“I want to,” he said. He wanted to be near her.
Then they both were still. Coming from downstairs were loud voices. Cross could distinguish the voice of Gil, then that of Herndon. They were at it strongly. The dishes slid from Eva’s hands to the table with a clatter, then she clutched the back of the chair till her knuckles showed white.
“Do you think I ought to go down?” he asked Eva.
She shook her head.
“No. If he said no, then don’t. He’d be awfully angry, and when he’s angry he doesn’t speak for weeks—” She caught herself; she had said more than she had intended. “Lionel, really, don’t bother with the dishes. Do what you like…” Irritation was in her voice.
He knew that he was making her more nervous; she did not want him to see her state of mind.
“Okay.”
He went to his room and the voices were clearer; he put his ear to the floor and heard shouts that carried sounds of hot anger, but no words were distinguishable. He lay on his bed, then jerked upright; there had come a sharp snapping as of wood breaking, then a dull thump, and all was silent. The door of his room flew open and Eva stood there, clasping her hands in front of her, staring at him with eyes filled with terror.
“What was that?”
Cross stood and went to her; she clutched his hands tightly.
“Don’t you think I ought to go down?” he asked.
“Yes,” she agreed impulsively. Then her body flinched and she shut her eyes in desperation. “No; no; he’d be angry. He’d think that you thought he couldn’t handle it—” Tears leaped into her eyes and she turned from him. “If he gets hurt, he’ll wonder why we didn’t do something. He’ll think I did it on purpose—”
“On purpose?” he asked.
Yes; she was fighting against a wish for something to happen to Gil; she was longing for someone to put him out of her life…
A hoarse scream came from downstairs.
“I’m going down,” Cross said suddenly.
“Yes, Lionel,” Eva breathed; she was pale, trembling.
He went quickly into the hallway. He realized as he went down the steps that he was acting more as a kind of proxy for the feelings of Eva than his own. I really don’t care, he thought. When he reached the landing of the first floor, he paused. There came to his ears the sound of grunts, scuffling feet, and the thud of blows. He crept on tiptoe to the door and placed his ear to the panel. Yes, they were fighting…Was the door locked? He turned the knob; the door swung in and Cross looked at the two men grappling with each other. Gil lashed out with his right fist, bashing Herndon a crushing blow on the ear and sending him reeling backwards. Herndon collided with a table and when he turned Cross could see that he had the fire poker in his right hand. Cross looked quickly at Gil and saw what he had not seen when he had first looked into the room. Gil was bloody, his face covered with reddish streaks where the fire poker had ripped into his flesh.
Both men were oblivious of Cross who stood in the doorway with a bitter smile on his face. Cross could barely contain his bubbling glee as he watched the bloody battle. Which man did he hate more? Many times during the past twenty-four hours he had wished both of them dead and now he was looking at them batter each other’s brains out…Let ’em fight it out, he said to himself.
He spun round at the sound of footsteps behind him on the stairs. Eva was descending with wild eyes, her hair flying behind her. He grabbed her shoulders and held her, wanting to keep her out of the room. Eva twisted loose and ran to the doorway. Cross followed and stood behind her. Eva grabbed hold of both jambs of the door and screamed as she saw Gil sinking to the floor under the blows of Herndon’s fire poker.
Herndon turned and stared at Eva, still clutching the poker in his right hand. He had the look of a man struggling to awaken from a dream. Then Cross saw the muscles of Herndon’s face twitch as he advanced menacingly toward them.
“Get out, or I’ll kill you both!” Herndon growled.
Eva screamed again, backed violently into Cross, then turned and ran up the stairs. Before Cross could move, Herndon was upon him and he ducked in time to save his head a swishing blow from the poker which caught him on his right shoulder, leaving a searing line of fire in his flesh. He leaped aside and watched Herndon stumble toward the rear of the hall. Cross felt for his gun, then decided that he would run. It was not fear for Herndon that was making him abandon the fight; he was hoping that Herndon would reenter the room and battle again with Gil…He took the stairs four at a time and was halfway up when he heard another scuffling lunge behind him; he paused and glanced back. Gil had rushed out of the room and had grabbed Herndon; the two men now wrestled for possession of the fire poker, rolling, clawing, going from Cross’s sight as they fell through the doorway back into the room. Cross caressed his bruised shoulder and looked upward; the door of Gil’s apartment was open and he heard Eva’s frantic voice.
