Cross could tell that Houston was trying to justify his actions.
“I didn’t want to make any mistake about identifying you, Damon,” Houston said.
But Cross was not be be fooled; he knew that Houston loved this, just as he too sometimes loved lording it over others. But that look of sensual triumph on Houston’s face had already sent Cross scuttling back to his shell of iron reserve, to his stance of defense. All right, suppose they were his sons? He had given them up, hadn’t he? He would make a supreme effort and remain cold, hard. Sentiment must not subvert him now. He was lost, that much was true; but he must not let human claims drag him into a position where Houston could crow over him…Nothing could so undo him so easily now as Houston’s gloating or bragging. Those frightened, little brown-faced boys were his sons, flesh of his flesh; they were the future of himself and he had rejected that self.
“Damon, I realize that you and your wife did not get along together,” Houston said. “She told me that. But, man, here are your children…They need you. Go to them.”
Cross made his face a mask.
“Damon, can you stand there and look at the bewildered faces of those children and say nothing?” Houston demanded.
Cross shut out the sight of the world and tried not to hear.
“You can redeem yourself with them, Damon,” Houston was saying. “Are you going to let them remember you all of their lives like this? Boys love to think of their fathers as strong, wise men,” Houston went implacably on. “To many a son the image of his father is what lifts him up in life. A father can make a boy feel that he has a sure foundation under him, can give him confidence…”
Cross summoned all his control and pushed Houston’s words away; he would not react; he would not be human; he was shunt of these claims and he would die shunt of them…
Houston turned and looked at Gladys whose face was hidden by her crumpled handkerchief; the woman’s body seemed so rigid that if one touched her ever so lightly she would fall prone.
“Mrs. Damon,” Houston began in a loud, clear voice, “do you recognize this man standing there?” Houston pointed at Cross.
Gladys slowly turned her face and stared at Cross with wet, red eyes. Then she quickly bowed her head; both of her hands convulsively covered her face in one shuddering motion and her chest heaved as she wept in dry gulps. Houston gently grasped her shoulder and led her to a chair.
“I’m asking you: Do you recognize this man as your husband, Mrs. Damon?” Houston demanded.
Gladys was still, then she shook her head with a slow, dreamy movement, shook it negatively and at once Cross knew that Gladys was not shaking her head in answer to Houston’s question, but was asserting her right to reject him as he had once rejected her! Gladys was protesting his presence on earth. Houston’s face showed astonishment; he did not understand what was transpiring in the woman. He had thought that a storm of words would have poured out of Gladys, and that he, Cross, would have been moved to pity. Cross knew that Gladys would rather have had him dead.
“Mrs. Damon, I asked you if that is your husband?”
Her cheeks wet with tears as far down as her chin, Gladys finally nodded her head affirmatively. Houston blinked in bewilderment.
“Now, which answer is it, Mrs. Damon,” Houston demanded. “Is he your husband, or is he not?”
Cross burst into a gale of laughter that made the bodies of everyone in the room jerk. Houston gaped at Cross, then his face settled into a mold of anger. Cross knew that there was a conflict in Gladys. Her first reaction had been to say that she did not know him; then she had wanted to be honest with the District Attorney and had said yes. And now she was more confused than ever and she shook her head again, negatively. It was an identity deeper than that which Houston was asking for that Gladys was denying.
“Mrs. Damon, again I ask you, is this your husband, Cross Damon?”
Gladys rose, turned her back on Cross, nodded affirmatively to Houston and murmured brokenly: “Yes; it’s he—”
She ran to the door, turned, snatched wildly at her children, grabbing them by their clothes and pulling them into the other room.
“But, Mrs. Damon, you—” Houston was trying to speak.
“No, no, no!” Gladys screamed and wept and the little boys joined her in crying, crying because they saw their mother unnerved and bitterly hysterical.
“Help her, Neil,” Houston said; comprehension was now in his eyes.
The two men assisted Gladys into the next room and finally the door closed. Cross still stood, his face impassive.
“You are the lowest sonofabitch I’ve ever seen in all of my life,” Houston said savagely.
“I return the compliment,” Cross said. “What on earth did you gain by dragging her in here?”
Houston did not answer and Cross knew that he could not. Houston ran his spread fingers through his hair and sat again behind his desk, glaring at Cross.
“Damon, I’ll get to the point. The Communists have been badgering me night and day to take action against you. They are charging that you killed Blount, Hilton, and Herndon,” Houston told him.
“And what are you charging me with?” Cross asked.
Houston did not reply.
“How can you charge me merely on the insistence of Communists who are suspicious and frightened of me?” Cross demanded.
“Why are they frightened of you?”
“Ask them.”
“Are you a member of any anti-Communist group?”
“I’m not a member of anything, Mr. Houston.”
“Are you anti-Communist even as an individual?”
“I’ll tell you as I told them: I’m not anti anything.”
“But you don’t support them, do you?”
