“Is the girl missing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she here in the house?”
Britten hesitated.
“No; I don’t think she is.”
“When did she leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will she be back?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is this Erlone fellow telling the truth?” asked one of the men. “He said that Mr. Dalton’s trying to slander the Communist Party by having him arrested. And he says it’s an attempt to break up his relationship with Miss Dalton.”
“I don’t know,” Britten said.
“Erlone was picked up and taken to police headquarters and questioned,” the man continued. “He claimed that this boy here lied about his being in the home last night. Is that true?”
“Really, I can’t say anything about that,” Britten said.
“Did Mr. Dalton forbid Erlone to see Miss Dalton?”
“I don’t know,” Britten said, whipping out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. “Honest to God, boys, I can’t tell you anything. You’ll have to see the old man.”
All eyes lifted at once. Mr. Dalton stood at the head of the stairs in the doorway, white-faced, holding a piece of paper in his fingers. Bigger knew at once that it was the kidnap note. What was going to happen now? All of the men talked at once, shouting questions, asking to take pictures.
“Where’s Miss Dalton?”
“Did you swear out a warrant for the arrest of Erlone?”
“Were they engaged?”
“Did you forbid her to see him?”
“Did you object to his politics?”
“Don’t you want to make a statement, Mr. Dalton?”
Bigger saw Mr. Dalton lift his hand for silence, then walk slowly down the steps and stand near the men, just a few feet above them. They gathered closer, raising their silver bulbs.
“Do you wish to comment on what Erlone said about your chauffeur?”
“What did he say?” Mr. Dalton asked.
“He said the chauffeur had been paid to lie about him.”
“That’s not true,” Mr. Dalton said firmly.
Bigger blinked as lightning shot past his eyes. He saw the men lowering the silver bulbs.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Dalton. “Please! Give me just a moment. I do want to make a statement.” Mr. Dalton paused, his lips quivering. Bigger could see that he was very nervous. “Gentlemen,” Mr. Dalton said again, “I want to make a statement and I want you to take it carefully. The way you men handle this will mean life or death to someone, someone close to this family, to me. Someone….” Mr. Dalton’s voice trailed off. The basement filled with murmurs of eagerness. Bigger heard the kidnap note crackling faintly in Mr. Dalton’s fingers. Mr. Dalton’s face was dead-white and his blood-shot eyes were deep set in his head above patches of dark-colored skin. The fire in the furnace was low and the draft was but a whisper. Bigger saw Mr. Dalton’s white hair glisten like molten silver from the pale sheen of the fire.
Then, suddenly, so suddenly that the men gasped, the door behind Mr. Dalton filled with a flowing white presence. It was Mrs. Dalton, her white eyes held wide and stony, her hands lifted sensitively upward toward her lips, the fingers long and white and wide apart. The basement was lit up with the white flash of a dozen silver bulbs.
Ghostlike, Mrs. Dalton moved noiselessly down the steps until she came to Mr. Dalton’s side, the big white cat following her. She stood with one hand lightly touching a banister and the other held in mid-air. Mr. Dalton did not move or look round; he placed one of his hands over hers on the banister, covering it, and faced the men. Meanwhile, the big white cat bounded down the steps and leaped with one movement upon Bigger’s shoulder and sat perched there. Bigger was still, feeling that the cat had given him away, had pointed him out as the murderer of Mary. He tried to lift the cat down; but its claws clutched his coat. The silver lightning flashed in his eyes and he knew that the men had taken pictures of him with the cat poised upon his shoulder. He tugged at the cat once more and managed to get it down. It landed on its feet with a long whine, then began to rub itself against Bigger’s legs. Goddamn! Why can’t that cat leave me alone? He heard Mr. Dalton speaking.
“Gentlemen, you may take pictures, but wait a moment. I’ve just phoned the police and asked that Mr. Erlone be released immediately. I want it known that I do not want to prefer charges against him. It is important that this be understood. I hope your papers will carry the story.”
