“They are crazy,” Cross told her, laughing. “You know, they are trying to build up a case…They want to accuse me of killing Hilton…”
“Good God!” Sarah looked stunned. “Could it be because you’re living with Eva? But the Party isn’t interested in things like that. They’re trying to put their finger on you for something and they’re going about it slow and easy. They know you’re here with Eva and won’t run off—”
“You think so?” Cross asked to test her intuitions.
“I know it; I can feel it…”
Cross forced a laugh and shrugged his shoulders.
Just before going to bed that night, when they were alone together, Eva came demurely to him with a package wrapped up in heavy brown paper. He saw a look of devotion and trust in her tranquil, hazel eyes. She knelt at his feet and caught hold of his hand.
“Lionel,” she whispered.
“Yes, darling.”
In her attitude was a mute giving of her life to him that sprang from a sense of her newly gained freedom.
“Lionel,” she began, “I’m going to let you know something that I once swore that I’d never divulge to anyone on earth. I want you to know the Party you’re dealing with…They deceived me with Gil. Darling, here in this package are my diaries. They contain my hope and my despair…You must not let them make you a victim, too…They’re clever. Menti’s hounding you for something…Read these diaries and know the world in which I once lived…”
Cross’s eyes fell; he tried to keep his sense of shame from showing.
“You must know the kind of woman with whom you’ve elected to go through life,” Eva continued bravely, her eyes full upon his face. “Life has made me akin to you. The world has treated me as it has treated you. You’ll see that when you read this…”
Cross was a riot of impulses; he wanted to tell her that he had already read them; that he was not worthy of what she was doing; that he too had a past to tell of; that it was to her that he ought to kneel and not she to him…One impulse canceled the other and he said nothing; then he seized her and crushed her to him in an outburst of despair that was so deep and sharp that it seemed to stop his breath.
“Until death, Lionel,” she whispered.
“Yes; until death,” he sighed and bit his lips. He clung to her and hid his face; he did not want her to see the tears that stood stingingly in his eyes. When she pulled herself free, she laughed and wiped his eyes with the tips of her fingers.
“You silly-billy,” she said.
“You make me feel that way,” he told her truthfully.
“Look, let’s go to a midnight movie,” she suggested. “I’m tired of being cooped up.”
“Okay.”
No sooner was he upon the street with Eva than he saw Menti and Hank lurking in a shadowy doorway near a corner. And he knew that Menti had seen him, for the man lowered his head and walked off quickly, pulling Hank after him. He did not call Eva’s attention to Menti, feeling that it would only worry her. With Eva clinging to his arm, he moved on over patches of snow and ice, wondering what the Party knew and when it planned to act.
He was now under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Did they think he was going to run off? Were they working with the District Attorney? He felt that he could handle the Party, but Houston was another matter. He damned the day he had met the man who knew so well the spiritual malady that had plagued and undone him—the dilemma of the ethical criminal, the millions of men who lived in the tiny crevices of industrial society completely cut off from humanity, the teeming multitudes of little gods who ruled their own private worlds and acknowledged no outside authority. Hating that part of himself that he could not manage, Cross must perforce fear and hate Houston who knew how close to crime men of his kind had by necessity to live.
After the movie they returned to the apartment to find that Sarah was not in. Eva was worried; it was past two o’clock in the morning and she lamented that they had not had the foresight to invite Sarah along with them, and Cross agreed with her, but for reasons of his own. He suspected that Sarah was with Menti…
Sarah arrived around three o’clock accompanied by Menti, Hank, and another elderly, portly, white-haired, well-dressed man. Sarah, slightly tipsy from drink, came straight to Cross with a knowing look in her eyes. They’ve been pumping her, Cross thought.
“Lionel, I want you to meet Menti’s friend, Mr. Blimin,” Sarah said.
“How are you?” Cross said.
“I’m glad to meet you, Lane,” Blimin said.
They shook hands. Menti at once went to Blimin and Hank and took both of them by their arms.
