The Outsider (51 page)

“It's beginning to appear like it,” Cross said, looking Houston straight in the eyes.

Again Houston was wading in his direction. But could Houston permit himself to accept what he was undoubtedly thinking? Could he bring himself to admit that he was standing and looking at a man who ac
knowledged no laws? Did not the very thought create a dizzy kind of guilt? He saw the hunchback blink his eyes and shake his head…Yes; he's backing off from it; he's scared…

“There's absolutely nothing concrete to go on in all of this,” Houston said as though he was talking of Cross directly for the first time. “I have to keep fighting myself to reject the one and only theory that could tie all of this together…”

“What theory is that?”

Cross held his body so tense that he feared that Houston would notice it.

“Could there be a man in whose mind and consciousness all the hopes and inhibitions of the last two thousand years have died? A man whose consciousness has not been conditioned by our culture? A man speaking our language, dressing and behaving like we do, and yet living on a completely different plane? A man who would be the return of ancient man, pre-Christian man? Do you know what I mean?”

Cross felt his body grow hot. His judgment told him to keep quiet, to pretend ignorance; but his emotions clamored to enter this discussion, to tell what he knew. He drew his breath, pushed his personal feelings aside and, when he spoke, he was discussing himself in terms that were displaced and projected.

“He's a man living in our modern industrial cities, but he is devoid of all the moral influences of Christianity. He has all the unique advantages of being privy to our knowledge, but he has either rejected it or had somehow escaped its influence. That he's an atheist goes without saying, but he'd be something more than an atheist. He'd be something like a pagan, but a pagan who feels no need to worship…And, by the nature of things, such a man sooner or later is bound to ap
pear. Since we are speculating about this, why can't we say, in theory, that maybe he is appearing already? Modern man sleeps in the myths of the Greeks and the Jews. Those myths are now dying in his head and in his heart. They can no longer serve him. When they are really gone, those myths,
man
returns. Ancient man…And what's there to guide him? Nothing at all but his own desires, which would be his only values.”

Cross confessed his crime as much as he dared. Houston stood looking moodily out of a dingy window.

“I don't believe it,” Houston muttered at last. “It's the Communists. They know something of this. I'm sure of that.” But there was no conviction in his voice. He turned to Cross and spoke without looking at him. “All right, Lane. That's all.”

“I'll be seeing you Sunday night at Frank's, hunh?”

“What?” Houston asked; he seemed preoccupied. “Oh, yes. Of course. And keep away from those Communists, boy.”

“I shall.”

Houston's eyes still avoided him. He was rigid a moment, then he turned and strode out of the captain's office, leaving the door ajar. Cross watched his humped back disappear down a dim corridor. He didn't dare…The hunchback had looked right at it and had turned his face away! The captain entered.

“That's all, Lane.”

“Good evening, sir.”

He went out into the street. Yes, he was going to Eva…Out of the corner of his eyes he was vaguely conscious of a man leaning against the wall of a building and reading a newspaper. Ah, I wonder if they are trailing me…? He'd see. He was spent; he needed a drink. He headed toward Sixth Avenue, saw a bar; he paused and looked over his shoulder. Yes; the man was
following him…He went into the bar and had a whiskey. God, how could he get out of this? He wanted to rise and yell for help. Would it not be better to see Houston and tell him that he had gotten in too deep, that he was afraid of himself? His head felt hot; his fingers were trembling. He yearned for the sight of Eva. If only he could talk to somebody! To wander always alone in this desert was too much…Once again he had killed and he feared that this time he would be caught. Maybe I
want
to be caught, he told himself. Is that it…? He didn't care…He had done what he had wanted to do, hadn't he? Then why worry…He paid for his drink and went out into the streets again. The man with the newspaper fell in slowly behind him. He had to see Eva, yet he feared seeing her. He knew that he had to tell her everything now; he
had
to tell…

He walked aimlessly, turning corners. He glanced over his shoulder; the man was still trailing him. The street lamps came on, gleaming through the misty winter night. The traffic was heavy. Eva would be worrying, wondering what had happened to him…Yes; go to her, get it over with, tell her…He'd throw himself upon her mercy.