Bigger wondered if this meant that suspicion was now pointing away from Jan? He wondered what would happen if he tried to leave the house? Were they watching him?
“Further,” Mr. Dalton went on, “I want to announce publicly that I apologize for his arrest and inconvenience.” Mr. Dalton paused, wet his lips with his tongue, and looked down over the small knot of men whose hands were busy jotting his words down upon their white pads of paper. “And, gentlemen, I want to announce that Miss Dalton, our daughter…. Miss Dalton….” Mr. Dalton’s voice faltered. Behind him, a little to one side, stood Mrs. Dalton; she placed her white hand upon his arm. The men lifted their silver bulbs and again lightning flashed in the red gloom of the basement. “I—I want to announce,” Mr. Dalton said in a quiet voice that carried throughout the room, though it was spoken in a tense whisper, “that Miss Dalton has been kidnapped….”
“Kidnapped?”
“Oh!”
“When?”
“We think it happened last night,” said Mr. Dalton.
“What are they asking?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Have you any idea who it is?”
“We know nothing.”
“Have you had any word from her, Mr. Dalton?”
“No; not directly. But we’ve had a letter from the kidnappers….”
“Is that it there?”
“Yes. This is the letter.”
“When did you get it?”
“Tonight.”
“Through the mail?”
“No; someone left it under our door.”
“Are you going to pay the ransom?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Dalton. “I’m going to pay. Listen, gentlemen, you can help me and perhaps save my daughter’s life by saying in your stories that I’ll pay as I’ve been instructed. And, too, what’s most important, tell the kidnappers through your papers that I shall not call in the police. Tell them I’ll do everything they ask. Tell them to return our daughter. Tell them, for God’s sake, not to kill her, that they will get what they want….”
“Have you any idea, Mr. Dalton, who they are?”
“I have not.”
“Can we see that letter?”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t. The instructions for the delivery of the money are here, and I have been cautioned not to make them public. But say in your papers that these instructions will be followed.”
“When was Miss Dalton last seen?”
“Sunday morning, about two o’clock.”
“Who saw her?”
“My chauffeur and my wife.”
Bigger stared straight before him, not allowing his eyes to move.
“Please, don’t ask him any questions,” said Mr. Dalton. “I’m speaking for my whole family. I don’t want a lot of crazy versions of this story going around. We want our daughter back; that’s all that matters now. Tell her in the papers that we’re doing all we can to get her back and that everything is forgiven. Tell her that we….” Again his voice broke and he could not go on.
“Please, Mr. Dalton,” begged one man. “Just let us take one shot of that note….”
“No; no…. I can’t do that.”
“How is it signed?”
Mr. Dalton looked straight before him. Bigger wondered if he would tell. He saw Mr. Dalton’s lips moving silently, debating something.
“Yes; I’ll tell you how it’s signed,” said the old man, his hands trembling. Mrs. Dalton�
��s face turned slightly toward him and her fingers gripped in his coat. Bigger knew that Mrs. Dalton was asking him silently if he had not better keep the signature of the note from the papers; and he knew, too, that Mr. Dalton seemed to have reasons of his own for wanting to tell. Maybe it was to let the Reds know that he had received their note.
“Yes,” Mr. Dalton said. “It’s signed ‘Red.’ That’s all.”
“Red?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the identity?”
“No.”
“Have you any suspicions?”
“Beneath the signature is a scrawled emblem of the Communist Party, the hammer and the sickle,” said Mr. Dalton.
The men were silent. Bigger saw the astonishment on their faces. Several did not wait to hear more; they rushed out of the basement to telephone their stories in.
“Do you think the Communists did it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not positively blaming anybody. I’m only releasing this information to let the public and the kidnappers know that I’ve received this note. If they’ll return my daughter, I’ll ask no questions of anyone.”
“Was your daughter mixed up with those people, Mr. Dalton?”
“I know nothing about that.”
“Didn’t you forbid your daughter to associate with this Erlone?”
“I hope this has nothing to do with that.”
“You think Erlone’s mixed in this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did you have him released?”
“I ordered his arrest before I received this note.”