“Don’t you understand? I want the police! For God’s sake—”
Cross entered the hallway. Eva thrust the telephone into his hands.
“Lionel, here; call the police…I can’t make the operator understand anything.”
“Okay,” he breathed.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not much…”
He picked up the telephone, placed the receiver to his ear and heard the metallic hum of the line. He jiggled the hook, then paused, turning his head as another burst of sound came from downstairs. Eva sprang through the doorway, heading for downstairs.
“Eva!” he called after her.
Good Lord, what ought he do? She’ll get hurt down there with that Fascist…Her sense of guilt’s making her overreact to help Gil…He left the phone and ran after her, catching her on the landing and dragging her back into the apartment.
“No, no,” he told her. “You can’t go down there…You call the police—”
“I don’t know what to do,” she whimpered.
“I’ll go down and help Gil,” he said.
Eva stared at him helplessly, her body moving indecisively. He thrust the telephone into her hands and ran from the room, stumbling down the stairs. In the lower hallway, he stood, hearing the sound of the fight. He debated: yes; he had to help Gil…What would Gil say if he did not? His failure to go to Gil’s aid would be something he could never explain…
Again he stood in the doorway of Herndon’s apartment. They were still fighting. Herndon was rushing at Gil again, the poker raised to strike. Gil backed off, his hands lifted to protect his face and head. Herndon crashed the poker into Gil’s hands which seemed to wilt under the blow. The poker flew from Herndon’s fingers and clattered to the floor. Gil snatched it up quickly and, with it, charged into Herndon, his face livid with fury; he whacked two telling blows home to Herndon’s head and face and Cross heard the tinkling of glass shards as Herndon’s spectacles broke and showered from his eyes.
Cross watched, disdainful, detached. He saw that there was a broken table leg lying near the fireplace; someone had no doubt been sent crashing into the table and the heavy oaken leg had snapped in two near the top of the table. Teeth bared, Gil now lifted the poker once again to send another blow to Herndon; but, as his arm was about to descend, the tip of the poker caught in the glass chandelier swinging from the ceiling. There was a musical storm of falling crystal and the ceiling light went out, leaving the room lit only by the leaping shadows of the fire. The force that Gil had put behind that swooping blow now carried him headlong to the floor, the poker bounding free once more.
Catlike, Herndon was on it and before Gil could rise Herndon was raining deadly blows upon the head and face of Gil.
Suddenly a fullness of knowledge declared itself within Cross and he knew what he wanted to do. He was acting before he knew it. He reached down and seized hold of the heavy oaken leg of the table and turned and lifted it high in the air, feeling the solid weight of the wood in his hand, and then he sent it flying squarely into the bloody forehead of Herndon. The impact of the blow s
ent a tremor along the muscles of his arm. Herndon fell like an ox and lay still. He had no doubt crushed the man’s skull. Tense, he stood looking down at Herndon, waiting to see if he would move again. He was concentrated, aware of nothing but Herndon’s still, bloody form. Then he was startled; he whirled to see Gil struggling heavily to his feet, blood streaming from his face and neck, clotting his eyes. Cross stared for a moment. He was not through. The imperious feeling that had impelled him to action was not fulfilled. His eyes were unblinkingly on Gil’s face. Yes, this other insect had to be crushed, blotted out of existence…
His fingers gradually tightened about the oaken table leg; his arm lifted slowly into the air. Gil was dabbing clumsily with his handkerchief at the blood on his neck and cheeks. Cross let go with the table leg, smashing it into the left side of Gil’s head. Gil trembled for a split second, then fell headlong toward the fireplace where flames danced and cast wild red shadows over the walls. Cross’s hand sank slowly to his side, the table leg resting lightly on the floor, its edges stained with blood. There was silence save for the slow ticking of an ornate clock on the desk.
