“Gil! Oh, God, Gil!” she screamed and ran forward.
Cross could now see the dim outlines of Gil and Herndon lying outstretched on the rug. They were as he had left them, the table leg and the fire poker lying near their right hands, their faces darkened with splotches of blood.
“What’s happened?” Hilton asked in singsong voice.
“Good Christ,” Menti breathed.
“Gil! Gil!” Eva was still screaming, advancing slowly into the room.
Hilton stood without moving, his thin lips hanging open. Eva was now bent over Gil, her hands reaching out as though to touch him, then she closed her eyes and turned her body and leaned weakly against a wall, wailing and sobbing. Cross was observing closely and waiting for questions. Hilton was the first to master himself; he rushed forward, knelt at Gil’s side and felt for his pulse. His eyes lifted to Eva’s face; then he looked at Cross; he stood slowly, turning and looking at Menti. Only later did he glance at Herndon, then kneel and feel for his pulse.
“Help ’im,” Eva begged, staring at Gil as though she expected him to rise and accuse her.
“We better call the police again,” Menti said.
“Better call a doctor,” Cross ventured.
“Naw; wait,” Hilton said, speaking in a vague tone with bated breath, his eyes straying from face to face. “Look, don’t touch anything here…Let’s get upstairs!”
“Get a doctor,” Eva begged. “He’s bleeding…Somebody do something…” She knelt to touch Gil, but Hilton grabbed her arm.
“Gil’s dead, Eva,” Hilton told her softly. “Don’t touch anything.”
“No! No!” Eva screamed, cringed, jammed her fingers against her teeth and sank to the floor. Cross lifted her and held her by her shoulders, conscious that Hilton’s eyes were upon him. As he held Eva he knew that now was beginning the time of his drastic test, a test he did not want, for, if he won it, what had he won? Eva? He had not killed to get her. Hilton was still staring at him; then Hilton turned and walked slowly to the hall door. Menti ran to Hilton and grabbed his arm.
“Hadn’t I better call the Party again?” he asked.
“We haven’t time,” Hilton said. “The police’ll be here any minute now.”
Menti was nonplussed; his eyes narrowed and he stared at Hilton.
“I’m going to call the Party,” he said.
“Take it easy, Menti,” Hilton said with a slow, ironic smile. “This is more complicated than you think. I’m in charge here. I spoke to Blimin over the phone and he told me to take complete responsibility. This is political…”
“I see,” Menti said, dropping his eyes.
Hilton was now staring at Cross with eyes round with astonishment. And Cross, as he watched Hilton, knew that this was the man he had to cope with, and a slow hatred for Hilton began to surge up in him. He still kept his arm about Eva who was trembling and sagging against him. Why was Hilton staring at him so? Was he already suspecting him? Hilton was a member of the upper circles of the Party and he was no fool. So free were the minds of these Communists that one could not predict what motives would prompt their actions. Cross held himself alert, every atom of him striving supremely to be aware of what was taking place.
“We’ve no time to lose,” Hilton told them roughly. “Everybody get upstairs at once. Stay in the apartment ’til I come.”
“No, no,” Eva sobbed. “Help Gil—”
“Go upstairs, Eva,” Hilton said. “It’s too late.”
Cross led Eva into the hallway and struggled with her up the steps; Menti helped him, but was looking over his shoulder to see what Hilton was doing. When inside the apartment, Eva clutched Menti and begged:
“Can’t something be done, Menti? It’s not too late, is it?”
“Take it easy, Eva,” Menti said. “Hilton’s doing everything…”
Cross eased Eva upon the sofa of the living room and Menti sat next to her, holding her shoulders. Hilton entered a moment later and Cross could see sweat standing on his forehead.
“He should’ve broken that door down,” Menti told Hilton, nodding to Cross.
“No; he did right,” Hilton said. “He’s colored…This thing is complicated…”
“Oh,” Menti breathed.
Hilton rushed out of the room and Cross could hear him putting the night-chain on the front door. Hilton returned and knelt at Eva’s side.