“Say, you two wanted to find that little room, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Blimin said, looking around the room at Cross, Eva, and Sarah. “Will you excuse me?”
Menti herded the two of them into the hallway. It did not look natural. Cross knew that Menti had gotten Blimin and Hank out of the room in order to say something to them of a confidential nature. The moment Menti’s footsteps had ceased to sound in the hallway, Sarah rushed to Cross and Eva and burst out in a loud whisper:
“You should have heard what they were asking me about you—”
“Yes? Tell me,” Cross urged her.
“Blimin wanted to know your age, your background, how you spoke, who your mother was, who your father was, what school you came from, what organizations you belonged to…”
“Good God!” Cross forced himself to laugh.
“But, why?” Eva stood and indignation blazed in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” Sarah said.
Eva turned to Cross and said: “What do they mean? You’ve got to tell them off, Lionel.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
“If you don’t tell them, I will,” Eva swore with anger.
“But this just started today, honey,” he reminded her. He had to keep this thing to normal proportions in her mind. “I’ll see them as soon as the ceremony for Gil’s over.”
“And tell them to keep out of our life,” Eva demanded.
“But, wait—I haven’t told you everything yet,” Sarah said. “That Blimin wanted to know what kind of books you read, what kind of mail you received, if you spoke any foreign languages, if you had any secret appointments, if a lot of telephone calls came for you, how large were the bills you spent, what kind of people came to see you, if I could hear you typing late at night, if you mailed any big envelopes…Lord, he was like a lawyer.”
“Don’t worry, Sarah,” Cross told her. “They’re worried about Gil and Hilton and they’re trying to find out who killed them.”
“But why are they snooping around us?” Eva demanded.
“Listen, Lionel,” Sarah said with deep care. “I hope to God that you’re not like Bob. Don’t have a past for them to dig into. This is exactly how they were acting before they turned Bob over to the Immigration authorities…Oh, God, I hate those people, I hate ’em!” Tears of rage blinded Sarah.
“But there are others who are worse than Communists,” Cross told Sarah. “The Communists are kittens; but there are tigers in the jungle.”
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.
“Communists are trained and organized; but there are men, their equals, who have never been broken. They are more dangerous than Communists!”
“Well, I hate ’em, hate ’em all!” Sarah hissed.
“If you hate them, then you’ll never understand them,” Cross explained.
“Why in hell would I want to understand them?” Sarah demanded.
The doorknob turned and Menti, Blimin, and Hank reentered the room. Blimin came straight to Cross and went to work.
“Say, they tell me you were a friend of Gil,” Blimin said.
“That’s right,” Cross answered.
“And you knew Hilton?”
“Not as well as I knew Gil.”
“Is this your first time to become acquainted with the Party?”
“That’s it.”
“What do you think of our Party?”
“Well, I doubt if I know it well enough to form a worthwhile opinion,” Cross hedged.
“Could I ask you a direct question?”
“Of course.”
“Lane, are you now, directly or indirectly, verbally or organizationally, by proxy or on your own behalf engaged in anti-Party activity?” Blimin let the words roll neatly off the tip of his tongue.
Cross rose from the side of Eva and faced Blimin. How could he tell this man something that would set his mind at rest, and yet not leave in him the impression that he was evading anything.
“You don’t have to answer unless you want to, Lane,” Blimin said.
“I’m hesitating in order to give full weight to what you’ve asked me,” Cross said.
The Communists were at last boldly leaping into an area where the police had feared to tread. His relation to the Party was the reverse of his relation to Houston. The essence of the Party was an open lawlessness and it could smell lawlessness in others even when it could not identify it correctly. What tactic could he use here? His first move should be to find out how much they suspected and the degree and intensity of their seriousness.
“Mr. Blimin, I suppose this is as good a time as any for us to have a showdown,” Cross began. “What are you suspecting me of? Why are you posing all these vague and roundabout questions?”
“Blimin’s not a man to play with,” Menti reminded Cross.
