The Outsider (44 page)

Cross felt suspended over a bottomless void. He had thought that Houston would have arrived at that solution first; but, no, it was Dr. Stockton who had put his finger on the truth.

“Good Lord!” Houston exclaimed. “Why can't you fellows take facts just as you find them? Why do you want to make life more complicated than it is, and it's damn well complicated, if you ask me. Now, Dr. Stockton, what motive on earth could anybody have in coming upon those two men fighting and then killing the both of them?”

“I don't know.” Dr. Stockton shrugged his shoulders.

“I don't know either,” Houston said. “The damned thing's simple. Two hotheads met and had a fight over
their total views of life. They fought. One died and then the other died. And for my money, there's something of poetic justice in the whole damn thing.”

“Is that the official interpretation, Mr. District Attorney?” Dr. Stockton asked.

“Oh, Dr. Stockton, I'm not trying to encroach upon your duties,” Houston said, smiling blandly. “If not this interpretation, then what have you to offer?”

“I don't know,” Dr. Stockton said. He turned to Cross and stared at him for several seconds. “You're the young man who saw them fighting?”

“Yes, sir,” Cross answered.

“What time did Blount go down to see Herndon?” Dr. Stockton asked.

“It was about ten past nine o'clock,” Cross answered.

“How do you know that?” the doctor asked.

“Just before leaving the dinner table, Mr. Blount looked at his watch and told the time to us, and said he had to leave.”

Houston came forward and stood in front of Cross. Cross felt that his feet were resting on air, that he could sink right down through the floor.

“How long was Blount gone from the apartment before you went down there?” Houston asked.

Cross frowned, thinking. He felt that it was not really a matter of time; either they found a motive,
his
motive, and accused him or they did not. So he could tell the truth.

“That's really hard to say…It's better to tell you what happened. Mrs. Blount was worried. I was too. I offered to go down with Blount, to help him, defend him if anything happened…But he wouldn't hear of it. He was a proud man…And Mrs. Blount warned me not to interfere. She said he'd be angry, wildly angry if I did…I was helping Mrs. Blount clear away the
things from the table. Then we began hearing loud voices. We knew that they were quarreling. I offered to go down and Mrs. Blount said no, that he'd be angry. I went to my room and was lying on my bed…It was then that I heard that loud noise, like something breaking, a big piece of wood…That was the table, maybe…”

“No doubt,” Dr. Stockton said. “Go on…”

“Mrs. Blount came running to me. She was terribly upset. It seems—”

“How long were you in the room before Mrs. Blount came running to you?” Dr. Stockton asked.

“I don't know,” Cross said truthfully. “Maybe five minutes; maybe longer…”

“And Mrs. Blount asked you to go down?”

“Well, not exactly…She didn't seem to know what to do…So I offered to go down. But she said no. Then we heard a scream—”

“Could you tell who it was that screamed?”

“No,” Cross said honestly. “This time I said I'd go down, and she agreed…But she was still afraid. You see, really, she was more afraid of Blount himself than of anything happening to him. The moment I got downstairs in the hallway, I knew a fight was going on…I ran to the door, opened it, and saw Herndon beating Blount with the fire poker…Blount was on the floor and Herndon had his foot on his chest and was lamming away. I didn't hear Mrs. Blount come down, but all at once I felt her hand touching my back. She started screaming and Herndon saw us…He came at us with the fire poker…I blocked him just long enough for Mrs. Blount to run upstairs, and Herndon swiped me across the shoulder with the poker…” Cross paused, pulled off his coat, opened his shirt and showed his shoulder.

“Why didn't you call the police?” Houston wanted to know.

“When I got upstairs, Mrs. Blount was calling the police…She didn't seem able to get connections…She asked me to call, then she ran out of the room to go downstairs again…I was scared she'd get hurt, so I ran after her, caught her on the landing and brought her back to the apartment. We kept hearing the fighting; there were shouts, screams…Mrs. Blount asked me to phone the police—”

“And didn't you phone?” Houston asked.

