The Outsider (47 page)

“What's the matter, darling?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “Just tired.”

“Poor Lionel…”

He was not Lionel Lane. He was nothing, nobody…He had tossed his humanity to the winds, and now he wanted it back. He would shatter this poor girl's heart if he took what she was offering. He pulled away from her and walked aimlessly about the room, his eyes unseeing. He needed her if he was to go on living, but would his taking of her kill her?

“Don't worry, Lionel,” she smiled at him. “In the future when white men strike at you, they'll see me there at your side.”

He buried his face in his hands, closed his eyes and groaned: “God…”

She rose and ran to him.

“What's the matter? Don't you want me to be with you?”

“Yes,” he whispered despairingly.

“Then why are you so wrought up?”

He must not heap his troubles upon her. He should fly from this room, this girl, this hope of love…He seized her face tenderly in his palms and forced a smile to his lips.

“I'll be all right,” he said.

“I only want to help you,” she said. “For the first time in my life I am beginning to feel I can help somebody—”

Gently Cross crushed her face to his chest to keep her from seeing the bleak look on his face.

“Bless you, Eva,” he whispered.

“We'll be together,” she pledged herself.

“Together,” he repeated wonderingly; but his eyes were gazing toward a distant shore which he was certain he would never reach.

The doorbell rang. Eva broke from him, smiled, kissed him and turned and ran to the door. It was Sarah, grim, gaunt of face, her eyes dark and full of anger.

“Is Hilton here?” she asked without ceremony.

“No; he's gone,” Eva told her.

Cross went to Sarah.

“What's the matter? Where's Bob?” Cross asked her.

“I want to see Hilton,” Sarah said, ignoring his question. “I'm going to kill him—”

“Oh, darling,” Eva wailed. “What's wrong?”

Sarah doubled her fists, lifted them toward the ceiling and bared her teeth in a rage of bitter hate.

“The Party told on Bob—The Immigration men caught him this morning when he came to the apartment for his clothes—Bob's dead—He can't live out those years in that prison in Trinidad—And I'm going to pay off whoever did it—Bob said that Hilton threatened to do it, and only Hilton and the Party knew about Bob's being illegally in the country…”

She sank into a chair and sobbed.

“But how could that be possible?” Eva demanded, turning to Cross.

Cross was witnessing the birth of a new Eva. He knew that when she had been with Gil, she would never have been able openly to question or challenge a decision of the Party. And now she was demanding answers.

“It's all my fault,” Sarah wept. “I pushed him to disobey the decision…He did what I asked and now they got 'im…He was screaming when they took him away.” She clenched her teeth. “How they fooled 'im. Last night he phoned me and said that Gil had told
him that everything would be fixed. He was to go to Mexico—”

“Sarah,” Cross took hold of her shoulder. “I have something to tell you. Gil is dead. He was killed last night.”

Sarah stared, her lips hanging open.

“What did you say?” she gasped.

“Gil's dead. He was killed last night—He was in an argument with his landlord downstairs…”

Sarah rose and stood as though she herself had been condemned. Then impulsively she threw her arms about Eva.

“God, have mercy,” she cried.

Cross watched the two women, both of whom had lost their husbands, weep. One husband had died suddenly; the other would die slowly over the years behind the bars of a prison on a hot island.

“I could kill the one who did that to Bob,” Eva cried.

Cross's lips parted. That was what he had been wanting to do to Hilton, kill him; but he had fought down the notion. Now Eva was planting it again in his mind. No, no; he would not kill again. Then what did one do when confronted with the Hiltons of this world? Let them trample freely over whom they liked? Never…But then what? To kill Hilton was a way of redeeming what Hilton had done to Bob; and also it was a way of lending multiplicity to Hilton's acts, of making them right somehow. To kill him was a way, really, of exonerating him, of justifying him. Yet, what other course was there? To make an appeal to the heart of a man like Hilton was out of the question, for he was beyond any such sentimental considerations. This was a problem the full implications of which only men akin to Hilton and Gil could really see and understand, for they alone knew how far cut off from life one was when one assumed the
role of the godlike. Was there no turning back? Once the tie had snapped, was it forever? Cross knew that the only difference between him and Hilton was that his demonism was not buttressed by ideas, a goal. So why should he care? But he did. And he hated Hilton as only one can hate something which is a part of one's own heart.