“Hell, no. And millions of other men don’t either—”
“But you are like them in your reactions. That much I know,” Houston said. “And the motive is right here.”
“You think so?”
“The strongest motive on earth—”
“There are millions of men with the same motives—”
“I’ve no evidence against you, Damon, or Lane; if I had, I’d tell you so. I’m straight in this office. But I had a right to find out who you are,” Houston explained in a tired voice. “There’s another motive you could have had—”
“Yes?”
“You wanted Mrs. Blount. Men have killed for women before—”
“Mr. Houston, I don’t believe that you really believe that,” Cross told him. “Before Gil died, I never touched his wife, never so much as looked at her with desire in my eyes. Now, for the rest of this mess, you will have to prove your case against me.”
“You started living with Mrs. Blount right off, before her husband was even buried,” Houston charged.
“What law did I violate in doing that?” Cross countered. “And don’t forget that I was living in the apartment when he died.”
“You took her to Harlem—”
“That was to get her away from the press.”
Cross was now convinced that Houston had no evidence; he had thought that Cross would have collapsed at the sight of Gladys and his sons and would have made some fatal mistake, some slip that would have helped him to build his case.
“The Communist case against you is as follows,” Houston told him. “They claim that you went downstairs that night to see if Blount was all right. You saw him wounded. You finished him off. Then Herndon came upon you and you had to kill him. Hilton found out about it in some way, and you had to kill him to keep him silent.”
“I’ve no comment to make on that.”
Houston stood again and Neil and the other assistant reentered the room.
“I was thinking of remanding you for a psychiatric examination,” Houston said.
“What purpose would that serve?” asked the youngish man who had stood silent through all of this.
“Sending me for psychiatric observation would be as good an excuse as any to
hold me on,” Cross told him placidly.
Houston sat down heavily in his chair.
“Hell, no!” He turned and stared exasperatedly at the youngish man who had spoken. “I’m not going to play games with this man. I’ve run this office straight so far, and I’ll continue. If the police and the Medical Examiner cannot dig up enough evidence, I’ll be damned if I’ll hold him ’til they cook up something.”
Cross realized that the youngish man was no doubt a psychiatrist.
“No opinion that we could give you from the hospital would be of any legal use in relation to what I’ve heard so far. The man seems to be orientated and is defending himself,” the young man said.
Houston stood and smiled shyly at Cross.
“That’s all for tonight, Lane,” he said.
“You mean you are through with me for the time being?” Cross asked.
“For the time being, yes. You may go.”
Neil held open the door for him and Cross slowly walked toward it; then he paused, his mind filled with an impish notion. He turned to Houston.
“The best way to get a victim is to find an innocent man,” he told the District Attorney. “An absolutely innocent man. Such a man is free to be charged with anything. An innocent man is overwhelmed when he is falsely accused and he is at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how to defend himself,” Cross went on, teasing the District Attorney. “You don’t really need much evidence at all to charge an innocent man. The bigger the charge, the more likely people are to think that that man must have done something, or else no one would have charged him. The way to make a man guilty is to attack him without cause, without reason. The logic there is: if he was not guilty, no one would have dared to charge him. I was innocent to the extent that I didn’t have a good name that would stand up under investigation. I had a secret name and you found it, ergo, I’m guilty of something. Good night, sir.”
He walked down the corridor to the elevator and dropped to the street, thinking, I’ve got to see Eva…He grabbed a taxi and shot uptown. He knew that Houston was not through with him yet. But I dare him to admit what he knows…He already knows, but of what use is his knowledge…? But the Party…? That was another thing. They did not have to be certain to brand you guilty. If they could not understand you, then you were guilty! Yes; he’d have to take Eva away at once, take her out of New York. He’d ask her to come away tonight…
He paid the taxi and looked up at the windows of Sarah’s apartment. Lights were blazing through the curtains. Were Menti and Hank up there? He grew hot with hate. He’d send them packing, those fools! He’d take Eva with him right now…
He bounded up the steps and pushed the bell of the door. Sarah opened it almost at once. Her face was tense with fear and curiosity.
“Did the police find you?”
“Yes. Where’s Eva?”
“But what have you done, Lionel? What did they want?”
“Nothing. But where’s Eva?”
“She’s gone. With Menti and Blimin—But what are the cops after you for?”
“It’s nothing—Where did Menti and Blimin take Eva?”
“I don’t know. They just asked her to come with them. But are you in some kind of trouble?”
He sighed. Then whirled as the doorbell rang.
“Maybe that’s Eva now,” Sarah said, hurrying.
It was Eva. She came quickly and excitedly into the hallway. She was a little stooped, as though bent with dread; she stopped at the sight of Cross. Her face went white and her eyes held a wild, scared look. She knows something…The Party had told her; he could feel it. He ran toward her.
“God, Eva, what’s the matter?”
She backed away from him, stumbling against a wall, her eyes transfixed with terror.
“Eva, let me tell you everything!” he cried.
