't very many women there. Her face in the mirror was gray; even her lips were gray. Under her eyes were slate-gray circles.
    She used a machine for towel and soap, laid the packet on the ledge, and stripped the gloves from her hands. The palms were stiff now. She thrust them into her bag quickly and closed it. She scrubbed her hands, her face, her hands again. She could still feel the stickiness on her fingertips. She reopened her bag, forced her fingers inside, found lipstick and a comb. Her dark hair was lank about her face. She tucked it behind her ears, pulled off her hat suddenly and thrust it up beneath the crown. The hat didn't look right but it was better that way.
    She couldn't sponge at her coat, it might run red; she couldn't remove articles from her purse, examine them for caked blood. She wasn't alone here. She was afraid to lock herself inside a private dressing-room; someone might become suspicious of the stains. She washed her hands again before she left the room.
    She went up the ramp to 42nd Street. At the door she bought two tabloids and the Herald Tribune. She put the papers under her arm, crossed the yet quiet traffic of the street, went down into the Automat. She had to open her purse again but she knew the bills in the zipper compartment were unstained. She laid the dollar on the counter, swept the two quarters and ten nickels into her ungloved hand, carried them to her tray.
    Out of sheer weariness she dared the steam table for scrambled eggs and bacon. Toast and fruit juice went with it on the special. For a nickel the slot filled her cup with strong steaming coffee. She carried her tray to the farthest corner. She wasn't hungry for food but she was weak. She finished the last crust before she opened the papers.
    There wasn't much in the Herald Tribune, a small item, the body of Maximilian Adlebrecht found on West 78th Street early this morning. Identified from letters on him. The tabloids were more lurid but they didn't know much more. Not in these early editions. The man was shot twice in the back at close range. She hadn't heard shots. The body was described as about 24 years old, well-dressed, $25 in a billfold, no robbery. The janitor of her house had found him about 3:00 a.m., turned in the alarm. The janitor with an unpronounceable Polish name was being held for further questioning. There was nothing about a dark girl who lived in that apartment house.
    The day in New York didn't begin until nine o'clock. She could do nothing until then. An hour to wait. She was awake now although her eyes felt as if pins held them open. She sat there while the room filled, refilled, over and again, ignoring each pointed look at her continued occupation of a chair. She sat behind the opened newspapers, reading every readable word. She read for an hour. When she left, the Tribune and the News remained on her chair. She carried the less bulky Mirror folded beneath her purse. It helped hide the stains that were not coffee stains.
    She went up and out into the morning, into crowded streets now. Despite the cold she walked leisurely up to Fifth, turned downtown, looking into shop windows. She walked to 37th Street, crossed Fifth, and turned back uptown. At 9:20 she entered Kresge's. She hadn't wanted to be the first