“Right, sir,” Neil answered, going to a door and beckoning.
Finch, with whom Cross had negotiated his eight-hundred-dollar loan, walked slowly into the room. He stopped and stared at Cross; Cross returned Finch’s gaze with level eyes.
“Is this man known to you as Cross Damon?” Houston asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s him, all right. I’d know him in a million,” Finch said eagerly. “Hello, Damon.”
Cross kept his eyes steadily on Finch’s face and did not answer.
“Are you in trouble, boy?” Finch asked cordially.
Cross was silent, but his lips twitched in a slight smile.
“You’d swear to this identification in court?” Houston asked.
“Of course, I would,” Finch said.
“Well, that’s all, Mr. Finch. Thanks for your cooperation.”
“Not at all. Are you through with me, sir?” Finch asked.
“Yes; for the time being.”
Finch started out, turning and straining his neck, his baffled eyes remaining on Cross’s face until he collided with the edge of the opened door. Neil had to grab Finch’s arm to keep him from falling. Cross’s face broke into a wide grin; he watched Finch vanish down the hallway, holding his hand to his forehead where he had bumped it against the door.
“Are you crazy?” Houston’s voice came to him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Cross said.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Finch was so amazed that he did not see the door,” Cross explained soberly.
“You may be the amazed one before I’m through with you,” Houston snapped. “You are presumed to be dead, you know that?”
“I know nothing,” Cross said.
“You were in a subway accident. Do you acknowledge that?”
“I acknowledge nothing, sir.”
“Good God, man!” Houston exploded. “Maybe you’re an amnesia victim. Do you recall being injured in the subway accident?”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“You say you don’t remember?”
“I say nothing, sir.”
“If you say you don’t remember, it simplifies things—”
“I say nothing,” he repeated.
He doubted now if Houston knew of the hotel in which he had met Jenny and had killed Joe Thomas. So far nothing of a damaging nature had come to light. Some of his past was known. So what?
“We’ll see about that,” Houston said; he was plainly annoyed. “It’s just possible you’re telling the truth. You may have been injured and don’t recall anything…”
Cross knew that Houston was now toying with the idea that he was perhaps an amnesia victim; but no one knew for sure that he had been in the subway accident and he loathed anybody’s thinking that his conduct had been influenced by any injury.
“May I state quite clearly and plainly, Mr. Houston, that I’ve never at any time in my life sustained any injuries of whatever nature that would cause me any lapse of memory,” Cross said.
Houston was momentarily rattled and his mouth gaped: the two men behind him blinked their eyes. Yeah; they’d been planning to bait me with that amnesia approach, he told himself.
“What is this, a game?” Houston demanded.
“That depends upon your interpretation, sir.”
“What are you hiding, Damon?”
“I affirm or deny nothing.”
“You know of that accident,” Houston spoke in a puzzled tone of voice. “You admitted it by implication. But you don’t want to take advantage of that accident to justify anything you’ve done.” Houston had spoken in a tone of voice that showed that he was thinking out loud, trying to find a way to get at Cross. He rose and walked close to Cross and stared into his face and said in a low, charged voice: “Damon, I’ve some very bad news for you.”
“Yes,” Cross said, holding tense and ready for surprises.
“Damon, your mother died in Chicago yesterday. She was astonished that you were still alive. It is believed that she died of shock, the shock of what you had done to her…”
He held still. Was this true? Or was Houston lying, trying to break him down? He was aware that Houston was watching every flicker of his eyelids. His mother was over sixty; she had been in frail health for a long time, and he was inclined to believe that what Houston had said was true…And the shock of what he had done had killed her? A churning wave went through his stomach, but he steeled himself against emotion. Well, he had already grieved over her once, and so it made no real difference now. A slow sigh went from him. He saw again his mother as he had seen her that last time, walking with faltering steps over the snow in front of the church, going to get into the car that was to bear his supposed body to the cemetery for burial…How bent and frail she had looked! How lost, uncomprehending, and weak…But not a facial muscle moved as he gazed into the eyes of Houston. Houston turned and walked slowly back to his desk, glancing at his aides as he did so. He sat and resumed his watching of Cross’s face. He’s waiting for the news to sink in, Cross thought. He felt that he ought to be sorry, but he could not summon the necessary degree of emotion. Had she suffered much? Then the truth of it dawned upon him; his mother had been dead for him for years, and that was why he had been able to reflect upon her so coldly and analytically while she had still been living…To him his mother’s reality was that she had taught him to feel what he was now feeling. He was at this moment living out the sense of life that she had conferred upon him, a sense of life which, in the end, he had accepted as his own. It had been her moral strictures that had made him a criminal in a deeper sense than Houston’s questions so far could admit.
“Did you hear what I said, Damon?” Houston asked softly.
“Certainly.”
“And what’s your reaction?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not even curious as to how she died?”