“We’re careful in the Party, Lane,” Blimin said. “And we don’t know who you are. You are a close friend of Eva; Eva is close to us, and so you are close to us, but we don’t know you. I’d like to see you account for yourself, to put it frankly. We’ve been trying to get a line on you, and the more we try, the less we find. You don’t add up. What do you think of things? How do you feel? To our Party, these questions are of paramount importance. Our Party is under attack from many quarters. You show up suddenly on the scene, and two of our best leaders die under questionable circumstances and you are nearby…Naturally, the question arises: Who is Lionel Lane? What organization does he belong to? What are his interests? Who are his friends? What ideas does he hold? Now, Lane, I’m here to listen to you. I’m an old man and I’m a pretty good judge of men. If you’re honest and on the up and up, I’ll be able to tell it, feel it. If you’re hiding something, I can tell that too. Is what I’m asking fair?”
“It’s fair,” Cross conceded.
“Are you willing to talk?”
“Of course,” Cross laughed. He knew that Blimin could not drag his secret from him; his past was safe; his past was himself. “I know nothing of the ideology of the Party.”
Blimin’s face changed; he stood; his eyes grew hard; when he spoke his words were strident and underlined with a tinge of viciousness.
“I’m not talking about ideology. You’re a man with the ability to grasp situations. I know that…You know goddamn well what I’m wondering about you.”
“Well,” Cross drawled, “I know you know I’m a stranger—”
“No; no!” Blimin slapped his hand through the air with a gesture of disdain. “I mean this—Your appearance in our midst coincides with death and violence! I’m talking to the point now…In the eyes of the Party you are under suspicion.”
“You suspect me of what?” Cross asked boldly.
“Of almost anything and everything,” Blimin stated his case.
“And what do you expect me to do about that?” Cross egged him on.
“Clear yourself of suspicion, or we will take measures to see that you do not remain longer in our midst,” Blimin said.
“This is vague,” Cross argued. “I’m guilty, you say; but you don’t say what I’m supposed to be guilty of—”
“You’re dodging, Lane! Right now you’re guilty of evading my questions—Look, you can’t play ’possum with us. You’re dealing with experienced men. You are supposed to have a background that would make you acceptable to us, but you’ve not revealed it. We don’t understand you, and we don’t like to be with people we don’t understand. The world in which we live is much too dangerous for us to tolerate you a moment longer.”
“Look, for Christ’s sake,” Cross begged. “I’ve not had a chance to say anything to anybody yet…Gil died suddenly; he was the only high-ranking member of the Party I’d talked to.”
“Lane, stop trying to make me believe that you are naïve!” Blimin shouted. “I’m serious!”
Eva rose; anger shone in her eyes.
“Comrade Blimin—”
“You keep quiet!” Blimin ordered. “This is no time for you to speak!”
“But—” Eva protested.
“You’ll get your chance to speak to the Party later about all this,” Blimin said, waving a fat forefinger at her.
“Mr. Blimin, what do you want to know?” Cross demanded of him. “You must tell me, for I refuse to relate my entire life to you and let you pick out what part of my life you want and then brand me with it.”
“I don’t understand all this,” Sarah mumbled uneasily.
“This is no concern of yours!” Blimin snapped at Sarah. His anger fully roused, he whirled on Cross. “Lane, what the hell ghastly joke is this you’re pulling on the knowingest people on earth, the Communists? Who the goddamn hell do you think you are? What are you doing here? When we try to check on you, we run into a maze that leads nowhere. That’s no accident. Are you a spy? Frankly, we doubt it; we thought so at first, but you’ve not been close enough to us to get hold of any information. Don’t you think, now, that we are scared of you. If we were, you’d not be breathing now…But we want to know…”
“Know what?”
“Are you a killer?”
“No!” Eva screamed.
“God in Heaven,” Sarah gasped.
The room was silent. He had at last been accused. Now, he had to act. First, he’d let the Party know that he knew what the score was in the world. He’d make them feel that maybe they could use him despite all the vague clouds of suspicion around him. He would make use of Blimin’s urging him to talk to make a bid to them.
