“…and you found the note?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“About an hour.”
“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone leave it?”
“It was sticking under the door.”
“Think, now. Did you see anybody about the house or drive way?”
“No. The boy and me, that’s all that’s been around here.”
“And where’s the boy now?”
“Upstairs in his room, I think.”
“Did you ever see this handwriting before?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“Can you guess, can you think, imagine who would send such a note?”
“No. Not a soul in this whole wide world, Mr. Britten,” Peggy wailed.
Britten’s voice ceased. There was the sound of other heavy feet. Chairs scraped over the floor. More people were in the kitchen. Who were they? Their movements sounded like those of men. Then Bigger heard Britten speaking again.
“Listen, Peggy. Tell me, how does this boy act?”
“What do you mean, Mr. Britten?”
“Does he seem intelligent? Does he seem to be acting?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Britten. He’s just like all the other colored boys.”
“Does he say ‘yes mam’ and ‘no mam’?”
“Yes, Mr. Britten. He’s polite.”
“But does he seem to be trying to appear like he’s more ignorant than he really is?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Britten.”
“Have you missed anything around the house since he’s been here?”
“No; nothing.”
“Has he ever insulted you, or anything?”
“Oh, no! No!”
“What kind of a boy is he?”
“He’s just a quiet colored boy. That’s all I can say….”
“Did you ever see him reading anything?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“Does he speak more intelligently at some times than at others?”
“No, Mr. Britten. He talked always the same, to me.”
“Has he ever done anything that would make you think he knows something about this note?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“When you speak to him, does he hesitate before he answers, as though he’s thinking up what to say?”
“No, Mr. Britten. He talks and acts natural-like.”
“When he talks, does he wave his hands around a lot, like he’s been around a lot of Jews?”
“I never noticed, Mr. Britten.”
“Did you ever hear ’im call anybody comrade?”
“No, Mr. Britten.”
“Does he pull off his cap when he comes in the house?”
“I never noticed. I think so, Mr. Britten.”
“Has he ever sat down in your presence without being asked, like he was used to being around white people?”
“No, Mr. Britten. Only when I told him to.”
“Does he speak first, or does he wait until he’s spoken to?”
“Well, Mr. Britten. He seemed always to wait until we spoke to him before he said anything.”
“Now, listen, Peggy. Think and try to remember if his voice goes up when he talks, like Jews when they talk. Know what I mean? You see, Peggy, I’m trying to find out if he’s been around Communists….”
“No, Mr. Dalton. He talks just like all other colored folks to me.”
“Where did you say he is now?”
“Upstairs in his room.”
When Britten’s voice ceased Bigger was smiling. Yes; Britten was trying to trap him, trying to make out a case against him; but he could not find anything to go upon. Was Britten coming to talk to him now? There came the sound of other voices.
“It’s a ten-to-one chance that she’s dead.”
“Yeah. They usually bump ’em off. They’re scared of ’em after they get ’em. They think they might identify them afterwards.”
“Did the old man say he was going to pay?”
“Sure. He wants his daughter back.”
“That’s just ten thousand dollars shot to hell, if you ask me.”
“But he wants the girl.”
“Say, I bet it’s those Reds trying to raise money.”
“Yeah!”
“Maybe that’s how they get their dough. They say that guy, Bruno Hauptmann, the one who snatched the Lindy baby, did it for the Nazis. They needed the money.”
“I’d like to shoot every one of them Goddamn bastards, Red or no Red.”
There was the sound of a door opening and more footsteps.
“You have any luck with the old man?”
“Not yet.” It was Britten’s voice.
“He’s pretty washed up, eh?”
“Yeah; and who wouldn’t be?”
“He won’t call the cops?”
“Naw; he’s scared stiff.”
“It might seem hard on the family, but if you let them snatchers know they can’t scare money out of you, they’ll stop.”
“Say, Brit, try ’im again.”
“Yeah; tell ’im there ain’t nothing to do now but to call the cops.”
“Aw, I don’t know. I hate to worry ’im.”
“Well, after all, it’s his daughter. Let him handle it.”
“But, listen, Brit. When they pick up this Erlone fellow, he’s going to tell the cops and the papers’ll have the story anyway. So call ’em now. The sooner they get started the better.”
“Naw; I’ll wait for the old man to give the signal.”
Bigger knew that Mr. Dalton had not wanted to notify the police; that much was certain. But how long would he hold out? The police would know everything as soon as Jan was picked up, for Jan would tell enough to make the police and the newspapers investigate. But if Jan were confronted with the fact of the kidnapping of Mary, what would happen? Could Jan prove an alibi? If he did, then the police would start looking for someone else. They would start questioning him again; they would want to know why he had lied about Jan’s being in the house. But would not the word “Red” which he had signed to the ransom note throw them off the track and make them still think that Jan or his comrades did it? Why would anybody want to think that Bigger had kidnapped Mary? Bigger came out of the closet and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He had knelt so long that his blood had almost stopped and needle-like pains shot from the bottom of his feet to the calves of his legs. He went to the window and looked out at the swirling snow. He could hear wind rising; it was a blizzard all right. The snow moved in no given direction, but filled the world with a vast white storm of flying powder. The sharp currents of wind could be seen in whorls of snow twisting like miniature tornadoes.