He filled his lungs and sighed deeply. For perhaps a minute he did not move; his sense gradually assumed a tone of anxiety and he stared more intently at the two bloody forms stretched grotesquely on the smeared rug. Then he sucked in his breath and whirled toward the door. Oh, God, it was still open! Had anyone seen him?
He rushed to it and closed it; then turned back to the room and the two inert forms over which red shadows of the fire flickered. Were they dead? He touched Herndon’s shoulder; the man was still; the wide, thin lips hung open; blood oozed from one corner of the mouth. Cross hesitated a second, then lifted the table leg and chopped again into the skull. The body rolled over from force of the blow.
Cross now turned to Gil whose head lay near the fire. He caught hold of one of Gil’s legs and yanked the body from the fireplace into the center of the room where he could get a better chance to deliver another blow at the head. Again he lifted the table leg and whacked at Gil and he knew that Gil would never move again.
The universe seemed to be rushing at him with all the concreteness of its totality. He was anchored once again in life, in the flow of things; the world glowed with an interest so sharp that it made his body ache. He had had no plan when he had dealt those blows of death, but now he feared for himself, felt the need of a plan of defense. He knew exactly what he had done; he had done it deliberately, even though he had not planned it. He had not been blank of mind when he had done it, and he was resolved that he would never claim any such thing.
He took one last quick look about the room. One of the drawers of Herndon’s desk was open and Cross could see the butt of Herndon’s gun half-pulled out. He could almost reconstruct what had happened between the two men. Gil had no doubt grabbed Herndon just as Herndon had been about to seize the gun. And after that they had fought so desperately that neither of them had had a chance to get the gun, or they had forgotten it…
The plan sprang full and ripe in his imagination, his body, his senses; he took out his handkerchief and quickly wiped the table leg which he held in his hand, making sure that no trace of his fingerprints would remain. He went to Herndon, holding the table leg with the handkerchief so that his hand would not touch it, and forced the fingers of Herndon’s right hand about it several times so that the man’s prints would be found…He was breathing heavily. The winking shadows of the fire flicked warningly through the room. Still holding the leg with the handkerchief, he went to Gil and closed Gil’s loose fingers about it, letting the wooden leg trail uncertainly about the lifeless hand. He took the fire poker, wiped it clean and inserted it in the fingers of Herndon’s right hand…No; he changed his mind; he’d let the fire poker rest a few inches from Herndon’s hand…That was more natural…He looked swiftly around to make sure that he was leaving no marks of his having been in the room. He had to hurry…The door? Fingerprints on the knob…? No; he would not bother about them. After all, if he made things too clean, the police would get suspicious…And he had been down here talking to Herndon earlier this afternoon…Sure…His prints had a right to be on the door. Go up to Eva…What would he tell her? There would be questions from the police, from Party leaders, from Eva, from everybody…The newspapers…? What would they say? Well, he was just a Negro roomer who had gone down at the suggestion of Mrs. Blount to see what was happening and had seen them fighting…
He opened the door; the downstairs hallway was empty. He caught hold of the door handle and was about to shut it when an idea came to him. Suppose someone came to see Herndon and found both Herndon and Gil dead? Ah, yes; it was better to push the tiny lever on the lock and let the door lock itself. The door would be locked when the police and the Party leaders arrived. That was the trick. They would have to knock down the door. And he, on his second trip down, had not been able to see what was happening; he had only heard sounds… He adjusted the lock and pulled the door to, hearing it catch. He tried the handle; it was locked. Now, what motive on earth could he have had in killing the two of them? Let them figure that out…
He started up the stairs, then paused and looked down at himself. Was there any blood on him? He looked at his hands, his coat, his shoes. He could see nothing. Oh, yes; his handkerchief; it was bloody from where he had wiped the fingerprints from the fire poker and the table leg…He would have to burn it. Yes; he’d put it into the kitchen incinerator the first chance he got. And, to be absolutely sure, he would ditch the clothes he was wearing. The police had scientific ways of examining particles and arriving at damaging conclusions. He stood in front of Gil’s apartment door and composed himself. Yes; he had to act hurriedly and frantically now. He grabbed hold of the doorknob and rattled it brutally. It was locked.