Cross struggled with himself; yes, Houston was using the tactics of Gil and Hilton. Houston was attempting to bring him repentantly to his knees, trying to rule him through the deep conditioning that all men felt in common for their parents.
“No,” he said, the words coming softly from his lips.
Houston shook his head in disbelief.
“Damon, do you deny meeting me in the dining car of a train on the 8th of February last?”
“I affirm or deny nothing.”
“Do you belong to any organizations whatsoever?”
“I belong to nothing.”
“Do you subscribe to any political philosophy?”
“I subscribe to nothing.”
“Are you working for any foreign government?”
“No.”
“Have you ever made any public speeches?”
“No.”
“Did you ever write under your own or an assumed name in any periodical or newspaper?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been in jail?”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“Did you ever commit a felony?”
“I admit nothing.”
Houston leaped to his feet and walked with long strides toward Cross.
“Damon, did you kill Gilbert Blount?” Houston thundered.
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“Did you kill Langley Herndon?”
“I affirm or deny nothing.”
“Did you kill Jack Hilton?”
“I affirm or deny nothing.”
Houston had reached the important questions, but he had not mentioned Joe Thomas yet. Did that mean that he did not have to worry about Joe? Surely, Houston would have thrown it at him if he had known…He was not absolutely certain about Joe Thomas, but he was reasonably sure…What could have happened there? Perhaps the Chicago police had marked it “Unsolved”? Now, what evidence did they have against him in relation to Gil and Herndon and Hilton…? Houston’s eyes were wide and intent as they stared at his face, but Cross knew that those eyes were reflecting processes of
thought far removed from the questions that Houston had asked so far.
“Do you hate Communism, Damon?” Houston asked softly, suddenly.
Now, Houston had gotten to the point. This is where I must be careful…Houston had now entered territory known well to both of them.
“What a strange question to ask me,” Cross stalled.
“I’m asking you do you hate Communism?” Houston insisted.
“How can one hate Communism?” he asked, smiling.
“Then you love Communism?”
“No.”
“Are you a member of any so-called revolutionary party?”
“No.”
“Were you ever a member of the Communist Party?”
“No. And I’ve never been a Fascist either.”
“I know that—”
“How could you know that?” Cross asked.
Houston blinked, pulled down the corners of his mouth. “You’re a Negro—”
“Negroes can be Fascists too,” Cross told him.
“Are you a Fascist then?”
“No.”
“The Fascist angle is not important; they wouldn’t take you in anyhow,” Houston said with a tinge of satisfaction.
“Fundamentally, Fascism has nothing to do with race,” Cross told him.
“Are you bragging about that?”
“I’m stating facts to you, sir.”
“Do you believe in Communism?”
“How can one believe in Communism?” Cross countered again.
He saw that Houston resented his question; he knew that Houston was seeking for a motive for the deaths of Gil and Hilton, and Houston knew that he knew it.
“Isn’t Communism something that one believes in?” Houston asked.
Cross drew a deep breath. Ought he wade out into this? Why not? If he did, he would isolate himself so sharply in a psychological sense that Houston would be bound to get a faint clue, but a psychological clue only. And there was a vast distance between psychological clues and concrete proof.
“It’s true that there are some people who do believe in the ideology of Communism,” Cross explained. “But real Communist leaders do not believe in its ideology as an article of faith. Such an ideology is simply in their hands and minds an instrument for organizing people. A real Communist would have a certain degree of contempt for you if you passionately believed in his ideology. He would accept you as a follower, but not as an equal. The real heart of Communism, Mr. Houston, is the will to power. And you know that, sir, as well as I do.”
“Would you use such an instrument in organizing people?”
“I wouldn’t touch such an instrument with a ten-foot pole,” Cross said earnestly.
“Why?”
“I think such an instrument is an insult to human life and intelligence,” Cross said.
“Well, what kind of instrument would you use in organizing people?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“But you agree that people ought to be organized?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Why?”
“Human life on this earth must proceed on some rational basis, sir.”
“Then, what organizational instrument would you advocate?”
“None. I’ve not discovered any to my liking, sir.”
“And still you feel that human society needs organization? That it stands in urgent need of such, in your opinion?”
“Yes; of course. It’s self-evident.”
“You feel that the inability of men to form stable governments in the nations of the world proves that, don’t you?”
“It’s self-evident, sir.”
“You know that if America pulled its support from Europe, Europe would collapse?”
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to see that support pulled out?”
“No.”
“You agree with that support?”
“No.”
“You think it’s bad?”
“Yes; it is very bad.”
“But you do not advocate its being pulled out?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It’s better than nothing, sir.”
“But it’s bad?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t answer their needs, sir. It’s a stopgap.”
“Would Communism answer their needs?”
“No. Of course not.”
“What, then, would answer their needs, in your opinion?”
“Really, Mr. Houston—You are aware as well as I am of the complex nature of human needs, especially the needs of modern man…We’ve been over this ground once. Maybe there’s no answer to their needs—”
“Do you support the Red Chinese?”