The window overlooked an alley, to the right of which was Forty-fifth Street. He tried the window to see if it would open; he lifted it a few inches, then all the way with a loud and screechy sound. Had anyone heard him? He waited; nothing happened. Good! If the worst came to the worst, he could jump out of this window, right here, and run away. It was two stories to the ground and there was a deep drift of soft snow just below him. He lowered the window and lay again on the bed, waiting. The sound of firm feet came on the stairs. Yes; someone was coming up! His body grew rigid. A knock came at the door.
“Yessuh!”
“Open up!”
He pulled on the light, opened the door and met a white face.
“They want you downstairs.”
“Yessuh!”
The man stepped to one side and Bigger went past him on down the hall and down the steps into the basement, feeling the eyes of the white man on his back, and hearing as he neared the furnace the muffled breathing of the fire and seeing directly before his eyes Mary’s bloody head with its jet-black curly hair, shining and wet with blood on the crumpled newspapers. He saw Britten standing near the furnace with three white men.
“Hello, Bigger.”
“Yessuh,” Bigger said.
“You heard what happ
ened?”
“Yessuh.”
“Listen, boy. You’re talking just to me and my men here. Now, tell me, do you think Jan’s mixed up in this?”
Bigger’s eyes fell. He did not want to answer in a hurry and he did not want to blame Jan definitely, for that would make them question him too closely. He would hint and point in Jan’s direction.
“I don’t know, suh,” he said.
“Just tell me what you think.”
“I don’t know, suh,” Bigger said again.
“You really saw him here last night, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yessuh.”
“You’d swear he told you to take that trunk down and leave the car out in the snow.”
“I—I’d swear to what’s true, suh,” said Bigger.
“Did he act like he had anything up his sleeve?”
“I don’t know, suh.”
“What time did you say you left?”
“A little before two, suh.”
Britten turned to the other men, one of whom stood near the furnace with his back to the fire, warming his hands behind him. The man’s legs were sprawled wide apart and a cigar glowed in a corner of his mouth.
“It must’ve been that Red,” Britten said to him.
“Yeah,” said the man at the furnace. “What would he have the boy take the trunk down for and leave the car out? It was to throw us off the scent.”
“Listen, Bigger,” said Britten. “Did you see this guy act in any way out of the ordinary? I mean, sort of nervous, say? Just what did he talk about?”
“He talked about Communists….”
“Did he ask you to join?”
“He gave me that stuff to read.”
“Come on. Tell us some of the things he said.”
Bigger knew the things that white folks hated to hear Negroes ask for; and he knew that these were the things the Reds were always asking for. And he knew that white folks did not like to hear these things asked for even by whites who fought for Negroes.
“Well,” Bigger said, feigning reluctance, “he told me that some day there wouldn’t be no rich folks and no poor folks….”
“Yeah?”
“And he said a black man would have a chance….”
“Go on.”
“And he said there would be no more lynching….”
“And what was the girl saying?”
“She agreed with ’im.”
“How did you feel toward them?”
“I don’t know, suh.”
“I mean, did you like ’em?”
He knew that the average white man would not approve of his liking such talk.
“It was my job. I just did what they told me,” he mumbled.
“Did the girl act in any way scared?”
He sensed what kind of a case they were trying to build against Jan and he remembered that Mary had cried last night when he had refused to go into the café with her to eat.
“Well, I don’t know, suh. She was crying once….”
“Crying?”
The men crowded about him.
“Yessuh.”
“Did he hit her?”
“I didn’t see that.”
“What did he do then?”
“Well, he put his arms around her and she stopped.”
Bigger had his back to a wall. The crimson luster of the fire gleamed on the white men’s faces. The sound of air being sucked upward through the furnace mingled in Bigger’s ears with the faint whine of the wind outside in the night. He was tired; he closed his eyes a long second and then opened them, knowing that he had to keep alert and answer questions to save himself.
“Did this fellow Jan say anything to you about white women?”
Bigger tightened with alarm.
“Suh?”
“Did he say he would let you meet some white women if you joined the Reds?”
He knew that sex relations between blacks and whites were repulsive to most white men.
“Nawsuh,” he said, simulating abashment.
“Did Jan lay the girl?”
“I don’t know, suh.”
“Did you take them to a room or a hotel?”
“Nawsuh. Just to the park.”
“They were in the back seat?”
“Yessuh.”
