The Outsider (41 page)

“What's the trouble here?” The voice was rough and aggressive.

“There's been an awful fight downstairs,” Cross heard Hilton explaining. “I think you'd better go down and see—”

“Whose apartment is this and
who
are you?”

“I'm a friend of one of the men downstairs, Mr. Gilbert Blount,” Hilton's voice came clear and steady. “But, say, I think you ought to take a look quick—”

“I asked
you
your name?”

“Hilton, Jack Hilton…”

“And where do you live?”

“At the Albert Hotel on University Place.”

“And what were these men fighting about?”

“Well, it seems that the landlord, Mr. Herndon, objected to a certain tenant—”

“We'll see about that,” a flat, brutal voice sounded.

There was silence. Cross could hear voices but could not make out what was being said.

“What are you doing here now?”

“Mrs. Blount, the wife of one of the men downstairs, asked me to come over,” Hilton explained. “Look, don't you think you ought to take a look and see what's happened to the men down there—?”

“Where's Mrs. Blount now?”

“In the living room,” Hilton answered. “But maybe a doctor could help those men—”

“Look, Mister, we know our job, so don't try to tell us what to do, see?”

“Well, I just thought—”

“We want to see Mrs. Blount,” a hard voice insisted.

“Sure. Come in. That way—She's in the living room.”

Cross heard feet coming down the hallway. Eva sat up, supported by Menti's arm. Two policemen, tall and seemingly of Irish extraction, came into the room and at once stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of the dark face of Cross. The older of the two policemen stared at Cross, Eva, Menti, then at Hilton, and finally his large, bold, grey eyes rested on Cross again.

“What's the matter with you people? Are you color blind?” he demanded with a faint sneer on his lips.

“Who are you?” Menti asked.

“Lieutenant Farrel. This is Officer Clark, my aide.” He turned toward Eva. “Are you Mrs. Blount?”

“I am,” Eva whispered.

“What seems to be the trouble, lady,” Farrel asked.

“My husband—He's downstairs—I'm afraid he's hurt—He had an argument with the landlord, Mr. Herndon—”

“Who are these people?” Lieutenant Farrel asked, glancing at Menti and then Cross.

“My name's Herbert Menti, a friend of Mrs. Blount. And this is Lionel Lane, who lives here.”

“
You
live here?” Farrel asked Cross, lifting his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Cross answered.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Cross countered.

Farrel stared, then rocked back on his heels and looked over the people. “Are you
married
to anybody here?” Farrel demanded.

“No. I room here. I'm a student,” Cross said.

“Uh huh,” Farrel said.

“Is there anything illegal with Mr. Lane's being here?” Hilton asked pointedly.

“No,” Farrel said, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “It's legal, just
legal
.”

There was silence in the room as the pounding of feet on the stairs was heard. An officer stumbled through the door, panting, his face red and his eyes round with shock.

“Farrel, downstairs—” he gasped. “Quick, man—Wheeew! Looks like they bashed each other to death! It's a regular slaughterhouse, for real…You have to
see
it to believe it—”

“
Two?
” Farrel asked, his mouth dropping open.

“Yep.
Two
, no less.”

Cross's eyes went quickly to Eva's face. Could she cope with this? He saw her hesitate a second, then rise, her eyes blazing with disbelief.

“No,
no…! What
are you saying? Gil, Gil,
Gil
!” she screamed.

“Lady,” Farrel called to her.

“Oh, my poor Gil!” Eva cried, running toward the door.

Farrel grabbed her. Eva struggled, trying to break loose.

“Let me go; let me go…Gil—Gil—”

She pulled from Farrel's arms and sank to the floor, sobbing convulsively.

“They've killed my poor husband—Oh, God, help poor Gil—”

“Is that his wife?” the new policeman asked.

“Yes,” Menti answered.

“You'd better get her to lie down,” Clark said.

“Eva, come with me,” Menti said, lifting Eva from the floor. “Darling, take it easy—We don't know for sure yet—”

“I want to go to Gil,” she cried.