“We’ve no evidence, you might say,” Blimin went on with his charge. “That’s right; we haven’t. But you are evidence. You come—death! Why? Lane, I’m accusing you of EVERYTHING! Now, talk for your life!” Blimin pronounced a provisional death sentence.
Cross laughed softly, went to the sofa and sat down, lit a cigarette, lifted smiling eyes to Blimin as he drew smoke deep into his lungs.
“Do you think I’m crazy enough to try to defend myself against a charge about which I know nothing? You say you don’t understand me. Well, I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen. I’m not the kind of fool who’d let you push him into a position of defending himself against a charge of something he’s never even dreamed of doing—If you make me do that, why, I’d really be somehow guilty—”
Cross rose, went to the center table and poured out a glass of water; he acted slowly, methodically, taking his time. I’m acting like Gil acted when he was trying to impress me, he told himself. He drained the glass, turned to Blimin, and he confessed not as Blimin wanted him to, but as he felt it. It was as though he was not only speaking to Blimin, but to and for himself, trying to clarify his predicament in his own eyes.
“Now, Mr. Blimin, I take it for granted that you are a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, or you would not be here talking to me tonight, or rather this morning. It’s half past three…Oh, no; you needn’t bother to affirm or deny it. I assume you are here for your Party. Let’s let it go at that. I’d like for you to take back a straight message to them. They may not like my answer, and I’m not going to try to couch it in terms that will please them. My answer is just simply my way of looking at things, my slant, if you want to call it that.
“One way, among a variety of others, of looking at what is happening in this world today is to view all modern history as being tied together by one overa
ll meaning. And that meaning is this: to a greater or less degree, all human life on this earth today can be described as moving away from traditional, agrarian, simple handicraft ways of life toward modern industrialization. Some nations, owing mainly to their historical backgrounds, have already made this journey, have already, so to speak, exhausted their industrial potentials of development and are industrially overripe. I’m referring to nations like England, Japan, Germany, etc. In these nations the problem of the future structure of society and the question of what kind of faith will sustain the individual in his daily life constitute a kind of chronic spiritual terror.”
“Lane,” Blimin accused him, “you’re evading my question—”
“You asked me what I thought and felt about things,” Cross shot at him. “Do you want to hear it or not?”
“But get to the point,” Blimin insisted.
“Are you in a hurry?” Cross asked. “If so, I’ll talk to you some other time—”
“Get to the point, Lane,” Blimin said.
“This is my point,” Cross said. “Now, Mr. Blimin, as I said, other nations, such as China, India, and the vast stretches of Africa have hardly begun this journey toward industrialization. The human and physical resources of these huge nations, comprising as they do more than one half of the human race and more than one half of the territory of the earth, have been stimulated as much as retarded by the impact of Western imperialism; they were retarded inasmuch as they were captive peoples in the hands of the industrialists of the West who needed their physical labor and the natural riches of their soil to keep the giant industrial machines of the West going…They were stimulated to leave their tribal, ancestral anchorages of living by being sucked into the orbit of industrial enterprises operating under the management of whites in their homelands under their own eyes…The hands of the West reached out greedily for the natural resources of these quaint peoples, but, in reaching, they awakened black, red, brown, and yellow men from their long slumber and sent them, willy-nilly, hurtling down the road of industrialization…
“During the past seventy years, America, under the ideological banner of free enterprise, fought a bloody civil war and defeated its agrarian provinces and launched itself, with no pre-history and practically no traditions to check it, upon a program of industrialization the equal of which, in terms of speed and magnitude, the world has never seen. From my point of view, this industrial program could have been accomplished under any dozen different ideological banners. The ideas were not as important as people thought they were; the important thing was the fact of industrialization. Of course, and it is understandable, the defenders of this industrial program justified their dazzling progress by claiming that an organic relationship obtained between their ideas and industrialization. But, really, there was none…
The Outsider Page 45