“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.”
“It’s beginning to appear like it,” Cross said, looking Houston straight in the eyes.
Again Houston was wading in his direction. But could Houston permit himself to accept what he was undoubtedly thinking? Could he bring himself to admit that he was standing and looking at a man who acknowledged no laws? Did not the very thought create a dizzy kind of guilt? He saw the hunchback blink his eyes and shake his head…Yes; he’s backing off from it; he’s scared…
“There’s absolutely nothing concrete to go on in all of this,” Houston said as though he was talking of Cross directly for the first time. “I have to keep fighting myself to reject the one and only theory that could tie all of this together…”
“What theory is that?”
Cross held his body so tense that he feared that Houston would notice it.
“Could there be a man in whose mind and consciousness all the hopes and inhibitions of the last two thousand years have died? A man whose consciousness has not been conditioned by our culture? A man speaking our language, dressing and behaving like we do, and yet living on a completely different plane? A man who would be the return of ancient man, pre-Christian man? Do you know what I mean?”
Cross felt his body grow hot. His judgment told him to keep quiet, to pretend ignorance; but his emotions clamored to enter this discussion, to tell what he knew. He drew his breath, pushed his personal feelings aside and, when he spoke, he was discussing himself in terms that were displaced and projected.
“He’s a man living in our modern industrial cities, but he is devoid of all the moral influences of Christianity. He has all the unique advantages of being privy to our knowledge, but he has either rejected it or had somehow escaped its influence. That he’s an atheist goes without saying, but he’d be something more than an atheist. He’d be something like a pagan, but a pagan who feels no need to worship…And, by the nature of things, such a man sooner or later is bound to appear. Since we are speculating about this, why can’t we say, in theory, that maybe he is appearing already? Modern man sleeps in the myths of the Greeks and the Jews. Those myths are now dying in his head and in his heart. They can no longer serve him. When they are really gone, those myths, man returns. Ancient man…And what’s there to guide him? Nothing at all but his own desires, which would be his only values.”
Cross confessed his crime as much as he dared. Houston stood looking moodily out of a dingy window.
“I don’t believe it,” Houston muttered at last. “It’s the Communists. They know something of this. I’m sure of that.” But there was no conviction in his voice. He turned to Cross and spoke without looking at him. “All right, Lane. That’s all.”
“I’ll be seeing you Sunday night at Frank’s, hunh?”
“What?” Houston asked; he seemed preoccupied. “Oh, yes. Of course. And keep away from those Communists, boy.”
“I shall.”
Houston’s eyes still avoided him. He was rigid a moment, then he turned and strode out of the captain’s office, leaving the door ajar. Cross watched his humped back disappear down a dim corridor. He didn’t dare…The hunchback had looked right at it and had turned his face away! The captain entered.
“That’s all, Lane.”
“Good evening, sir.”
He went out into the street. Yes, he was going to Eva…Out of the corner of his eyes he was vaguely conscious of a man leaning against the wall of a building and reading a newspaper. Ah, I wonder if they are trailing me…? He’d see. He was spent; he needed a drink. He headed toward Sixth Avenue, saw a bar; he paused and looked over his shoulder. Yes; the man was following him…He went into the bar and had a whiskey. God, how could he get out of this? He wanted to rise and yell for help. Would it not be better to see Houston and tell him that he had gotten in too deep, that he was afraid of himself? His head felt hot; his fingers were trembling. He yearned for the sight of Eva. If only he could talk to somebody! To wander always alone in this desert was too much…Once again he had killed and he feared that this time he would be caught. Maybe I want to be caught, he told himself. Is that it…? He didn’t care…He had done what he had wanted to do, hadn’t he? Then why worry…He paid for his drink and went out into the streets again. The man with the newspaper fell in slowly behind him. He had to see Eva, yet he feared seeing her. He knew that he had to tell her everything now; he had to tell…
He walked aimlessly, turning corners. He glanced over his shoulder; the man was still trailing him. The street lamps came on, gleaming through the misty winter night. The traffic was heavy. Eva would be worrying, wondering what had happened to him…Yes; go to her, get it over with, tell her…He’d throw himself upon her mercy.
