The Outsider

by Richard Wright

  “I have no objections,” Cross said softly.

  What greater protection could he dream of than this? The Party he loathed was going to help defend him…

  “Now, when the police questioning is over, I want to talk to you,” Hilton said, giving Cross a card with his address upon it. “I don’t live far from here—”

  “Okay,” Cross agreed, taking the card from him.

  They shook hands.

  “Just look after Eva,” Hilton said. “If anything develops, get in touch with me. In fact, I think you’d better stay close to her.”

  Cross did not trust himself to answer. He simply nodded. Hilton looked nervously at his wrist watch.

  “The police are slow in coming,” he commented.

  They returned to the living room. Eva was stretched out on the sofa. Cross went to her, bent down and asked:

  “Can I get you something, Eva?”

  She shook her head, forcing a wan smile to her lips. Menti looked at Hilton and winked. Hilton knelt at the knees of Eva and caught hold of her hand.

  “Darling, Gil’s gone, but the Party’s still here. Your Party lives,” he said softly, in solemn tones. “I’ve no doubt but that you’re going to be able to do what you’re called upon to do. Here’s the situation. Herndon called Gil down to make him put Lionel out of the apartment. You heard noises and you and Lionel went down to see what was the matter. Herndon was beating Gil—He drove both of you upstairs, beating Lionel with the poker—You heard more noises—Eva, you tried to phone the police, but couldn’t get through. So you phoned me and I phoned the cops; understand? Then you and Lionel heard more noises and screams. You sent Lionel down to help Gil…But the door was locked. Lionel came back up to phone the cops and, Eva, you started down again—But Herndon ran you back up with his gun—You saw ’im on the stairs with his gun—You both then locked yourselves in, see? You phoned me again—I came with Menti—We broke down the door—” Hilton gripped Eva’s arm tightly. “Now, listen, we didn’t tell you what we found down there, Eva…You hear? You understand that?”

  “What do you mean?” Eva asked, baffled.

  “I mean this,” Hilton explained. “You and Lionel did not go down with us—You and Lionel remained up here; understand? You don’t know that Gil’s dead, see? When you hear that he’s dead, you must scream! Your husband’s been murdered. Herndon’s guilty of murder; see? That’s all. Herndon’s the murderer. The rest of the burden’s on us…”

  Eva nodded her head, tears streaming again on her cheeks.

  “You are a Communist, Eva,” Hilton emphasized. “We Communists do what we have to do. It’s our life.”

  Then the room was deathly still, for, in the distance, came the faintly rising wail of a siren.

  “Are you all right, Eva?” Menti asked.

  “I’m all right,” Eva said, steeling herself.

  The police are coming, Cross told himself. If Eva could face them, then, God knows, he ought to be able to. Buttressed by these two men whose profession was based on a defiance of the men of the law, he would have more than an equal chance. For a moment a nostalgic regret seized hold of him. Why was he not with them? Especially at times like this he welcomed their support. As an ally against racist white Americans, they had no peers. But he knew that that was not all. He recalled Bob’s squirming on the floor, begging for a mercy that the Party would not grant. No; no, he would not swallow that happening to him…The sirens were near now, nearer, then nearer still. Suddenly he could hear them no more and he knew that the police were downstairs in the snow-choked streets in front of the house.

  Cross knew that another world, Herndon’s world, was coming; the police agents of that world were as much against him as the dead man Herndon had been. And Hilton and Menti were his allies and wanted to defend him, whatever their motives. He was black and, in the baleful eyes of the men who were coming, he had no right to be here in a white apartment building in a white neighborhood. He leaned against the wall, waiting, thinking. Why was it like this? As a Negro, he was not even free enough to choose his own allies.

  What a cheap price Hilton was paying for his loyalty! And for men like Hilton, detached from impulses of racial hatred, what a trifling effort to expend to capture the allegiance of millions of people! Was not a world that left itself open to such easy attacks a stupid world, a doomed world, a rotten world not worth fighting for or saving? Since Herndon’s world considered him only half-human, why did he not, out of spite and in defense of his own human dignity, turn on that world and, with the help of such base and dubious allies as Hilton and Menti, destroy it? But what would happen to him after that world was destroyed…? Would he not be at the mercy of the Hiltons and Mentis…? Hunh? What a black choice…!