He turned toward Charles Street and as he neared the apartment he knew that the man was still following him. To hell with him…His hands felt like ice, but his body and his face were burning. God, I must have fever…He shivered. He came to the building and stared at the windows of Herndon's apartment. That fool! How much of the world's suffering had been inflicted on men by Herndon and his kind? He was not sorry that he had killed him. He would do it again, if need be…He shook his head, realizing that Hern
don had felt the same about him. How bewilderingly tangled it all was…

He went up the steps and entered the downstairs hallway; he paused, full of contrition at the thought of Eva. Could he face her? He had to, to keep alive he had to face her. He pulled up the stairs and stood uncertainly before the door. He pushed the bell; the door swung open and Eva was looking at him.

“Lionel, where on earth have you been?” she asked him.

He did not answer; he pushed past her and went stumbling into the living room. She followed him and he did not want to look into her face. He glared about nervously, then turned and went into the hallway again, heading for his room.

“Lionel, what's the matter?”

He flopped on his bed and closed his eyes. He felt her fingers on his face.

“You have a fever,” she said in alarm. “You silly boy; why did you tramp about so long in the cold? Listen, the police came here asking for Sarah…They wouldn't tell me why. What do you suppose they want with her? Do you hear me? Darling, what's the matter? Sarah fixed some food for us. Are you hungry? Oh, God, you must be ill…Open your eyes and look at me! Oh, Lionel, you're
really
ill! Here, let me help get you out of your clothes. You must rest. You're under too great a strain. Lord, what have we done to you—Poor boy—I'll get you some hot tea, hunh?”

He felt he wanted to die. What was he worth in the presence of this girl? He was ill, but not with the kind of illness she thought. He felt her pulling off his shoes, then when she tried to get his coat off, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Eva,” he whispered.

“Darling, you're exhausted,” she said. “Where were you and what were you doing?”

“I don't know,” he answered her truthfully.

“Did someone bother you?”

He did not answer. She helped him to undress and he lay under the covers quietly, keeping his eyes closed. Eva pulled down the shades and he could feel that the room had grown dark. She cradled his head in her arms and whispered to him:

“Can I get you something?”

“No.”

He was fighting the fight of his life. His lips were tightly clamped, his eyes closed. He knew that he wanted to spill it all out, everything. Yet he held still, hoping that it would not come. It no longer now depended upon his debating if he should tell or not, but upon how much strength he had. He opened his eyes and looked at her. Oh, God, such trust in that face…How could he tell her? He pulled himself free and stood up in the darkness of the room, his back to her.

“Lionel, get back in bed! You have a temperature,” she wailed.

She caught his arm and led him back to the bed; he allowed himself to be guided by her, his eyes glazed and unseeing. She placed her cool palm on his forehead.

“You're burning with fever…”

“Naw,” he groaned.

“You haven't eaten—”

“I don't care.”

“You've got to take care of yourself—You're worried, that's all. Listen, tramping about the streets in the cold and brooding, what's the good of it? You must take care of yourself. You hear? You stood up to those cops fine, you talked wonderfully…Then afterwards you start
fretting and you break down…You mustn't let them get you like that, Lionel. Now, more than ever, you've got to be strong. We have no gang with us now. No Party…We're alone, and that means we've got to fight, fight, and be careful…”

He stiffened. He'd scream if she kept expressing her faith and belief in him. He tried to pull away from the tug of her hand.

“Lionel, look at me—Look at me—I love you,” she whispered.

He shot from the bed and stood up in the darkness of the room, trembling; his body was hot yet he felt cold.

“Lionel, what's wrong?”

“Everything,” he breathed.

“Can't you tell me? Did somebody bother you?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

He was still, his body rigid. Then he felt his lips forming sounds, heard words issuing from his mouth.

“Eva, I killed Hilton—”

“What?”

“I killed Hilton…”

“Lionel, get to bed,” she said sternly. “You've got a fever.”

“No; listen—” He still did not turn around. “My name's not Lionel Lane. It's Cross Damon. Oh, God, what have I done? I've killed and killed and killed…Eva, save me; help to save me—”

He felt her arms about him, tugging at him.

“Get in bed, darling,” she begged. “You're sick.”

She pushed him back to the bed and held him again in her arms.