“Lionel, can't we do something?” Eva asked, oblivious of the gravity of her question. “Let's start
now
! Let's redeem ourselves and help Bob some way, hunh?”

“But what can we do? Bob's gone now—” Cross explained gently.

“It's too late to help Bob,” Sarah said. “They've got 'im.”

“This has got to stop,” Eva cried. “Isn't there some way, Lionel? There must be…Men like that should be
killed
!”

She embraced Sarah again and the two women wept for the men they had lost.

He walked slowly from the women and went into the living room and sat down, wrestling with contradictions he could not resolve. Was killing the kind of punishment that Hilton needed? If he killed Hilton, would not someone try to kill him for killing Hilton…? Where did it end? Forgiving the man was out of the question, for a Gil or a Herndon would look upon it as weakness and would use it to establish a crushing defeat upon him who offered forgiveness. Was there not a kind of punishment that could make Hilton repent…? Was that the word:
repent
? Renounce one's aims and go over to the side of the adversary…? But suppose the lawbreaker felt that the adversary had no rights, was so absolutely wrong that he would rather die than submit…?

The pathos of Bob's fate was that Bob had been so
weak, so easily persuaded, so needful of a master that the Party simply had no real need of his liquidation. Cross's broodings suddenly became organized and he went back to Sarah and Eva.

“Sarah, tell me, what Party plans did Bob hurt when he continued to organize?” Cross asked her.

“They were planning to launch a campaign for peace, and if Bob's union had been known as Red—and it was bound to be if Bob had kept on—everybody would have balked at signing any peace appeals. That's all…Bob got in their way and they kicked 'im to death.” Sarah's eyes narrowed. “The police give you the third degree but the Party gave Bob the fourth degree…”

“This must not
be
,” Eva said in tones of horror.

Cross wandered restlessly back into the living room. He searched in his pockets and found Hilton's card, then stood staring, holding his wallet in his hand. Yes; if he went to see Hilton, it would be better to leave his money behind. God only knows what might happen…He secreted his wad of greenbacks in his suitcase and again stood brooding. Suddenly he moved with purpose; he strode into the hallway and put on his overcoat.

“I'm going down for a bit,” he told Eva. He studied Sarah for a moment. “Sarah, why don't you stay with Eva awhile?”

“Sure. I hate being by myself in that empty flat now…”

When Cross went down into the snowy street, his gun was nestling close to his hip as he walked. He reached the corner, paused, staring thoughtfully. He should go back and remain with Eva. He was safe then, safe from himself. To mull over Hilton's crimes would unhinge his impulses and make him want to act in that wild, crazy fashion again. But he kept on walking. He
reached University Place and saw the dark red brick bulk of the Albert Hotel where Hilton lived. Was he in? And what would he say to Hilton when he found him? He did not know. Yet he was in the throes of an irrational compulsion to see Hilton…He entered the hotel lobby and walked to the desk.

“Is Mr. John Hilton in?” he asked the clerk on duty.

“Mr. Hilton, Mr. Hilton—” The clerk turned and studied the board on which hung the keys of the rooms. “Room 342…I'm sorry, sir. But he's out.”

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“I'm sorry. I don't know. He left no message.”

“Thank you.”

Cross went out into the streets again, walking at random. It was afternoon and he had not eaten. The day was grey, sunless; the air was damp, cold. He passed men and women whose faces expressed the intensity of their personal concerns. His eyes drifted distractedly over drugstore windows, the facades of stone and brick houses, the long green buses pulling through icy streets, and now and then idly up at some tall, apartment hotel building. He longed suddenly to be near Eva; but that, too, was a dubious thing. Why not flee now and start afresh? But he had once done that and it had led to nothing, to the nowhere in which he now lived. Running off was no solution, for he would simply take his problems with him. In any new place he would be worse off, for Eva would not be there.