  He was now hearing the slow, heavy tramp of feet on the stairs. There came the sound of a brutal wrenching at the knob of the door, then the bell pealed impatiently. Cross moved to the center of the room, but Hilton waved him back.

  “Stay put. I’ll get this. I’ll do the talking until they ask you something,” Hilton said, going out.

  Menti sat holding his arms about Eva and looking at Cross. Cross winked at Menti and Menti smiled. He had to give these men some assurance. He heard Hilton open the door.

  “What’s the trouble here?” The voice was rough and aggressive.

  “There’s been an awful fight downstairs,” Cross heard Hilton explaining. “I think you’d better go down and see—”

  “Whose apartment is this and who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of one of the men downstairs, Mr. Gilbert Blount,” Hilton’s voice came clear and steady. “But, say, I think you ought to take a look quick—”

  “I asked you your name?”

  “Hilton, Jack Hilton…”

  “And where do you live?”

  “At the Albert Hotel on University Place.”

  “And what were these men fighting about?”

  “Well, it seems that the landlord, Mr. Herndon, objected to a certain tenant—”

  “We’ll see about that,” a flat, brutal voice sounded.

  There was silence. Cross could hear voices but could not make out what was being said.

  “What are you doing here now?”

  “Mrs. Blount, the wife of one of the men downstairs, asked me to come over,” Hilton explained. “Look, don’t you think you ought to take a look and see what’s happened to the men down there—?”

  “Where’s Mrs. Blount now?”

  “In the living room,” Hilton answered. “But maybe a doctor could help those men—”

  “Look, Mister, we know our job, so don’t try to tell us what to do, see?”

  “Well, I just thought—”

  “We want to see Mrs. Blount,” a hard voice insisted.

  “Sure. Come in. That way—She’s in the living room.”

  Cross heard feet coming down the hallway. Eva sat up, supported by Menti’s arm. Two policemen, tall and seemingly of Irish extraction, came into the room and at once stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of the dark face of Cross. The older of the two policemen stared at Cross, Eva, Menti, then at Hilton, and finally his large, bold, grey eyes rested on Cross again.

  “What’s the matter with you people? Are you color blind?” he demanded with a faint sneer on his lips.

  “Who are you?” Menti asked.

  “Lieutenant Farrel. This is Officer Clark, my aide.” He turned toward Eva. “Are you Mrs. Blount?”

  “I am,” Eva whispered.

  “What seems to be the trouble, lady,” Farrel asked.

  “My husband—He’s downstairs—I’m afraid he’s hurt—He had an argument with the landlord, Mr. Herndon—”

  “Who are these people?” Lieutenant Farrel asked, glancing at Menti and then Cross.

  “My name’s Herbert Menti, a friend of Mrs. Blount. And this is Lionel Lane, who lives here.”

  “You live here?” Farrel asked Cross, lifting his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Cross a
nswered.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” Cross countered.

  Farrel stared, then rocked back on his heels and looked over the people. “Are you married to anybody here?” Farrel demanded.

  “No. I room here. I’m a student,” Cross said.

  “Uh huh,” Farrel said.

  “Is there anything illegal with Mr. Lane’s being here?” Hilton asked pointedly.

  “No,” Farrel said, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “It’s legal, just legal.”

  There was silence in the room as the pounding of feet on the stairs was heard. An officer stumbled through the door, panting, his face red and his eyes round with shock.

  “Farrel, downstairs—” he gasped. “Quick, man—Wheeew! Looks like they bashed each other to death! It’s a regular slaughterhouse, for real…You have to see it to believe it—”

  “Two?” Farrel asked, his mouth dropping open.

  “Yep. Two, no less.”