“Do you feel that maybe he’ll return the girl if he’s out?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if he’s got our daughter. I only know that Mrs. Dalton and I want our daughter back.”
“Then why did you have Erlone released?”
“Because I have no charges to prefer against him,” said Mr. Dalton stubbornly.
“Mr. Dalton, hold the letter up, and hold your hand out, like you’re making an appeal. Good! Now, put your hand out, too, Mrs. Dalton. Like that. O.K., hold it!”
Bigger watched the silver bulbs flash again. Mr. and Mrs. Dalton were standing upon the steps: Mrs. Dalton in white and Mr. Dalton with the letter in his hand and his eyes looking straight back to the rear wall of the basement. Bigger heard the soft whisper of the fire in the furnace and saw the men adjusting their cameras. Others were standing round, still scribbling nervously upon their pads of paper. The bulbs flashed again and Bigger was startled to see that they were pointed in his direction. He wanted to duck his head, or throw his hands in front of his face, but it was too late. They had enough pictures of him now to know him by sight in a crowd. A few more of the men left and Mr. and Mrs. Dalton turned and walked slowly up the stairs and disappeared through the kitchen door, the big white cat following close behind them. Bigger still stood with his back to the wall, watching and trying to value every move in relation to himself and his chances of getting the money.
“You suppose we can use Mr. Dalton’s phone?” one of the men asked Britten.
“Sure.”
Britten led a group of them up the stairs into the kitchen. The three men who had come with Britten sat on the steps and stared gloomily at the floor. Soon the men who had gone to phone their stories in came back. Bigger knew that they wanted to talk to him. Britten also came back and sat upon the steps.
“Say, can’t you give us any more dope on this?” one of the reporters asked Britten.
“Mr. Dalton’s told you everything,” Britten said.
“This is a big story,” said one of the men. “Say, how did Mrs Dalton take this?”
“She collapsed,” said Britten.
For awhile nobody said anything. Then Bigger saw the men, one by one, turn and stare at him. He lowered his eyes; he knew that they were longing to ask him questions and he did not want that. His eyes roved the room and saw the crumpled copy of the newspaper lying forgotten in a corner. He wanted ever so badly to read it; he would get at it the first opportunity and find out just what Jan had said. Presently, the men began to wander aimlessly about the basement, looking into corners, examining the shovel, the garbage pail, and the trunk. Bigger watched one man stand in front of the furnace. The man’s hand reached out and opened the door; a feeble red glare lit the man’s face as he stooped and looked inside at the bed of smoldering coals. Suppose he poked deeply into them? Suppose Mary’s bones came into view? Bigger held his breath. But the man would not poke into that fire; nobody suspected him. He was just a black clown. He breathed again as the man closed the door. The muscles of Bigger’s face jerked violently, making him feel that he wanted to laugh. He turned his head aside and fought to control himself. He was full of hysteria.
“Say, how about a look at the girl’s room?” asked one of the men.
“Sure. Why not?” Britten said.
All of the men followed Britten up the stairs and Bigger was left alone. At once his eyes went to the newspaper; he wanted to pick it up, but was afraid. He stepped to the back door and made sure that it was locked; then he went to the top of the stairs and looked hurriedly into the kitchen; he saw no one. He bounded down the steps and snatched up the paper. He opened it and saw a line of heavy black type stretched across the top of the front page: SEEK HYDE PARK HEIRESS MISSING FROM HOME SINCE SATURDAY. GIRL BELIEVED HIDING OUT WITH COMMUNISTS. POLICE NAB LOCAL RED LEADER; GRILLED ON RELATIONSHIP WITH MARY DALTON. AUTHORITIES ACT ON TIP SUPPLIED BY GIRL’S FATHER.
And there was the picture of Jan in the center of page one. It was Jan all right. Just like him. He turned to the story, reading,
Did the foolish dream of solving the problem of human misery and poverty by dividing her father’s real estate millions among the lowly force Mary Dalton to leave the palatial Hyde Park home of her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Henry G. Dalton, 4605 Drexel Boulevard, and take up life under an assumed name with her long-haired friends in the Communist movement?