“Eva,” he began in a hurried but composed voice, “can you understand me? Are you fit to be questioned? We don’t have much time—”
“But maybe he’s not dead, Jack,” Eva whimpered. “Try…Try to do something…”
“They’re both dead, Eva,” Hilton explained calmly.
“God in Heaven,” Eva sobbed.
“Eva,” Hilton spoke sternly. “We’ve no time for that…You must get hold of yourself. You’re in the Party. You must rise above all display of personal feeling. There’s something of decisive importance to the memory of Gil that I must discuss with you. You hear me?”
“Yes,” Eva breathed, trying to still the shaking of her body; she turned wild eyes to Hilton and nodded her head.
“Gil’s been killed by a Fascist,” Hilton explained. “He was carrying out Party orders when he was killed; he fell in line of duty…That must be understood. This is a Party matter. The bourgeois press’ll try to twist those facts downstairs, and we must see that they don’t. I’m sure that Gil, if he were with us now, would agree emphatically to that.”
“Yes,” Eva said, nodding her head slowly; she glanced at Cross and buried her face in her hands.
Cross grasped the approach; it was as he had hoped it would be. But they had not questioned him yet; that was to come.
“Now, Eva,” Hilton was saying, “tell me quickly what happened…”
“Ask Lionel…I only saw him beating Gil,” she said.
“You were not in the room at all?” Hilton asked Eva.
“No…” Eva sighed.
Hilton rose and faced Cross.
“Were you in the room?”
“No,” Cross said. “I was looking in through the door. He came at me, hit me with the poker—Right here—”
“Start from the beginning and tell me quickly,” Hilton urged.
Cross sketched the story briefly, telling the facts just as they had happened, but omitting that he had been in the room.
“God, I’m sorry about Gil,” he ended up.
“This is war,” Hilton said. “We must expect casualties. Gil was brave.” He studied Cross. “I saw you at Bob’s last night, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lionel Lane.”
“You’ve got to help us with this thing,” Hilton said. “You were Gil’s friend…”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Listen to me carefully, all of you,” Hilton began. “The important thing here is who died first. Get it?”
“What do you mean?” Menti asked.
“If it’s proved that Herndon died first, then they’ll want to brand Gil as a murderer,” Hilton explained swiftly.
“But Eva saw Herndon alive with a gun…He was after her,” Cross told him.
“Yes; I know that,” Hilton said. “But when you looked into the door and saw Herndon beating Gil…Gil was not able to defend himself, was he? Herndon was killing him…Do you understand? It’s important.”
Menti approached Cross and caught hold of his arm.
“Look, guy, Gil was killed by that Fascist,” Menti said. “Do you understand that?”
“Gil died fighting for your people, for you,” Hilton reminded him.
“I know that,” Cross said, simulating bafflement; he knew what they were driving at, but he did not want to seem to grasp it too quickly. He squinted his eyes and looked at the floor; he felt like laughing out loud. They were now begging him to believe something that he was praying that they would believe!
Cross looked at Eva. Though she had stopped sobbing,
Cross could see that she could not quite follow what was being said. Cross felt that now was the time to cooperate with the Party, to demonstrate class consciousness, to cast his solidarity with the revolution. He nodded his head, looking slowly from Hilton to Menti.
“When I looked through the doorway, I saw Herndon with his foot on Gil’s chest—He was hitting Gil—With the poker—I don’t know how many times he hit ’im—Then Eva came down and Herndon saw us. He ran us back upstairs with the fire poker…”
“Yes,” Eva sighed.
“And Gil couldn’t move when you looked into that door?” Hilton demanded.
“No, he was out, unconscious, it seems to me…”
Hilton turned to Eva.
“And you saw Herndon after Lionel was up here? He was coming to get into the apartment, hunh? You ran back in and shut the door, didn’t you, Eva? He had his gun?”
“Yes,” she said.
“That is proof,” Hilton said.
Cross wondered if Eva really believed that…Her sense of guilt was making her paint a picture that was helping him!