  Cross’s eyes went quickly to Eva’s face. Could she cope with this? He saw her hesitate a second, then rise, her eyes blazing with disbelief.

  “No, no…! What are you saying? Gil, Gil, Gil!” she screamed.

  “Lady,” Farrel called to her.

  “Oh, my poor Gil!” Eva cried, running toward the door.

  Farrel grabbed her. Eva struggled, trying to break loose.

  “Let me go; let me go…Gil—Gil—”

  She pulled from Farrel’s arms and sank to the floor, sobbing convulsively.

  “They’ve killed my poor husband—Oh, God, help poor Gil—”

  “Is that his wife?” the new policeman asked.

  “Yes,” Menti answered.

  “You’d better get her to lie down,” Clark said.

  “Eva, come with me,” Menti said, lifting Eva from the floor. “Darling, take it easy—We don’t know for sure yet—”

  “I want to go to Gil,” she cried.

  “No, no; you must stay here,” Menti insisted. “Lie here on the sofa—”

  Cross was transfixed. She had done it. She had conquered her genuine grief and had replaced it with a pretended one, and somehow he felt that the pretended one was more real than the other. It rang with a sincerity that stemmed from a conscious act of creation.

  “…one used a table leg and the other a fire poker, it seems,” the cop was explaining to Farrel.

  Farrel’s eyes widened in wonder.

  “Is it too late to do anything for ’em?” Hilton asked, making sure to include Herndon in his question.

  “Clark, stand guard here,” Farrel said, ignoring Hilton. He beckoned the other policeman. “Come on. We’ll have to get the Medical Examiner if what you say is true…”

  Grim-lipped, Clark towered over Eva, Menti, Hilton and Cross. Sounds of voices and commotions could be heard downstairs now.

  “He didn’t seem to like you, Lane,” Hilton said.

  “Look,” the policeman on guard held up his hand in a warning. “I must tell you that I can repeat anything I hear you say, see? So be careful.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you do,” Hilton shot at the cop. “I’ve nothing to hide here. None of us has. Now, I say that that damned Lieutenant Farrel made some nasty cracks here about Mr. Lane. He called us colorblind. He wanted to know if Lane was married to anybody here…Now, you can damn well repeat that to Headquarters, if you want to. If you don’t, I will. Mr. Lane has more than a legal right to be here.”

  The cop reddened with embarrassment.

  “I reckon you got something there, buddy,” he said in tones of conciliation.

  Cross assumed a relaxed, detached air to what was happening, but he managed to keep a furtive eye on Eva. He had enough insight into the psychological reactions of white Americans in racial matters to know that there were possible two main lines of development in the events under way: the average cop would either consider him fair game and concentrate upon him as a Negro, or he would seize upon the Communist political angle for purposes of public exploitation. I’m going to sit tight and see which way the cat jumps, Cross mused, feeling proud that he was conscious of their consciousness. It was, of course, possible, but not probable, that they might combine the two issues and whip up a lynch atmosphere. Barring some fantastic fact coming to light, he did not see how they could think of him in relation to the deaths of Gil and Herndon. And, even if they did, there were the machinating temperaments of both Hilton and Menti working to advance the organizational interests of the Party by placing the blame for Gil’s death on Herndon, and thereby protecting him.

  He noticed that Eva was now as calm as marble. Balling a handkerchief in her right fist, she sat looking bleakly in front of her. His eyes caught hers and he saw in them a glint of recognition. Yes, she’s with me. She thinks I’m a victim too…Her sense of guilt was throwing her on his side; she had long been wanting to be free of Gil and now that she was free she wants to unburden her guilt on to someone else, on to Herndon…

  Lieutenant Farrel came back into the room, puffing from climbing the stairs; his heavy brows were knitted in perplexity. Following him was another policeman with a notebook and pencil in hand. He demanded the names, ages, occupations, and identification of all present. Cross accounted for himself as a student and showed his birth certificate and draft card. Hilton was a free lance writer and Menti spoke of himself as an unemployed printer. The room was quiet; no one volunteered any further information. The burden of getting at what happened fell upon Farrel, and he was a more chastened man now that he had seen the charnel house in Herndon’s living room.