This was the question that police sought to answer late tonight as they grilled Jan Erlone, executive secretary of the Labor Defenders, a Communist “front” organization in which it was said that Mary Dalton held a membership in defiance of her father’s wishes.
The story went on to say that Jan was being held for investigation at the Eleventh Street Police Station and that Mary had been missing from her home since eight o’clock Saturday night. It also mentioned that Mary had been in the “company of Erlone until early Sunday morning at a notorious South Side café in the Black Belt.”
That was all. He had expected more. He looked further. No; here was something else. It was a picture of Mary. It was so lifelike that it reminded him of how she had looked the first time he had seen her; he blinked his eyes. He was looking again in sweaty fear at her head lying upon the sticky newspapers with blood oozing outward toward the edges. Above the picture was a caption: IN DUTCH WITH PA. Bigger lifted his eyes and looked at the furnace; it seemed impossible that she was there in the fire, burning…. The story in the paper had not been as alarming as he had thought it would be. But as soon as they heard of Mary’s being kidnapped, what would happen? He heard footsteps and dropped the paper back in the corner and stood just as he had before, his back against the wall, his eyes vacant and sleepy. The door opened and the men came down the steps, talking in low, excited tones. Again Bigger noticed that they were watching him. Britten also came back.
“Say, why can’t we talk to this boy?” one demanded.
“There’s nothing he can tell you,” Britten said.
“But he can tell us what he saw. After all, he drove the car last night.”
“O.K. with me,” Britten said. “But Mr. Dalton’s told you everything.”
One of the men walked over to Bigger.
“Say, Mike, you think this Erlone fellow did this?”
“My name ain’t Mike,” Bigger said, resentfully.
“Oh, I don’t mean no harm,” the man said. “But do you think he d
id it?”
“Answer his questions, Bigger,” Britten said.
Bigger was sorry he had taken offense. He could not afford to get angry now. And he had no need to be angry. Why should he be angry with a lot of fools? They were looking for the girl and the girl was ten feet from them, burning. He had killed her and they did not know it. He would let them call him “Mike.”
“I don’t know, suh,” he said.
“Come on; tell us what happened.”
“I only work here, suh,” Bigger said.
“Don’t be afraid. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“Mr. Britten can tell you,” Bigger said.
The men shook their heads and walked away.
“Good God, Britten!” said one of the men. “All we’ve got on this kidnapping is that a letter was found, Erlone’s to be released, the letter was signed by ‘Red,’ and there was a hammer and sickle emblem on it. That doesn’t make sense. Give us some more details.”
“Listen, you guys,” Britten said. “Give the old man a chance. He’s trying to get his daughter back, alive. He’s given you a big story; now wait.”
“Tell us straight now; when was that girl last seen?”
Bigger listened to Britten tell the story all over again. He listened carefully to every word Britten said and to the tone of voice in which the men asked their questions, for he wanted to know if any of them suspected him. But they did not. All of their questions pointed to Jan.
“But Britten,” asked one of the men, “why did the old man want this Erlone released?”
“Figure it out for yourself,” Britten said.
“Then he thinks Erlone had something to do with the snatching of his daughter and wanted him out so he could give her back?”
“I don’t know,” Britten said.
“Aw, come on, Britten.”
“Use your imagination,” Britten said.
Two more of the men buttoned their coats, pulled their hats low over their eyes and left. Bigger knew that they were going to phone in more information to their papers; they were going to tell about Jan’s trying to convert him to Communism, the Communist literature Jan had given him, the rum, the half-packed trunk being taken down to the station, and lastly, about the kidnap note and the demand for ten thousand dollars. The men looked round the basement with flashlights. Bigger still leaned against the wall. Britten sat on the steps. The fire whispered in the furnace. Bigger knew that soon he would have to clean the ashes out, for the fire was not burning as hotly as it should. He would do that as soon as some of the excitement died down and all of the men left.
Native Son Page 23
