The Outsider (50 page)

“Mr. Hilton had an accident—”

“Oh,” Cross said in surprise. “Not serious, I hope—An automobile accident?”

“You tried to see Hilton earlier today?” the captain asked, ignoring his question.

“Yes.”

“And he wasn't in?”

“That's right.”

“Did you see Hilton at any time today?”

“Yes. It was this morning when he left the apartment where I live. But what's this all about? What has that got to do with his being hurt? If you told me what you wanted, maybe I could help you,” Cross said.

“When did you see Hilton
after
he left you this morning?” the captain continued to ignore his request for more information. “You saw him?”

“No.”

“Did Hilton ever threaten you?”

“No; why should he? Look, let me explain…Hilton came last night—”

“We're doing the questioning. You just answer!” the captain reminded him. “Do you know of anyone who'd want to harm Hilton?”

Cross gaped and let his eyes assume a roundness of understanding. This is the closest the captain had come to saying that some
person
had hurt Hilton. Now, ought he try to confuse them by telling them about Bob and Sarah? Bob and Sarah had real, ordinary motives for wanting to kill Hilton and the both of them had airtight alibis…So what harm would it do to tell of the row that Bob had had with Gil and Hilton? It would give their literal minds something to chew upon for a few minutes.

“Well, look now…Let me think—”

“Don't think! Talk! Tell what you know. This is serious.”

“Well, it's kind of complicated and I'm rather a stranger to all of them, you see. These people, you know, are Communists, all of them. They had a hot argument the other night about Party matters…”

“What people and where was the argument?”

“Bob Hunter and Hilton—It was at Bob's place—”

“Go on; get to the point!”

His eyes roved from face to face. Yes, they were eager to hear the story. He could turn their minds away from him. Bob was on Ellis Island and had the best of all possible alibis. And no doubt Sarah could prove that she had been with Eva at the time that Hilton was killed. He related to them the tale of Bob's illegal entry into the country, of how Hilton had—according to Bob's way of explaining it—threatened to have him deported to Trinidad if he did not obey the Party…

“You see, according to Bob, Hilton was going to tip off the Immigration authorities and have him picked up,” Cross said.

“Where's this Bob Hunter now?” the captain demanded.

“He was at Ellis Island the last I heard,” Cross said gently. “They picked him up for deportation.”

The faces of the policemen showed keen disappointment.

“And his wife, Sarah? Where's she now?”

“At my house, maybe. That is, if she's not gone to her own home by now—”

“Where does she live?”

He gave them the information. He was sure that Sarah could readily account for herself. He was using Sarah to fill out his story, to put his recital in a frame of
reference that would make his attitude seem normal and cooperative.

“Lane, did you go up to Hilton's room?” the captain asked suddenly, softly.

“No; I told you he wasn't in.”

“Did you ever fire a .32?”

“No. I own a .38. You see my gun—”

“Aren't you associated with Hilton in some way?”

“No. But why do you ask me that?”

“You could have walked up the stairs, you know,” the captain suggested.

“What stairs?” Cross asked.

“The hotel stairs. Didn't you walk up to Hilton's room?”

“Good God, no! I told you I didn't
see
Hilton!”

There was silence. The captain turned to his desk and wrote something hurriedly upon a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to a policeman.

“Check at Ellis Island about this Bob Hunter. Make sure he's still there and hasn't been out…And send out a radio call for this Sarah, his wife—”

“Say!” Cross exclaimed. “Look, here—” He pretended to be overcome with contrition. “I didn't mean to get Sarah in trouble…She's all upset about her husband. I'm sure that she hasn't done anything to anybody. She'll hate me for making people think that she's done something…”

“We'll take good care and keep what you've told us strictly confidential, Mr. Lane,” the captain said. “Now, let me tell you that Hilton was found dead a few minutes ago in his hotel room…”

Cross lifted his head with a jerk and stared at the captain.

“
Dead
?” he echoed.

“Yeah.”

He kept his eyes intently upon the captain's face, then took a deep breath; he looked disbelievingly around the room at the faces and leaned weakly forward and rested his hands on the edge of the captain's desk, as though for support.

“God,” he sighed. “And I was trying to see him all afternoon.”

“You did not go to his room?”

“Of course not. He wasn't in…” He paused. “God, he might've been dead when I was asking for him.”

“That's possible,” the captain said.

“And only last night his friend, Mr. Blount was killed—What's happening—?”

“Blount? Gilbert Blount?” the captain asked, his mouth hanging open.

“Yes. That was Hilton's friend. I'm living in Mr. Blount's apartment. I just spoke to the District Attorney this morning about all of this—”

The policemen were astonished. He knew that their minds were wandering far from him now.

“Get the District Attorney's office on the telephone,” the captain ordered. “We'll see what this is all about.”

“Yes, sir,” a policeman answered and left the room.

Cross sat and waited.

“How deep are you in this Communist business?” the captain asked.

Cross relaxed a bit; their minds were now working normally, leading them into paths where they could find nothing against him.

“I'm not in it at all,” he answered. “I belong to no political organizations whatsoever.”

“How long have you known Blount?”

“Two days.”

“How did you come to meet him?”

“At Bob Hunter's place.”

“How did you meet Bob Hunter?”

“On a train.”

“And Hilton? How long have you known him?”

“Two days. I met them both the same night.”

“Did you ever hear anybody threaten either of them?”

“No.”

“Did Bob Hunter or his wife ever threaten them?”

“They had a hot argument, but nobody threatened anybody.”

“By the way, let me see your draft card.”

