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 Examiner 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?”
His words seemed to have some effect, for Hilton was now a little easier in attitude.
“Just the same, I’d like to know more about that,” Hilton said.
“Sure,” Cross said. “Whenever you like. I’ve no secrets.”
The hell with him, Cross thought. Only one thing worried him about Hilton. Would the man try to poison his relations with Eva? Anger rose slowly in him. He would fight for Eva. He tried to catch her eye, but she was sunk in deep thought, staring blankly before her. He longed to be at her side when she was with Houston, but he knew that that was impossible. What was to be his relationship to her now that Gil was dead? Did it mean that he would have to move from the apartment? After the police had gone, he would talk to her about it. He would tell her, openly and frankly, that he did not ever want to leave her.
Farrel came to the door.
“Mrs. Blount,” he called.
Eva rose and followed Farrel into the hallway. Hilton at once closed the kitchen door and turned to Cross.
“What are your plans, Lane?”
“I have no plans,” Cross told him.
“Do you intend to stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t, who does?”
“I’m going to speak to Eva about it,” Cross said.
“When?”
“Look, I can’t very well bother her now,” Cross protested.
Hilton paced the floor. This man is after me, but why…? He thought of Bob’s squirming on the floor, weeping; he thought of Bob’s dodging the Immigration authorities and again he was drifting into that state of danger where he was judging others with supreme and final contempt. What right had Hilton to say who could live and who could not live? Damn him…Hilton must have sensed his mood, for he came close to Cross and clapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re okay, Lane,” he said. “We just have to be careful, that’s all. But I must see you sometime, soon. As soon as this is over.”
“Sure,” Cross said.
At some time in the future, he had a score to settle with this little god and it filled him with anger to think of it; then he was
angry with himself for getting angry. I must keep cool, he told himself. Farrel came to the door and beckoned to Hilton who strode out with defiance in his eyes and manner. A moment later Cross could hear Hilton’s strident voice rising in vehement argument with Houston. Why didn’t the damn fool let well enough alone? If he kept hammering at Houston, Houston would, in the end, start wondering about the case, start trying to find new theories he could make fit into it. He strained to hear what was being said in the living room, but could not make out any words. He looked at Menti and Menti smiled.
“He’s tough, that Hilton,” Menti said, nodding approvingly.
“Yes,” Cross agreed.
“Eva likes you,” Menti said.
“She’s a wonderful person,” Cross said.
Cross thought that Menti was a weak man who followed Hilton’s lead. Could he placate Hilton a little through Menti? He would try.
“Hilton seems suspicious of me,” Cross said. “Is it because I know Houston?”
“Well,” Menti drawled, pulling at his ear and smiling with embarrassment, “knowing cops is not exactly in our line, you know.”
“But I’ve no relations with this man,” Cross defended himself. “I met him simply and honestly in the dining car of a train some weeks ago.” He recalled that Bob had witnessed their meeting and he added: “Look, I remember now…Bob saw it happen—”
“Bob? Bob Hunter?”
“Yes. You know Bob?”
“Let me give you a tip,” Menti said, jerking down the corners of his mouth. “From now on, it’s not wise to give the name of Bob Hunter as a reference in the Party.”
“Why?”
“He’s a counter-revolutionary,” Menti said simply.
Cross blinked. He had blundered. He felt that he had become entangled in moving shadows.
“You’re new to all this,” Menti told him kindly. “I believe you’re solid. But Hilton trusts nothing and nobody but the Party.”
Cross decided to beg and wheedle a bit; he wanted to remain near Eva and the Party had the power to take her from him.
“Look, I’ve been in connection with the Party for only twenty-four hours,” he argued. “I’ve worked for Hilton, so far…I’d like to set his mind straight. What does he think I’m after?”
“What are you after?” Menti demanded.
That shot caught Cross squarely unawares. “You distrust me too?”
“We distrust everybody,” Menti said.
“Why do you distrust me?”
“We don’t know you.”
“All right,” Cross said, feeling trapped. “Tell me what I should do in order to be trusted by the Party—”
“You have to belong to the Party,” Menti said.
“I’m going to join—”
“I don’t mean that.”
“What do you mean, then?”
Menti chuckled cynically, scratched his chin, and looked quizzically at Cross.
“You have to belong to the Party,” Menti said.
Then Cross understood. The Party would have to have some hold on him before it could trust him; the Party would have to own him morally. And Menti had spoken of it as casually as if he had been reciting the number of inches in a foot…
“Do you belong to the Party?” Cross asked softly.
“Yes. I’ve no life except that of the Party. I have no wish, no dream, no will except that of the Party,” Menti confessed.
Cross stared in disbelief. Menti had willingly submitted himself to be ravaged and violated by others. And Cross felt that he could never surrender that completely to anybody or anything.
“I don’t understand,” Cross murmured.
“I know you don’t,” Menti said indulgently.
“But suppose the Party told you to do something you didn’t want to do?”
“That’s unthinkable,” Menti said stoutly.
“Even unto death?”