“No, no; you must stay here,” Menti insisted. “Lie here on the sofa—”

Cross was transfixed. She had done it. She had conquered her genuine grief and had replaced it with a pretended one, and somehow he felt that the pretended one was more real than the other. It rang with a sincerity that stemmed from a conscious act of creation.

“…one used a table leg and the other a fire poker, it seems,” the cop was explaining to Farrel.

Farrel's eyes widened in wonder.

“Is it too late to do anything for 'em?” Hilton asked, making sure to include Herndon in his question.

“Clark, stand guard here,” Farrel said, ignoring Hilton. He beckoned the other policeman. “Come on. We'll have to get the Medical Examiner if what you say is true…”

Grim-lipped, Clark towered over Eva, Menti, Hilton and Cross. Sounds of voices and commotions could be heard downstairs now.

“He didn't seem to like you, Lane,” Hilton said.

“Look,” the policeman on guard held up his hand in a warning. “I must tell you that I can repeat anything I hear you say, see? So be careful.”

“I don't give a damn what you do,” Hilton shot at the cop. “I've nothing to hide here. None of us has. Now, I say that that damned Lieutenant Farrel made some nasty cracks here about Mr. Lane. He called us colorblind. He wanted to know if Lane was married to anybody here…Now, you can damn well repeat
that
to Headquarters, if you want to. If you don't, I will. Mr. Lane has more than a legal right to be here.”

The cop reddened with embarrassment.

“I reckon you got something there, buddy,” he said in tones of conciliation.

Cross assumed a relaxed, detached air to what was
happening, but he managed to keep a furtive eye on Eva. He had enough insight into the psychological reactions of white Americans in racial matters to know that there were possible two main lines of development in the events under way: the average cop would either consider him fair game and concentrate upon him as a Negro, or he would seize upon the Communist political angle for purposes of public exploitation. I'm going to sit tight and see which way the cat jumps, Cross mused, feeling proud that he was conscious of their consciousness. It was, of course, possible, but not probable, that they might combine the two issues and whip up a lynch atmosphere. Barring some fantastic fact coming to light, he did not see how they could think of him in relation to the deaths of Gil and Herndon. And, even if they did, there were the machinating temperaments of both Hilton and Menti working to advance the organizational interests of the Party by placing the blame for Gil's death on Herndon, and thereby protecting him.

He noticed that Eva was now as calm as marble. Balling a handkerchief in her right fist, she sat looking bleakly in front of her. His eyes caught hers and he saw in them a glint of recognition. Yes, she's with me. She thinks I'm a victim too…Her sense of guilt was throwing her on his side; she had long been wanting to be free of Gil and now that she was free she wants to unburden her guilt on to someone else, on to Herndon…

Lieutenant Farrel came back into the room, puffing from climbing the stairs; his heavy brows were knitted in perplexity. Following him was another policeman with a notebook and pencil in hand. He demanded the names, ages, occupations, and identification of all present. Cross accounted for himself as a student and
showed his birth certificate and draft card. Hilton was a free lance writer and Menti spoke of himself as an unemployed printer. The room was quiet; no one volunteered any further information. The burden of getting at what happened fell upon Farrel, and he was a more chastened man now that he had seen the charnel house in Herndon's living room.

“Well, who'll lead off and tell what happened?”

There was silence. Menti looked at Hilton and Hilton looked at Cross. Cross cleared his throat and spoke in low, polite tones:

“I'm afraid that you'll have to rely upon me for the details as to how this started.”

Farrel was impressed at the manner in which Cross spoke.

“And what did you have to do with it?”

“Nothing, directly. But I saw Mr. Herndon striking Mr. Blount with a fire poker…”

Under questioning by Farrel, Cross related what had been agreed upon among him and Hilton and Menti. He kept his account terse, making no interpretations at all, leaving the cops to make their own inferences. Farrel frowned, looking from face to face. Briefly, Hilton related how he had received two phone calls, one from Eva and another from Lionel. He told of phoning the police, of picking up his friend Menti, and rushing over. He related how they had found Lionel and Eva huddled in fear in the apartment, how they had gone down and bashed in the door and found the men lying there, bloody, still…

“We didn't tell Mrs. Blount anything…We waited for you…” Hilton wound up.