He entered a drugstore and ate a ham sandwich and drank a hot cup of coffee, neither of which he tasted. Was it that he had gotten himself into such an emotional state that nothing meant anything anymore, or was it that
too
much meaning had now entered his life, more meaning than he could handle? When on the streets again he came to a tavern and went in and drank a glass
of beer. He saw a pinball machine in a corner; he dropped a coin into the slot, thumped the tiny little shining balls with a lever and watched them veer and jump and bounce amid the flickering lights; he heard the excited clatter of machinery as the scores flashed in yellow numbers on a glass screen in front of him and there was a girl in a scanty red bathing suit and she danced and leaped and romped on a gleaming and curving sandy beach under tall palm trees…He played twice and did not win. What the hell was he doing? Was he so lost that he had to resort to this for distraction? Disgust drove him at last out into the streets again.

Hilton lay like a coiled threat deep in his mind. He had condemned Bob to ten years of suffering and Cross was now trying to find some way of getting at him…His anger kept rising. Only the presence of Eva could evoke in him the drive to forget himself. Yes, he would make of that girl his life's project, his life's aim; he would take her hand and lead her and, in leading her, he would be leading himself out of despair toward some kind of hope…Suppose Hilton tried to take Eva from him; Hilton had the authority of the Party and could make endless trouble…Hell, he had to have it out with that man,
now—
He could not go on with Hilton looming like a black storm cloud over his head.

He turned and made his way back to the Albert Hotel and entered. “But why ask for Hilton?” he asked himself in a low voice. Just go up and knock on the door of his room. Sure…He crossed the lobby and stood in front of the elevator, waiting. Naw; walk up…He turned and saw that no one was observing him and he took the stairs to the right. Yes; room 342 would be on the third floor…When he reached the third floor corridor, he looked for the number. He came to the door of Hilton's room and paused; the door stood open
and he could hear the whirr of a vacuum cleaner. He stepped to one side and waited. Was Hilton married? Or living with some girl? Strangely, he had not taken into consideration that Hilton might not be alone…He peered into the doorway and saw the white uniform and the bare, dark brown arm of a Negro maid, then he stiffened as he heard footsteps and he walked quickly away, looking over his shoulder. The Negro maid came out with a pile of dirty linen over her arm and headed down the hallway, leaving the door open. She was, no doubt, going to dump the soiled linen into some receptacle. Cross thought quickly; there might be a bare chance of his hiding in the room…The maid went out of sight and he ducked through the door and looked about frantically. Yes; the clothes closet. He opened it, slid in, and crouched in a corner, smelling the sweetishly sour odor of stale sweat. He pulled the door shut. Footsteps sounded again and he heard the maid humming a spiritual. Then the low whine of the vacuum cleaner came to his ears, and when it stopped there was the musical flow of water in the bathroom. More footsteps, silence. Had she gone? He heard the door slam and all was quiet. A moment later he emerged and looked about; the room was empty, untidy. Books were piled helter-skelter; soiled shirts and socks lay about. A greyish light seeped in through half-closed Venetian blinds. He looked in the bathroom to make sure that he was alone, then turned to the cluttered top of the dresser and studied the comb, brush, and a tube of shaving soap. He began pulling out dresser drawers. Clothing, pamphlets, a scrapbook, a flashlight…His breath caught in his throat.
What!
Good God in Heaven! What was this? That
Hilton
! What a tricky man…On top of a pair of pyjamas lay the balled and bloody handkerchief which he thought he had burnt by dropping it
into the incinerator. The crumpled handkerchief showed burnt spots where it had lain on a pile of hot ashes; in fact, one corner was charred black…He stood without moving a muscle, unable to believe what his eyes saw so plainly. So Hilton had known all along! But why had he not said anything? Why had Hilton defended him so ardently before the police? Then he understood…Hilton was saving this handkerchief as his trump card; he was trying to
own
him morally…Hilton had seen him drop that handkerchief into the incinerator and had pretended that he had noticed nothing; and when he had gone back to his room, Hilton had gone downstairs and had gotten hold of it…Had bribed the cop at the door, perhaps…Or he had gone down to the basement this morning on leaving the apartment and had raked it out of the ashes. The fact was: Hilton had proof of his guilt! Eva had been in his room last night and maybe Hilton had eavesdropped at his door…? Of course! That was the meaning of that last crack that Hilton had made just before he had left the apartment. Hilton had asked him to look after Eva and when he had said that he would do so, Hilton had said, “I
know
you will.”