“How long were you in the park?”
“Well, about two hours, I reckon, suh.”
“Come on, now, boy. Did he lay the girl?”
“I don’t know, suh. They was back there kissing and going on.”
“Was she lying down?”
“Well, yessuh. She was,” said Bigger, lowering his eyes because he felt that it would be better to do so. He knew that whites thought that all Negroes yearned for white women, therefore he wanted to show a certain fearful deference even when one’s name was mentioned in his presence.
“They were drunk, weren’t they?”
“Yessuh. They’d been drinking a lot.”
He heard the sound of autos coming into the driveway. Was this the police?
“Who’s that?” Britten asked.
“I don’t know,” said one of the men.
“I’d better see,” Britten said.
Bigger saw, after Britten had opened the door, four cars standing in the snow with headlights glowing.
“Who’s that?” Britten called.
“The press!”
“There’s nothing here for you!” Britten called in an uneasy voice.
“Don’t stall us!” a voice answered. “Some of it’s already in the papers. You may as well tell the rest.”
“What’s in the papers?” Britten asked as the men entered the basement.
A tall red-faced man shoved his hand into his pocket and brought forth a newspaper and handed it to Britten.
“The Reds say you’re charging ’em with spiriting away the old man’s daughter.”
Bigger darted a glance at the paper from where he was; he saw: RED NABBED AS GIRL VANISHES.
“Goddamn!” said Britten.
“Phew!” said the tall red-faced man. “What a night! Red arrested! Snowstorm. And this place down here looks like somebody’s been murdered.”
“Come on, you,” said Britten. “You’re in Mr. Dalton’s house now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Where’s the old man?”
“Upstairs. He doesn’t want to be bothered.”
“Is that girl really missing, or is this just a stunt?”
“I can’t tell you anything,” Britten said.
“Who’s this boy, here?”
“Keep quiet, Bigger,” Britten said.
“Is he the one Erlone said accused him?”
Bigger stood against the wall and looked round vaguely.
“You going to pull the dumb act on us?” asked one of the men.
“Listen, you guys,” said Britten. “Take it easy. I’ll go and see if the old man will see you.”
“That’s the time. We’re waiting. All the wires are carrying this story.”
Britten went up the steps and left Bigger standing with the crowd of men.
“Your name’s Bigger Thomas?” the red-faced man asked.
“Keep quiet, Bigger,” said one of Britten’s men.
Bigger said nothing.
“Say, what’s all this? This boy can talk if he wants to.”
“This smells like something big to me,” said one of the men.
Bigger had never seen such men before; he did not know how to act toward them or what to expect of them. They were not rich and distant like Mr. Dalton, and they were harder than Britten, but in a more impersonal way, a way that maybe was more dangerous than Britten’s. Back and forth they walked across the basement floor in the glare of the furnace with their hats on and with cigars and cigarettes in their mouths. Bigger felt in them a coldness that disregarded everybody. They seemed like men out for keen sport. They would be around a long time now that Jan had been arrested and questioned. Just what did they think
of what he had told about Jan? Was there any good in Britten’s telling him not to talk to them? Bigger’s eyes watched the balled newspaper in a white man’s gloved hand. If only he could read that paper! The men were silent, waiting for Britten to return. Then one of them came and leaned against the wall, near him. Bigger looked out of the corners of his eyes and said nothing. He saw the man light a cigarette.
“Smoke, kid?”
“Nawsuh,” he mumbled.
He felt something touch the center of his palm. He made a move to look, but a whisper checked him.
“Keep still. It’s for you. I want you to give me the dope.”
Bigger’s fingers closed over a slender wad of paper; he knew at once that it was money and that he would give it back. He held the money and watched his chance. Things were happening so fast that he felt he was not doing full justice to them. He was tired. Oh, if only he could go to sleep! If only this whole thing could be postponed for a few hours, until he had rested some! He felt that he would have been able to handle it then. Events were like the details of a tortured dream, happening without cause. At times it seemed that he could not quite remember what had gone before and what it was he was expecting to come. At the head of the stairs the door opened and he saw Britten. While the others were looking off, Bigger shoved the money back into the man’s hand. The man looked at him, shook his head and flicked his cigarette away and walked to the center of the floor.
“I’m sorry, boys,” Britten said. “But the old man won’t be able to see you till Tuesday.”
Bigger thought quickly; that meant that Mr. Dalton was going to pay the money and was not going to call in the police.
“Tuesday?”
“Aw, come on!”
“Where is the girl?”
“I’m sorry,” said Britten.
“You’re putting us in the position of having to print anything we can get about this case,” said one of the men.
“You all know Mr. Dalton,” Britten explained. “You wouldn’t do that. For God’s sake, give the man a chance. I can’t tell you why now, but it’s important. He’d do as much for you some time.”
Native Son Page 22
