“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 bathin
g 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.”
Gingerly, he stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, then paused. No; it was not safe to put the handkerchief in his pocket like that. He withdrew the spotted handkerchief and then pulled forth his clean, freshly-laundered one. Yes, he would wrap the spotted handkerchief in the clean one; in that way, if he happened to pull out his handkerchief, he would not run the risk of dangling the bloody one carelessly in the face of some stranger. He tightly balled the bloody handkerchief and then wrapped the clean one around it, squeezing and crumpling the clean one so that it would look used and natural, so that no one would think that anything was wrong…
He rummaged further in the dresser drawers. Ah—A gun! A .32 and fully loaded…He took it and broke it and emptied the bullets into his palm and pocketed them. Now, he was ready to face Hilton. Where was he? Had he gone to the headquarters of the Communist Party? If he had, why had he not taken the handkerchief with him? Or did he have some other devious idea in mind? Anyway, it seemed that Hilton had not acted against him yet. Well, Hilton had had his chance; he would not act, not now. What a fool he had been! These Communists were so intelligently tricky that it was hard to cope with them. When Hilton came, he would have to be on his guard each second, for the man was dangerous. How calm he had acted this morning! A disciplined man, cold, precise, farseeing, ruthless. Hilton was free of such infantile stupidities as racial hatred; he was no frightened, white American dope worried about a white girl who slept with a colored boy…Hilton was after power and his keeping his mouth shut about Cross’s guilt was but one more step along the road to getting hold of a bright young man whose life he would own and whose talents would serve him in his struggle for power…
Cross looked further in the room and found nothing of interest. He saw a little radio on the night table at the bedside. He looked at his wrist watch; it was nearing five o’clock. Where was Hilton? Had he gone to the police? No; if he had, he certainly would have taken the handkerchief with him as evidence…He sat in a chair near the bed and turned on the radio, softly, and listened to the low, surging beat of jazz music. He kept his hand in his pocket on his gun and waited…
Half an hour later he jerked alert. A key turned with a click in the lock of the door. Cross quickly twirled the knob on the radio, leaving the radio still turned on, going in a soft hum. His hand was on his gun and the gun was jammed deep in his overcoat pocket. The door swung in and Hilton, with a toothpick slanting downward from one corner of his thin lips, came into the room and stopped short, blinking his eyes at the sight of Cross. Hilton’s body twitched as from an electric shock; he rushed to the dresser and yanked open the drawer that had held his .32…How quick the man was, Cross thought. He smiled at Hilton, stepped past him and shut the door to the corridor. Hilton was pawing frantically in the dresser drawer, then he was still for a second. He spun around and faced Cross, his eyes bulging, his hands empty and trembling.
“I’ve got your gun, Hilton,” Cross told him matter-of-factly.
Cross pulled out the .32 with his left hand and at the same time he drew his own .38 with his right.
“Say,” Hilton began in a whisper. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you asking me?” Cross mocked him.
Hilton’s face was grey, his eyes like brown, flat discs of metal. He moved nervously, backing away from Cross one moment and advancing the next, his mouth working spasmodically. Cross could see that he was about to give vent to some sound.
“If you shout, Hilton, I’ll just have to shoot you,” Cross told him, accenting the gravity of his words. “Anything you do to attract attention of other people to this room, will be a sign for me to kill you. Now, man, have some sense. I’m in danger, and I’d not hesitate to shoot, see? I was a fool to underestimate you once, but I’ll not do it twice. You’re clever, intelligent, and I shall treat you as such.”
Cross could almost see the rapid calculations spinning around in Hilton’s b
rain. He had backed off to a wall now and stared at Cross with parted lips; sweat began to gleam on his forehead.
“What do you want, Lane?” Hilton asked.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew what I’d done?” Cross asked.
“What you’d done?” Hilton pretended amazement. “What are you talking about?”
“Quit stalling, Hilton,” Cross said. “Look, I found the handkerchief…You got it out of the incinerator—”
“Oh,” Hilton said, turning pale.
“You knew what I’d done. Why didn’t you tell the cops?”
“Because I was glad that you’d done it,” Hilton said promptly, simply. “It solved a multitude of problems for me. Gil stood between me and one of the most important assignments on the Central Committee. Gil is gone and I’ve already got the job. I’ve wanted Eva for a long time; you freed her…Gil’s death was like a gift dropped from the sky.”
Ah, Cross recalled how Hilton had spoken of Gil last night…But he had not thought that that much hate and cupidity had been behind those casual words!
“And when did you know I’d done it?”
“Your coolness made me suspect you right off,” Hilton explained without a trace of emotion. “I’m not so stupid a white man that I cannot tell the difference between fear and self-possession in a Negro. You were self-possessed. The cops thought you were just another scared darky. Okay, Lane. You got the handkerchief. Let’s make a deal. Let’s be reasonable. You wanted Eva. Well, you got her…Okay. Take off and let’s call it quits—”
“So you think it was to get Eva that I did it?”
“Hell, yes. She’s nuts about you and you’re in love with her,” Hilton said.
“It wasn’t because of Eva,” Cross told him.
“Then what was it?”
“You’ll never know.”
“Another revolutionary group?”
“No.”
“You’re with the police, then?”