“No; I wanted to try to help Mr. Blount…I told her to phone and I ran downstairs. But I found the door locked this time. I rattled the knob—I called, yelled—I could hear 'em fighting—”

“Whose name did you call?” Dr. Stockton asked.

“Mr. Blount's name. I didn't know what to do. I went back upstairs and—”

“How long were you downstairs the second time?”

“I don't know. Maybe five minutes, maybe longer…When I went back to tell Mrs. Blount, she told me that she'd phoned Mr. Hilton and that Mr. Hilton was phoning the police. You see, she thought surely that Mr. Blount was coming up with me. And when I told her that he was still down there, she went really wild…I was trying to call the police when she ran out of the door again. This time she came flying back. She said Herndon had his gun and was on his way up…”

“Did you see 'im?” Houston asked.

“No. I barred the door. Mrs. Blount fainted and I put water on her face…”

Dr. Stockton turned to Farrel, frowning.

“Where was Herndon's gun, Lieutenant?” Dr. Stockton asked.

“In the drawer of his desk,” Farrel explained. “The
drawer was half-pulled out. Seems like somebody had just tossed it in there. Might have been the last thing Herndon did before he died.”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Stockton said slowly.

Cross was still as stone. He could feel that they were not satisfied with this interpretation, but they could find no other that would explain the facts. Houston seemed inclined to accept the picture that Cross had painted. Good. Let the doctor and his scientists discover something else, if they could. Things were not going so badly. But he had to be careful of this man Houston; after all, he may be stalling just to see how he would react. The doctor had hit upon the right solution, but he had no background of ideas to make it stick, no understanding or grasp of the range of motives that could explain it all. And Houston had that, but he seemed not to care to bother with it. Was Houston playing a game?

Dr. Stockton began putting his papers and photographs back into his briefcase.

“Well, I'll have to leave the motives to you, Mr. District Attorney,” he said. “My findings are as follows: double murder or double manslaughter…The two men died so close together that I'd not like to say who died first, so—”

“Mr. District Attorney,” Hilton spoke up for the first time, “There's more to this than you gentlemen are admitting. A man has been murdered. That man was Gilbert Blount. The murderer was Langley Herndon. Now, allow me to identify myself a little more before I continue. I'm a member of the editorial board of the
Daily Worker
. I was a colleague of Gilbert Blount. I want to protest against the light-handed manner in which this case is being handled. The issues here are basically social, and you gentlemen are playing around with probabilities and psychological facts. I'm insisting that some
measure of responsibility be shown here. This case has a background of politics, sir. I said
politics
, and I mean it. And you do not want to look into that phase of it, yet the only real motives can be found there. We have
proof
that Herndon killed Blount. Mr. Lane here is an eyewitness…He saw Herndon striking Blount with a poker about the head…Herndon later struck Mr. Lane with that same fire poker. I'm speaking of the moral side of this case…You saw that frightened little woman who just left this room. Herndon chased that poor woman with a gun, terrorized her! Now, I maintain that it's unfair to leave the impression in the public mind that her husband was a murderer—”

Dr. Stockton had his briefcase in his hand.

“Mr. District Attorney, I must be off…The rest is up to you. There is no possibility of my giving you an opinion as to who died first. From a clinical point of view, we've nothing to go on. Good morning, gentlemen.”

Dr. Stockton walked briskly out of the room. Hilton's thin face turned livid; he whirled to Houston and began to shout:

“Mr. District Attorney, it's but fair to warn you that the
Daily Worker
and the labor movement will fight you about any interpretation of this case that points to Blount as a murderer. He was defending his life against a fascist attack! He was defending his home, his wife, his friend against a man who has publicly advocated the extermination of all racial minorities. Herndon
sent
for Blount to come and see him. Mrs. Blount will testify to that. And Herndon was wildly angry when he did it…He later pulled a gun on Mrs. Blount herself…There was but one issue in this thing: Could Mr. Lane, a Negro, remain in this apartment? Now, you know that that is true, and so do I.
We all know it. Only yesterday morning Herndon threatened the life of Mr. Lane here…”

“Look, Mr.—What's your name?”