“Madam, do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill your husband?” Farrel asked Eva.

Eva rose magnificently to the question; she threw her
hands to her mouth and screamed: “He killed my husband! He killed poor Gil!”

“You mean that
Herndon
killed him?” Hilton demanded, looking at Farrel. “Didn't he?”

“We don't know,” Farrel said.

“But there are eyewitnesses who saw Herndon beating Blount…” said Menti.

“That's for the Medical Examiner to say,” Farrel hedged.

“But where
were
you guys?” Hilton demanded. “I phoned you thirty minutes ago. I got here in ten minutes—”

“We're pretty busy these days,” Farrel said sadly. “We got here as soon as we could—This may be a job for the D.A.”

Cross was attention.
Ely Houston
? God…Would Houston recall his false name? He was certain that Houston had a vivid recollection of the talk they had had in his compartment on the train. Houston was capable of finding out the truth about him, could even
guess
the truth…Houston, a hunchback, an outsider, a man whose physical deformity had forced him to live in but not of the normal rounds of ritualized life, knew the demonic feelings of men who played god because he himself was of the demonic clan, having hidden his kinship with the rebellious by publicly upholding the laws and promises that men live by…And Cross knew that his crimes were of a nature that Houston would not only find engrossing but challenging. Houston understood those rare-judgment-feelings that made men kill for no motives defined or known in the realms of law. Cross had no real fear of Farrel, or Clark, or the other flatfoots who wandered blunderingly in and out of the apartment, but for Houston he had something akin to terror…The cops were baf
fled, half-scared men who hid their bewilderment by loud-mouthed blustering; but Houston was so placed psychologically in life that he would feel intuitively at home with his crimes, for he was akin to Gil, to Herndon, to Hilton, and to Cross in temperament and outlook; he had the kind of consciousness that could grasp the mercurial emotions of men whom society had never tamed or disciplined, men whose will had never been broken, men who were wild but sensitive, savage but civilized, intellectual but somehow intrinsically poetic in their inmost hearts.

Farrel left the room and made a lengthy telephone call in the hallway; at last he came in with his verdict.

“All of you must consider yourselves under house arrest,” he began. “I'm posting an officer at the door of the apartment for tonight. There are a lot of questions that must be answered. In the morning all of you must face the District Attorney and give him your stories and account for yourselves. The Medical Examiner is downstairs working now—”

“But what is the meaning of this?” Hilton demanded.

“We must determine how those men died downstairs—” Farrel said.

“But it's all very simple,” Menti said.

“Mr. Lane told you what happened,” Hilton said.

“I'm only obeying orders,” Farrel said.

“You mean we have to stay here all night—?” Menti asked.

“Absolutely,” Farrel snapped.

“But my wife; she'll be upset,” Menti objected.

“You got a phone at home?”

“Yes.”

“Then call her,” Farrel directed.

“And I'll have to stay too?” Hilton demanded.

“I'm afraid so, sir,” Farrel said.

“But
why
?”

“Listen, I'm acting under the orders of the District Attorney. He is acting according to the reports he's getting from the Medical Examiner downstairs. If you want to, I can take you to see an Assistant D.A. Maybe you can arrange something with him…”

“The hell with it,” Hilton said.

Eva was weeping now afresh.

“I want to see Gil,” she sobbed. “Please, please—”

“I'm sorry, lady,” Clark said. “They've taken his body to the Morgue.”

“…and it looks like they killed each other,” Farrel was saying in a low voice to another officer.

“It's the most freakish thing I ever saw,” the other officer said.

Finally Cross, Eva, Hilton, and Menti were alone; the police had gone, stationing a young cop on guard in the hallway in front of the apartment door. For awhile there was silence among the four of them. Eva was weeping noiselessly but earnestly now, and Cross observed that her grief at this moment had none of that spontaneousness of emotion that had characterized the grief she had pretended for the cops. She was free now; her secret wish had come true…Was that why she was weeping?