“Even unto death and beyond,” Menti maintained.
“Beyond?” Cross echoed. “Do you believe in a beyond?”
“In a sense, yes,” Menti answered. “If, after I’m dead, the Party wanted to make use of me, wanted to place some interpretation upon my life or death, upon any of my actions for organizational or propaganda purposes, it has the right.”
“But, Menti, don’t you feel that you’ve got some value that’s yours and yours alone?”
“In the eyes of the Party, no.”
They both started at the vicious slamming of a door down the hallway. Hilton stomped into the kitchen, his face distorted with anger.
“That goddamn sonofabitch,” he railed.
Farrel came into the door, beckoned to Menti and said: “You’re next.”
Hilton took hold of Menti’s arm and hissed: “Tell him to go to hell for me!”
“Take it easy, guy,” Farrel warned.
Alone with Cross, Hilton changed his attitude quickly.
“When you go in there, stick to your story, see?”
“You can depend on me,” Cross assured him.
“We’ll see.”
“Look,” Cross could no longer hold himself in, “you make me feel that I’m guilty of something. You don’t trust me. Okay. Distrust breeds distrust. Now that I feel that you don’t trust me, I wonder if I ought to trust you—”
“You want to change your story to the D.A.?” Hilton asked.
“Hell, no! Why should I? My talking to the D.A. has nothing to do with it. But, hell, man, don’t make me feel I’m dirt under your feet. I don’t like it.”
Hilton grinned and relented.
“Lane, there’s only one thing I want to ask of you—”
“What’s that?”
“Take care of Eva.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will,” Hilton said and went abruptly out of the kitchen and out of the apartment.
What had he meant? Cross’s hands twitched. I’d like to ram that bastard’s head against a wall, he muttered to himself.
A few moments later Farrel tapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re the last.”
When Cross entered the living room, Houston was sitting smoking a cigarette.
“There you are,” he greeted Cross. “Sit down.”
As Cross sat Houston rose and began to pace the floor, chuckling, now and then tossing a glance at Cross. Had Houston changed his mind? Was he about to spring a trap?
“Tell me, Lane, what do you make out of all this?”
“I hardly know, really, Mr. Houston.”
“I wonder how many men in this land refuse to acknowledge the laws of our society?” Houston mused out loud.
“That would be hard to find out, wouldn’t it?” Cross asked.
“Yes. And that’s just why I’m asking,” Houston continued. “Farrel, like the Medical Examiner, keeps mumbling about how somebody could have come upon those two men while they were fighting and killed both of them. That’s possible, but highly improbable. What kind of motive could such a killer have? That’s what’s puzzling me.”
Cross was silent. Houston had returned to this dangerous ground. Why? He had to watch himself now. If he disputed such a theory, Houston might think that he was afraid of it. But if he acted casually, nonchalantly about it, would not that make Houston think that he was disinterested, had no emotional connections with it?
“I thought you had accepted the idea of their having killed each other,” Cross said, simulating surprise.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Houston mused. “I’m just playing with this idea. Now, such a killer could not be either a Communist or a Fascist, could he?”
“Why not?” Cross asked.
“Why would a Communist want to kill another Communist in the presence of a Fascist?”
“I draw a blank there,” Cross answered.
“And, the other way around, why would a Fascist want to kill a brother Fascist in the presence of a Communist?”
“I couldn’t think of a motive.”
“Why?” Houston asked, stopping and staring.
“I don’t know,” Cross said. “I’m just exploring possibilities. Now, suppose a friend of Herndon showed up under the opposite circumstances? Suppose he helped to finish off Blount and then killed Herndon—?”
“Why?” Houston demanded again.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either,” Houston said. “But while we’re on this theory of a third man, suppose either Blount or Herndon killed one another and a third man came upon the victor and killed him. Why? No, your theory is wrong. If there’s anything in a third man showing up, after you left, and joining in this fight—and I doubt this—he’d have to be somebody psychologically akin to either Blount or Herndon and yet some how outside of them. I can’t see either a Communist or a Fascist acting in that way.”
“Come to think of it, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Cross said, trembling at how close to danger he was; only a shadow of a thought separated him from being considered guilty in Houston’s eyes.
Houston paced the floor again, sucking at his cigarette.
“Such a killer, if he existed, would have to, for psychological reasons, be akin to both of them, wouldn’t he? At least he’d have to understand them…”
“Why?” Cross asked, smiling.
“Only a brother absolutist would have any motives for killing them on purely ideological grounds,” Houston went on. “Let us suppose a normal person came upon those two men fighting…What would he do? He would do what you did when you looked into the room. You called the police, or you had Hilton call the police. Now, we’ve checked the time. It is possible that after you left the door, somebody did go into the room and find them fighting. But, in order to kill the two of them on ideological grounds, this killer would have to have the support of a third set of ideas…We’ve checked Herndon’s apartment; nothing has been stolen. He had plenty of enemies, but they were nowhere near that apartment last night. Now, who is that third man with the third set of ideas?”
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