“Hilton. John Hilton.”

“I see your point, Mr. Hilton,” Houston said. “In this particular investigation our aim is to determine
who
died first. And that is something for the Medical Examiner to find out. I asked him who died first, and he says he doesn't know. He has thrown in the sponge. He says that they died so close together in terms of time that it's anybody's guess—”

“But there's another angle to this,” Hilton was persistent. “Look, Mr. District Attorney, this Herndon has threatened Mr. Blount many times. He threatened Mr. Lane here. He had the
intent
. Now, there is a
real
difference.”

“But no proof,” Houston said.

“Yes, there is proof,” Hilton overrode Houston. “This man's writings are fascistic. He has advocated the extermination of non-Anglo-Saxon minorities—”

“Oh, Christ, man!” Houston exploded. “That's farfetched. If you're going to bring that up, why not cite all the Communist arguments and threats against the bourgeoisie? That would make Blount the guilty one, wouldn't it?”

“No,” Hilton said.

“Why not? If you're going to be fair, you'll have to admit it,” Houston insisted. “Now, look, here is how things stand. We don't know which man died first. We are not going to call this case an instance of double murder. What right has anybody to make Blount a murderer in the eyes of his wife? And, by the same token, what right has anybody to make Herndon a murderer in the eyes of his relatives even if they are not here to protect his name? All right, in the light of what the Medical Ex
aminer has said, I'm going to call this double manslaughter…”

“And we'll call it just plain murder!” Hilton's voice rose in shrill denunciation. “You're taking the side of property in this investigation—”

Cross listened with amazement. Yes, sane men did misread reality. Just as he had once had fantasies, so now he was looking at men who were passionately arguing about their own fantasies, trying to decide which fantasy was to be taken for reality. No one in the room knew the truth of what had happened but he, and yet they were ready to fight and kill, if need be, for what they thought was the truth.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Houston said.

“This is an issue of property versus the individual and his freedom!” Hilton shouted.

“I'm taking no such stand,” Houston maintained.

“You're giving the benefit of the doubt to capital!” Hilton charged.

“I'm abiding by the decision of the Medical Examiner,” Houston corrected him. “I'll deal with facts and facts alone…You're trying to read your class conscious ideas into this investigation, and the law will not accept it.”

“We will charge
murder
,” Hilton hissed.

Cross had his fists doubled. He wanted to scream at Hilton to stop agitating. Let sleeping dogs lie…The more Hilton pressed his case for a class conscious interpretation of the facts, the more dangerous it was for him. Damn Hilton…He was trying to prove something false anyhow. And so was Houston. Cross could see that Hilton's attack, though rejected, had somewhat disturbed Houston who was staring thoughtfully off into space. So far Houston had accepted what seemed like a straightforward and normal account of the
facts, but if Hilton kept on plugging away in that dogged manner of his, why, Houston might really start thinking; and if he started thinking, there was but one other real direction for his mind to travel. And that damned Houston, if he had the will, could find out the truth…

“Farrel, ask Mrs. Blount to come here a moment, will you?” Houston asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Farrel left the room and a moment later Eva appeared in the doorway.

“Mrs. Blount, I'm sorry this has to happen in your home,” Houston began. “I must question each person here separately. I'd like the use of your living room, if I may.”

“Of course,” Eva answered in a lifeless manner.

“Now, Farrel, in about ten minutes, send me these people one by one,” Houston instructed. “Begin with Mrs. Blount—You are well enough to answer questions, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Eva whispered.

Houston went out of the kitchen.

Hilton sidled up to Cross and forced a smile.

“You are some fellow, Lane.” Hilton pulled down the corners of his lips in a scowl.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you get to know
him
?”

“So you think I'm in the pay of the police, hunh?” Cross asked, laughing. “I met him once on a train. That's all.” A look of doubt was still in Hilton's eyes. “If you don't believe it, then I can't help it. You can check my statements, if you like. After all, how did I know that I'd ever meet him again?”