“I don’t support ’em or fight ’em; they’re just Red Chinese, sir. It’s the way they’ve organized themselves.”
“Don’t you think they could have organized themselves our way?”
“Why should they?”
“I’m asking you do you think they ought to have done it our way?”
“I could not say yes to that unless, first, I felt that ours was the system that they should have, sir. Second, I’m the kind of man who simply cannot feel that kind of godlike imperiousness to impose my will on others.”
“But you feel that all of this unrest on earth today is because man is seeking for an organization of his social life?”
“He urgently needs one,” Cross said stoutly. “I’m guilty of thinking and believing that, sir.”
Houston blinked, sighed. His eyes roved restlessly about the room.
“Yes, you told me that on the train when I first met you. But I’m not accusing you of any such—”
“I know it, sir,” Cross said jovially. “I was just making a little confession to you.”
“It’s no crime under our laws to believe that something or other ought to be done in society—”
“I beg your pardon, sir. In my opinion, it is right there where the real crime is,” Cross maintained. “A man today who believes that he cannot live by the articles of faith of his society is a criminal and you know it, even though Congress has not gotten around to making such into law. You know that as well as I do, sir. We’ve talked about that.”
Houston threw up his hands. Cross was amused. Houston was looking right at his guilt, and would not admit it. Houston stared at him with wide, startled eyes, then, glancing guiltily at his aides, sat again at his desk, poring over his stack of papers. Cross wanted to laugh. What did papers have to do with this? Houston looked at Neil, nodded to him, and Neil hurriedly left the room. He’s executing something previously agreed upon, Cross said to himself. He waited. Houston looked up suddenly.
“Damon, suppose you come upon a man attempting to organize human society in a way that was supremely offensive to you, what would you do?” Houston asked in a slow, loud tone.
He was asking indirectly if he had killed Gil and Herndon and Hilton.
“I decline to say.”
“You don’t like Communists, do you?”
“No.”
“Which do you hate more? Communists or Fascists?”
“Well, I’m afraid I hate the Fascists more, sir.”
“Why?”
“Well, they’ve more real support. Of course, this is a debatable question. Maybe I feel like that because I’m a Negro and Fascists are dead against us.”
“If you saw an opportunity to send two of them to their graves in one blow, would you do it?”
Cross looked at Houston and laughed.
“Would you?” he countered.
“Will you answer the question?” Houston demanded.
“I decline to answer, sir,” Cross said.
“Why?”
“Because you know the answer.”
“You would kill them, wouldn’t you?”
“I decline to answer.”
“Goddammit, I’ll break your spirit yet!” Houston raged.
The next face that showed in the doorway made Cross feel that he should have been sitting down, because, for a moment, he felt like falling. It was Gladys. She was smartly dressed. Her face was pale with apprehension and her movements stiff with shock. She was clutching a pocketbook and staring at Cross. Houston looked quickly from Gladys to Cross. Gladys reached out a trembling hand and caught hold of the edge of the desk for support. Cross was furious; he gritted his teeth. What point was there in Houston’s dragging Gladys into this? Yes; Houston, too, liked to play at being a little god, liked to ravage the souls of others. That was why he was District Attorney…And Cross vowed that Houston would never see him humbled, unnerved, or weeping. Houston had thought that the sight of Gladys would make him break down and talk. Well, he would not react. He would show Houston that he had miscalculated. Then Cross sucked in his breath sharply; from the open door behind Gladys, being led by Neil, came his three sons, Cross, Jr., Robert, and Peter. He whirled to Houston and saw an expression of sensual excitement upon the hunchback’s lean face. That sonofabitch…Cross, Jr., his eyes wide and his lips parted, stared at his father, then clutched his mother’s hand, whimpering:
“Mummy, is he Daddy for real?”
Cross felt the muscles in his calves aching. Robert and Peter stood close to Gladys, staring; then they, too, began weeping, the flow of their tears being caused more by fear and uneasiness than any understanding.
“Why did Daddy come back, Mummy?” Peter asked.
“It’s not Daddy,” Robert said emphatically, indignantly, still crying.
Keep still, Cross told himself. His body was rigid. He had often imagined many kinds of confrontations, but he had never dreamed of this. To let his sons see him standing mute, stony…! He could kill Houston! His anger was so hot that he could not permit himself to look into Houston’s face.
Gladys, blinded by tears, her mouth distorted with silent weeping, groped for her children and huddled them clumsily about her, trying to keep her face averted. Cross returned the stares of everyone in the room without allowing his face to betray any expression whatever. Then he could hold it in no longer.
“Why are you doing this?” the words broke from him in a spasm of rage.
“At last I got a rise out of you, hunh?” Houston asked, wetting his lips with his tongue, reveling in deep satisfaction. “I had your wife and children flown here this morning from Chicago…”
The Outsider Page 49