“Eva!” he yelled.
“Is that you, Lionel? Is Gil with you?”
“It’s me; Lionel! Open the door quick!”
He heard the night-chain rattling; she had locked herself in. She opened the door and backed fearfully away from him.
“Did you call the police?” he asked her.
“No. I called Jack Hilton; he’s calling the police—What happened?”
He searched her face; her eyes were bleak and frightened. Would she be glad that Gil was dead? Didn’t she want him dead so that she could be free?
“The door down there is locked and I can’t hear a thing,” he told her. “Gil’s still in there…”
“Oh, God,” she whimpered.
He longed to know what was going on in her mind. Was she hoping that Gil was dead? And was she feeling guilty because she was hoping it? If so, then she’d act violently now; she’d try to ease her burden of guilt.
“The door’s locked?” she repeated in a quiet voice.
“Yes.”
“I’m liquid with fear…Look, Lionel, call Jack Hilton again and tell ’im—He thinks maybe Gil’s all right now—”
Her voice died in her throat and she had spun around and was out of the door before Cross could grab her. He debated: he had a wound on his shoulder to prove that he had tried to help Gil and maybe it would be a good thing for Eva to see that the door was locked. Then, Eva, panting and whimpering, came rushing in again.
“He’s there!” she gasped. “He’s coming up here…”
“Who?”
“Herndon—I saw ’im on the stairs—He has his gun—”
Was she crazy? Herndon was dead. Eva ran past him into her bedroom. Cross approached the door and looked out; he heard footsteps mounting the stairs on the floor above him. Ah, Eva had thought she had seen Herndon, but she had mistaken another man for Herndon…He shut the door and put on the night-chain. Yes; that was something that could be used in his favor. Eva had thought that she had seen Herndon coming up the stairs! That meant that her testimony would indicate that Herndon was still living after he had come up to the apartment for the second time…That could mean that Gil and Herndon killed each other!
&
nbsp; By God, that was the plan! He would stick to that story…
“Eva!” he called to her. “Give me Hilton’s phone number!”
When she did not answer, he went to her. She was lying on the floor of her bedroom; she had fainted. He lifted her to her bed, got a wet towel from the bathroom and patted her face with it. Her eyelids fluttered.
“Give me Hilton’s phone number,” he asked her.
“My purse,” she murmured.
He got her purse and took it to her; she gave him an address book and whispered: “Find the number there, under H…”
Cross thumbed through the book, found the number, then walked slowly toward the telephone. His mind clearly grasped the entire situation and every muscle of his body was relaxed. Now, I’d like to see them figure that out, he told himself with a grim smile. I killed two little gods…He paused, frowning. But they would have killed me too if they had found me like that…Yet, he could not get it straight. Just a moment ago it had all seemed so simple. But now it was knotted and complicated. There was in him no regret for what he had done; no, none at all. But how could he have done it? He too had acted like a little god. He had stood amidst those red and flickering shadows, tense and consumed with cold rage, and had judged them and had found them guilty of insulting his sense of life and had carried out a sentence of death upon them. Like Hilton and Gil had acted toward Bob, so had he acted toward Gil and Herndon; he had assumed the role of policeman, judge, supreme court, and executioner,—all in one swift and terrible moment. But, if he resented their being little gods, how could he do the same? His self-assurance ebbed, his pride waned under the impact of his own reflections. Oh, Christ, their disease had reached out and claimed him too. He had been subverted by the contagion of the lawless; he had been defeated by that which he had sought to destroy. He sank listlessly into the chair by the side of the telephone. Yet, no matter what happened, he had to call Hilton; he had to phone that little god…! He was limp. What was the matter with him? He was, yes, he was trapped in the coils of his own doings. He had acted, had shattered the dream that surrounded him, and now the world, including himself in it, had turned mockingly into a concrete, waking nightmare from which he could see no way of escaping. He had become what he had tried to destroy, had taken on the guise of the monster he had slain. Held to a point of attention more by the logic of events than by his own reasoning, his consciousness charged with a sense of meaninglessness, he bent toward the telephone and dialed…
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