“Lionel, you just tell the cops what you saw; stick to your story,” Menti said. “Cops are your enemies, boy. Look at what they have done to your people…Don’t forget the lynchings…No matter what they do to you, say nothing but the truth; you hear? Gil gave his life for you. Herndon miscalculated; he thought he could scare Gil…When Herndon killed Gil, he was really killing you; you understand?”
“I understand,” Cross answered.
“You better call those cops again,” Menti said.
Hilton left and a moment later Cross heard him dialing the telephone. Menti stood looking at Cross and Eva, and Cross could guess what was going through the man’s mind. Menti was hoping that Eva would be able to keep him in line, keep him loyal to the Party; and no doubt that same idea was in the back of Hilton’s mind.
“Poor girl,” Menti said to Cross, nodding toward Eva. “We owe it to her to protect the name of Gil.”
“You can depend on me,” Cross assured him; the corners of his mouth twitched, for he was wondering just what they would depend upon him for: to lie for the Party or to try to win Eva? And, back of it all, he was protecting his own wild despair of having surrendered to his pride to the point of having killed…
Hilton returned to the room absentmindedly puffing at a cigarette. His bony, ascetic face was tensely concentrated. Cross marveled at the self-possession of this man who, twenty-four hours ago, had mercilessly reduced Bob’s enthusiasm for organizing to a quivering heap of whimpering flesh, and Cross was certain that no regretful memories or stings of remorse lingered on in Hilton’s mind as he now coldly grappled with this new crisis. Men like Hilton did not spend their days scheming how to get hold of dollars; they worked at organizing and exploiting the raw stuff of human emotions. In their being close to the common impulses of men, in their cynical acceptance of the cupidities of the human heart, in their frank recognition of outlandish passions they were akin to priests. Now that he had killed Gil and had elected to remain near Eva, this man was his adversary, an adversary who played a game whose stakes held nothing less than life and death…Cross fought feebly against an intellectual pride that was rising in him and making him want to cope with Hilton, to show him that he and his kind did not possess a monopoly of knowledge about the emotional nature of man. And again Cross was dismayed at himself for contracting the ailment he hated. To fight Hilton meant fighting Hilton on Hilton’s own ground, just as he had had to kill Gil and Herndon on their own ground, and that in itself was a defeat, a travesty of the impulse that had first moved him…Was all action doomed to this kind of degradation? How did one get around that? Or maybe you couldn’t get around it? Perhaps he was staring right now at the focal point of modern history: if you fought men who tried to conquer you in terms of total power you too had to use total power and in the end you became what you tried to defeat…
Hilton was restless, chronically ill at ease, shifting from foot to foot, as if he feared that if he stood still he would commit some violent act. There was about his face and eyes that same impression of intolerable strain that had been so noticeable to Cross last night at Bob’s. Here was a human instrument that had placed the total capacities of its life completely at the disposal of the Party…Cross could feel that Hilton, at this very moment, was pondering some question concerning him, for Hilton’s wary eyes were fixed upon his face. Finally Hilton said to Cross:
“Come into the kitchen a moment.”
“Sure.”
Menti was talking to Eva now in low, consoling tones and Cross left her to trail behind Hilton. When they were inside the kitchen, Hilton shut the door and turned to Cross. He smiled and asked:
“How’s she taking it?”
“As you see,” Cross answered, on guard.
“You think we ought to get somebody to be with her?”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” He thought the question odd, for Hilton had shown no concern about Eva’s state until now. “She can take care of herself. She shows little of what’s going on in her.”
“That’s what I’m scared of,” Hilton said in a tone of amused wonder. “She might even be glad that Gil is dead when she’s over the shock. Gil was a first-class sonofabitch, if ever there was one. He was an absolutely cold fish whom I tried always to avoid, if I could…” He caught hold of Cross’s arm and squeezed it. “You’re not so bourgeois that speaking the truth about the dead bothers you…”
“Hell, no,” Cross said; he was genuinely surprised. What was the man getting at?