Cross tendered his draft card; the captain examined it, copied down some information from it and handed it back to him.

“Where were you born?”

“In Newark, New Jersey.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“In Newark.”

“This Hilton, what kind of a man was he?”

“What do you mean?”

“His behavior…?”

“Well, he struck me as being very intelligent. He never said much. He's an ex-school teacher.”

“Where did he teach school?”

“I don't know. Look, I hardly know the man. I spoke to him for the first time this morning and for only a few minutes—”

“But he wanted to discuss politics with you, didn't he?”

“Sure; I'll talk and have a drink with anybody. Why not? I'd take a drink with you even…”

“No thanks,” the captain said, smiling suddenly. “Did Hilton owe you any money?”

The captain's manner made Cross feel that he had given up any hope of linking him with the killing of Hilton.

“No. Not a cent.”

“Did you
owe
him something?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he have a girl friend?”

“I don't know.”

“Any men friends?”

“Yes. He was with a guy called Menti—”

“Menti what?”

“I don't remember his first name. He was just called Menti—”

“Spell it.”

Cross spelled out Menti's name.

“Where does he live?”

“I don't know.”

“Had he quarreled with Hilton?”

“Not in my presence.”

“Now, Lane, account for your movements during the afternoon.”

Cross sighed, looked at the ceiling, then at the faces around him. He laughed and said:

“You'll have to let me think a minute—”

“Take your time,” the captain said.

He told them of his movements in complete detail, leaving out only the half hour he had been in Hilton's room. He was deliberately shrewd enough to get the sequence of his actions twisted and several times he had to interrupt himself and reorder the chronology of events. He told them of his visit to the drugstore, the bar, of his two visits to the hotel, the newspaper he had bought. He told of waiting in the lobby while the girl at the switchboard tried to ring Hilton; of how the clerk had questioned the elevator boy about Hilton's having gone up to his room. When he was pressed to give a conception of how much time he had spent in each place, he grew vague in a helpless sort of way and would
not commit himself. Instead he tried to recall in concrete detail all the many tiny things he had done or seen. He even told them of his playing the pinball machine and he extended the number of times he had tried to win…

“We'll check on all of this,” the captain told him. “Lane, you can go now. But don't change your address. And say nothing about this to no one.”

“Just as you say, Captain. And if I can help you in any way, I'd be glad to do so. I didn't know Hilton very well, but I'd do what I could—”

The telephone rang and the captain picked up the receiver and listened.

“Okay,” he said, hanging up. “Lane, I'm afraid that you'll have to stick by. The D.A.'s coming over.”

“You mean Mr. Houston?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. He's a swell guy. I've got a date to have dinner with him Sunday evening…”

The policemen looked at one another. All of his words had been designed to lure their thoughts away from him, but not too definitely; he was assuming that a mild doubt in their minds was better than a certainty. His strategy was not to account for himself so cleverly that they would suspect that he was giving them a carefully doctored story. It was a sounder policy to make them wonder a little, search, check, and find nothing…

He sat alone in an anteroom waiting for the arrival of Houston. What would the old hunchback think now? Even if he
thought
him guilty, what could he do? Would Houston want to hold him for investigation? But would he not need the justification of some iota of evidence to do that? Houston could, of course, put him in the Tombs and then carry on his investigation. But would
he? Would he not think that these two crimes were of a political nature? That some Communist had become disgruntled and had killed Gil and, having killed him, had to kill Herndon to silence him? Would he not think that maybe the same disgruntled Communist had had to kill Hilton to silence him also? While he waited, one of the cops came to him and gave him his gun and the permit.

“The D.A.'s on his way over,” the cop said.

“Thanks,” Cross said, pocketing his gun.

Cross saw Houston arrive; a policeman escorted him into the captain's office. They're giving me a going-over in there, Cross thought. Half an hour later Cross was taken into the captain's office to confront Houston. They were alone. Houston was grim, tense. He moved lightly and nervously about the room, more stooped and humped than ever, throwing a darting glance at Cross from time to time. Finally he stopped in front of Cross and said:

“You seem to be getting to know the police pretty well.”

“Looks like it, doesn't it?” Cross said.

“Is there anything you want to add to what you've told the captain?” Houston asked.

“No; not that I can think of.”

“You were
not
in Hilton's room today?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And you are
not
in the Party?” Houston asked.

“No. I'm not a member of the Party nor have I ever been.”

“Had they asked you to join?”

“Of course.”

“And what did you say?”

“I stalled. I talked with them about general subjects—”

“And you did
not
see Hilton?”

“I did not.”

“When did you last see him?”

“When he left Blount's apartment this morning.”

“Were you in communication with him by phone or in any other way since then?”

“No. There'd be no reason for me to be.”

Houston paused and brought his fist down on the edge of the captain's desk.

“I wonder what are these damned totalitarians killing each other about!”

“That would be hard to tell,” Cross said softly.

“Lane, you know something about how men's minds work. Now, do you think that what we were discussing this morning could have any relation or bearing on these killings?”

Cross felt dread enter him. Houston was again sniffing around on that highly dangerous ground.

“Gosh, I don't know, Mr. Houston,” he heaved a mumbling sigh. “It's all fantastic.”

“And nothing like it
could
happen,” Houston spoke as though he was protesting against something in his own mind. “It's these Communists…They're involved in something. Maybe Blount and Hilton were mixed up in spying…”

“And Herndon?” Cross felt compelled to ask.

“Goddammit, it doesn't make sense,” Houston spluttered, planting himself in front of Cross. “There
must
be a
third
man involved in this.”