  “Well, who’ll lead off and tell what happened?”

  There was silence. Menti looked at Hilton and Hilton looked at Cross. Cross cleared his throat and spoke in low, polite tones:

  “I’m afraid that you’ll have to rely upon me for the details as to how this started.”

  Farrel was impressed at the manner in which Cross spoke.

  “And what did you have to do with it?”

  “Nothing, directly. But I saw Mr. Herndon striking Mr. Blount with a fire poker…”

  Under questioning by Farrel, Cross related what had been agreed upon among him and Hilton and Menti. He kept his account terse, making no interpretations at all, leaving the cops to make their own inferences. Farrel frowned, looking from face to face. Briefly, Hilton related how he had received two phone calls, one from Eva and another from Lionel. He told of phoning the police, of picking up his friend Menti, and rushing over. He related how they had found Lionel and Eva huddled in fear in the apartment, how they had gone down and bashed in the door and found the men lying there, bloody, still…

  “We didn’t tell Mrs. Blount anything…We waited for you…” Hilton wound up.

  “Madam, do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill your husband?” Farrel asked Eva.

  Eva rose magnificently to the question; she threw her hands to her mouth and screamed: “He killed my husband! He killed poor Gil!”

  “You mean that Herndon killed him?” Hilton demanded, looking at Farrel. “Didn’t he?”

  “We don’t know,” Farrel said.

  “But there are eyewitnesses who saw Herndon beating Blount…” said Menti.

  “That’s for the Medical Examiner to say,” Farrel hedged.

  “But where were you guys?” Hilton demanded. “I phoned you thirty minutes ago. I got here in ten minutes—”

  “We’re pretty busy these days,” Farrel said sadly. “We got here as soon as we could—This may be a job for the D.A.”

  Cross was attention. Ely Houston? God…Would Houston recall his false name? He was certain that Houston had a vivid recollection of the talk they had had in his compartment on the train. Houston was capable of finding out the truth about him, could even guess the truth…Houston, a hunchback, an outsider, a man whose physical deformity had forced him to live in but not of the normal rounds of ritualized life, knew the demonic feelings of men who played god because he himself was of the de
monic clan, having hidden his kinship with the rebellious by publicly upholding the laws and promises that men live by…And Cross knew that his crimes were of a nature that Houston would not only find engrossing but challenging. Houston understood those rare-judgment-feelings that made men kill for no motives defined or known in the realms of law. Cross had no real fear of Farrel, or Clark, or the other flatfoots who wandered blunderingly in and out of the apartment, but for Houston he had something akin to terror…The cops were baffled, half-scared men who hid their bewilderment by loud-mouthed blustering; but Houston was so placed psychologically in life that he would feel intuitively at home with his crimes, for he was akin to Gil, to Herndon, to Hilton, and to Cross in temperament and outlook; he had the kind of consciousness that could grasp the mercurial emotions of men whom society had never tamed or disciplined, men whose will had never been broken, men who were wild but sensitive, savage but civilized, intellectual but somehow intrinsically poetic in their inmost hearts.

  Farrel left the room and made a lengthy telephone call in the hallway; at last he came in with his verdict.

  “All of you must consider yourselves under house arrest,” he began. “I’m posting an officer at the door of the apartment for tonight. There are a lot of questions that must be answered. In the morning all of you must face the District Attorney and give him your stories and account for yourselves. The Medical Examiner is downstairs working now—”

  “But what is the meaning of this?” Hilton demanded.

  “We must determine how those men died downstairs—” Farrel said.

  “But it’s all very simple,” Menti said.

  “Mr. Lane told you what happened,” Hilton said.

  “I’m only obeying orders,” Farrel said.

  “You mean we have to stay here all night—?” Menti asked.

  “Absolutely,” Farrel snapped.

  “But my wife; she’ll be upset,” Menti objected.

  “You got a phone at home?”