“Gil was snobbish to the point of inciting murder, really,” Hilton went on, smiling wryly. “Frankly, I’ve no sympathy for him. I’m a Communist and a dead man, so far as I’m concerned, is just so much cold meat.” He chuckled uneasily. “He never liked me. I’m just an ex-school teacher, but Gil’s father was a 1905’er…His real name was Bernstein. He grew up in the Bronx with the air of revolution in his home and it always made him feel that he was of the red elite. He hit at me several times politically, but I dodged him. He was widely hated in the Party.”
“I didn’t know that,” Cross said. Why’s he telling me this?
“And Eva’s a cold one too,” he went on in a tone of voice that told Cross that he was now getting to his point. “There was no love lost between Gil and Eva…Don’t kid yourself. In the Party, we know things.”
Hilton looked at Cross curiously. He’s worried about Eva and he’s wondering how much I know…He decided not to tell Hilton that he knew Eva’s marriage had been arranged by the Party, and that Eva had been in revolt, had been seething with hatred and despair.
“She knows a lot about the Party, but Gil was her only real link to us,” Hilton pursued his theme. His lips moved without emitting words.
“Have you heard her say anything against the Party?” he asked finally.
Cross decided at once that he would defend Eva: their interests were identical.
“Never.” He reflected that he was a newcomer and his word would not mean much. “She’s never spoken an anti-Party word—In fact, I’ve asked her about political issues, but she’d never talk. Of course, you know that I’m not yet a member of the Party…”
“She likes colored people,” Hilton said. He hastened to add: “I’m not saying that in a nasty way. She does. Tell me, do you think she trusts you?”
Cross understood at last. Hilton was asking him to watch over Eva! And he was longing to do just that, but not for Hilton’s or the Party’s sake. And, no doubt, in the living room Menti was hinting to Eva to keep an eye on Cross…
“I don’t know,” Cross said cautiously.
“From what I see of her reactions, I think she does,” Hilton said with a sly smile.
He was angry, but he hid his feelings. He sensed that at some time in the past Hilton must have made advances to Eva and had been repulsed; and now, in the interests of the Party, he was giving her up. What a man…! Cross thought.
“W
hy aren’t you a member of the Party?”
“Well, I just met Gil and Eva last night.”
“That’s long enough. You are a Negro and you’ve an instinct for this sort of thing. I don’t mean a racial instinct; it’s a socially conditioned instinct for dissimulation which white Americans have bred in you, and you’ve had to practice it in order to survive. Watching and coping with the racially charged behavior of white Americans are a part of your learning how to live in this country. Look, every day in this land some white man is cussing out some defenseless Negro. But that white bastard is too stupid in intelligence and deficient in imagination to realize that his actions are being duplicated a million times in a million other spots by other whites who feel hatred for Negroes just like he does; therefore, he is too blind to see that this daily wave of a million tiny assaults acts to build up a vast reservoir of resentment in Negroes. At night at home Negroes discuss this bitterly. But the next morning, smiling, they show up on their jobs, swearing that they love white people…Why? You know the answer. They have to live, eat, have a roof over their heads…So they collaborate with people who they feel are their sworn enemies…White America has built up something in you that can help the Party now. Defend yourself against these cops who are coming, and, if you do, you are defending the Party and your own interests at the same time. If you are honest in your heart, you cannot deny the Party. What about it, Lionel?”
How astute the man was! The average white American could never drag such simple truths past his lips, and here was a man confessing it with fluent passion. Did the average white American suspect that men like Hilton existed, men who could easily rise above their petty feelings of racial hatred and, instead of allowing the racial phobias of the mob to dominate their lives, could cynically make use of the racially defensive attitudes instilled in Negroes by the ill-treatment meted out by whites, could use such racial consciousnesses as weapons in their own bitterly determined struggle for power by exploiting this racial consciousness in their own behalf? This Hilton knew his country as only a man who had lived in it but not of it could know it. He was a man who, like Houston, like Gil, was an outsider and was free in what he apprehended. But I’m an outsider too, Cross thought musingly. I’ll let him use me for what I want to be used for…