He turned toward Charles Street and as he neared the apartment he knew that the man was still following him. To hell with him…His hands felt like ice, but his body and his face were burning. God, I must have fever…He shivered. He came to the building and stared at the windows of Herndon’s apartment. That fool! How much of the world’s suffering had been inflicted on men by Herndon and his kind? He was not sorry that he had killed him. He would do it again, if need be…He shook his head, realizing that Herndon had felt the same about him. How bewilderingly tangled it all was…
He went up the steps and entered the downstairs hallway; he paused, full of contrition at the thought of Eva. Could he face her? He had to, to keep alive he had to face her. He pulled up the stairs and stood uncertainly before the door. He pushed the bell; the door swung open and Eva was looking at him.
“Lionel, where on earth have you been?” she asked him.
He did not answer; he pushed past her and went stumbling into the living room. She followed him and he did not want to look into her face. He glared about nervously, then turned and went into the hallway again, heading for his room.
“Lionel, what’s the matter?”
He flopped on his bed and closed his eyes. He felt her fingers on his face.
“You have a fever,” she said in alarm. “You silly boy; why did you tramp about so long in the cold? Listen, the police came here asking for Sarah…They wouldn’t tell me why. What do you suppose they want with her? Do you hear me? Darling, what’s the matter? Sarah fixed some food for us. Are you hungry? Oh, God, you must be ill…Open your eyes and look at me! Oh, Lionel, you’re really ill! Here, let me help get you out of your clothes. You must rest. You’re under too great a strain. Lord, what have we done to you—Poor boy—I’ll get you some hot tea, hunh?”
He felt he wanted to die. What was he worth in the presence of this girl? He was ill, but not with the kind of illness she thought. He felt her pulling off his shoes, then when she tried to get his coat off, he opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Eva,” he whispered.
“Darling, you’re exhausted,” she said. “Where were you and wh
at were you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he answered her truthfully.
“Did someone bother you?”
He did not answer. She helped him to undress and he lay under the covers quietly, keeping his eyes closed. Eva pulled down the shades and he could feel that the room had grown dark. She cradled his head in her arms and whispered to him:
“Can I get you something?”
“No.”
He was fighting the fight of his life. His lips were tightly clamped, his eyes closed. He knew that he wanted to spill it all out, everything. Yet he held still, hoping that it would not come. It no longer now depended upon his debating if he should tell or not, but upon how much strength he had. He opened his eyes and looked at her. Oh, God, such trust in that face…How could he tell her? He pulled himself free and stood up in the darkness of the room, his back to her.
“Lionel, get back in bed! You have a temperature,” she wailed.
She caught his arm and led him back to the bed; he allowed himself to be guided by her, his eyes glazed and unseeing. She placed her cool palm on his forehead.
“You’re burning with fever…”
“Naw,” he groaned.
“You haven’t eaten—”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ve got to take care of yourself—You’re worried, that’s all. Listen, tramping about the streets in the cold and brooding, what’s the good of it? You must take care of yourself. You hear? You stood up to those cops fine, you talked wonderfully…Then afterwards you start fretting and you break down…You mustn’t let them get you like that, Lionel. Now, more than ever, you’ve got to be strong. We have no gang with us now. No Party…We’re alone, and that means we’ve got to fight, fight, and be careful…”
He stiffened. He’d scream if she kept expressing her faith and belief in him. He tried to pull away from the tug of her hand.
“Lionel, look at me—Look at me—I love you,” she whispered.
He shot from the bed and stood up in the darkness of the room, trembling; his body was hot yet he felt cold.
“Lionel, what’s wrong?”
“Everything,” he breathed.
“Can’t you tell me? Did somebody bother you?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
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