She looked at him with an opened mouth and shook her head.
“Darling, listen. I’ve been wanting to tell you—”
“Your name’s not Lionel…You’re married, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he sighed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded in helpless despair.
“I’ll explain everything…”
“Oh, God, the Party’s accusing you of everything—All night I’ve battled and fought and wept and screamed to save you—To protect you—And they say I’m wrong; they say you’re guilty of something—Why didn’t you tell me this…? Where’s your wife?”
“She’s here in the city somewhere; but you and I are together—”
“Does she love you?”
How like a woman to think of those little things first!
“No.”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
“You have three small sons—?”
“Yes.”
“You deserted them?”
“Yes, Eva.”
“And you know that your mother died yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re really the man who ran off from Chicago, leaving his family—?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t love your family?”
“No.”
His answers had come automatically; he was staring at the floor, waiting for her to question him further. Eva covered her eyes with her hands and leaned against the wall. She sighed in despair.
“What kind of a man are you?” she asked in a whisper.
He had confessed a part of it; now he had to tell her all. She had to believe in him, help him, understand him…
“Eva, come into the room,” he begged her. “I must talk to you—”
“I feel dead,” Eva whimpered. “Why did you fool me?” She choked and wept for a moment. “Nothing you ever told me was true…And Lionel’s not your name! Oh, God!”
Sarah was staring from one to the other with an open mouth.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“His name’s not Lionel Lane,” Eva sobbed.
Sarah backed away from Cross as though he had become a leper.
“You mean you gave us another false name?” she demanded indignantly. “You gave Bob a false name the first time you met him…”
“I must talk to you, Eva,” he said. “Come into the room. I love you. This can’t break us up. It mustn’t. I’ll explain everything. You’ll see.”
Sarah stepped between him and Eva.
“What are you doing to her? Leave her alone—She’s scared to death—”
“I’ve got of to talk to her, Sarah. I’ll explain everything to you later,” he said, taking Sarah’s arm and pushing her to one side.
He was clinging to a thread of hope. He knew that in spite of all, she still believed in him. But what was he to tell her? Her staunch confidence in him had helped her to weather the storm she had met at the Party headquarters, and now she had come meekly to him for confirmation of what she had fought for, and he could not give it to her. He took her gently by the arm and led her down the hallway and into their bedroom. He could feel the tension in her body as she moved, pulling jerkily but feebly against his hand. He wanted more than anything on earth to keep her, and yet he did not know how; he had no notion of what to say. He closed the bedroom door and turned to her.
“What’s your name?” she asked him softly.
“Cross Damon,” he answered, but he could not look her in the eye.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was afraid to, and I was ashamed,” he told her truthfully.
He glanced at her now and what he saw filled him with frenzy. There were other and bigger questions looming behind those clear, hazel eyes, and those questions condemned him more crushingly than anything that Houston could have said to him. He saw her lips move several times, but no words came from her. She turned from him and leaned against the wall, sobbing softly.
“I gave you my diary to read,” she whimpered. “I thought you’d be honest with me…You’ve deceived me too!”
“I w
as frightened of telling you everything, of telling you the truth,” he said. “I was afraid that you’d run off from me.”
“Lionel—” She paused and cried afresh. “I don’t even know what to call you now…” She went to the bed and sank upon it, staring in bleak dismay before her.
Yes, she wants to ask me about Gil…She wants to know…Oh, God! He went to his knees and clutched his arms about her legs. He would beg and plead for his life. He waited in agony for her to ask, and he felt that he could scarcely draw his breath into his lungs.
“Eva,” he begged. “It’s not too late. If you love me, it’s never too late. Remember that. You told me you loved me, and I need you now. If you turn from me, the world collapses…”
“So—S-s-so it w-was true…What you told me that night? When you came in?”
He hung his head and could not answer.
“You were trying to tell me something—You were all mixed up and you spoke of killing men—Oh, God—! I thought you were delirious, ill. I thought you were talking out of your mind because of fever and worry…”
She had asked him directly at last! And he could not lift his eyes to look her in the face. He tightened his arms about her legs, afraid to let go of her.
“Eva, I love you; I love you,” he mumbled frantically. “You must remember that. I’m crazed with fear and worry now. Don’t leave me…”
“You did it, then? What the Party said?”
“What did they say?”
“They said you killed Gil to get me…”
He was tempted. Ought he tell her a lie and let her think that? Would it not touch her heart and make the look of the world seem less strange and hostile to her? Would it not make her love him the more? But would he not be locking himself up again behind the wall of himself if he lied to her again? What would lying solve now? Nothing…And what made it so hellishly difficult was that when he lifted his eyes he could see in her face that she was expecting to hear him say that he had killed Gil for her, to get her, out of his love for her.
“Nooooo,” he breathed. “I killed Gil…But it was not for you—”
“Oh, God in Heaven! Why did you kill him, Lionel?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
“Why? There must be some reason…”
The Outsider Page 50