“Eva, you must hear—”

“No; don't think, don't talk,” she cautioned. “Lie still! Be quiet, honey.”

“I
must
talk,” he said. “I must tell you—Darling, I killed your husband—It was I who struck both Gil and Herndon down—”

“Oh,
God
, Lionel,” she cried. “You're delirious!”

“No, no; I'm not,” he cried to her. “I killed Gil—I, I killed him, Eva. And Herndon, too. And Hilton—Just now, I did. And in Chicago, I killed a man—Oh, God—Eva, don't leave me now. I need you, I need somebody—”

He clutched at her arms and she held him tightly, like one holding a child.

“Don't leave me, Eva—Never leave me—Promise me you won't—Promise me,” he begged.

“I promise,” she whispered.

“If you leave me, it's all over,”

“I'll never leave you, Lionel.”

What was this? She was not listening to what he was telling her. She thought him delirious. Mad. Wild.

“Eva, don't you realize what I've been telling you? I,
I
killed Gil, Herndon, Hilton, and another man…My hands are wet with blood…”

She stopped his mouth with her hand, and then he felt tears, hot and copious, falling on to his face.

“Hush, darling,” she said. “You're sick.”

She pulled away from him and he lay there, his eyes closed, trying to realize that she did not believe him. He heard her moving softly about behind him, and then he was paralyzed with surprise when he felt her soft, naked body coming into bed and nestling close to him. Her warm arms went about his neck and she pulled his face to hers and he felt her lips clinging to his. Good God, he had told her his horror and had expected to hear her scream and run from him; and now she was surrendering herself, giving her gift to the man she loved, hoping
to cure the distraction of his mind by placing a benediction upon his senses. For a moment he was rigid, not knowing what to do. Then the warmth of her reached him, stole into his blood; and he was still, tasting the sweet pull of her clinging lips on his. He sighed, lay still for a moment, then caught her face in his hands and kissed her while there whirled above his head a knowledge of what was happening. She had thought his confession was an eruption of delirium; she had been moved to pity by his state of wild anxiousness. What he had tried to tell her had sounded so fantastic that she had with swift instinct rejected it as unreal, as a figment of a fevered imagination, the irresponsible babblings of a sick man. She would never be able to comprehend that he was a lost soul, spinning like a stray atom far beyond the ken of her mind to conceive. The extremity of his state had unveiled Eva, had made hope and trust rise in her for the first time since her deception. She was with him, close to him, mingling the warmth of her flesh with his, but she did not understand who or what he was or what he had done, could not believe it when she heard it. Yet he needed her. And then he turned to her and took her in his arms and had her so slowly and so intensely and with such a mounting frenzy of sensual greed that they both died the little death together and he lay staring into the dark with wide, vacant eyes, afraid even to think. And then, quietly, as his sense of reality returned, as he felt himself again in the room on the bed with her, something close to a prayer rose up from his heart…Show me a way not to hurt her…Not to let her know…I don't want to kill this sweet girl clinging to me…I should not have let it happen…And his despair seeped from his hot and tired eyes in large, salty tears…

Cross now groped his way through uneasy hours under the protection of the fragile shadow of Eva's colossal illusion. This girl was loving him not for his crimes but for virtues that he did not and could not possess. His happiness was now a kind of terror and he strove in vain to banish from his consciousness the realization that he epitomized the quintessence of all that which Eva most deeply loathed and would flee to avoid. He would clamp his teeth in sterile fury when he saw that though Eva was his kind of woman, he was not her kind of man nor would he ever be. But he begged the grace of nameless powers to let him linger with her for yet awhile before he went to grapple with the dark tides of his destiny. During the next few hours they moved around each other with slow and muted tenderness. He knew that she was unaware that he was cringing in anxiety lest she ask the meaning of those horrible syllables that had been on his confessionally loosened tongue, and he knew that when she did ask him, he would have to push his words past a choking throat and tell her. He ached with anxiety as he watched the flame of love and trust glowing in her eyes, for it was he who had lit that fire with his unintentional deception, and he knew that when she finally gained a knowledge of what he was, it would be snuffed out; and his heart shuddered in fear of her going back into her feminine house and slamming the door on life forever.