The Outsider (24 page)

“Okay, Mrs. Turner. What's bothering you?”

“I'm not trying to be fresh—But if you call me Mrs. Turner again, I'll
scream
!” she protested in a sob of complaint.

“All right, Hattie,” he relented. “I'll help you if I can.”

His words produced a convulsion in her and she clapped her hands to her face and wept. He wanted to console her, but he was afraid of his gesture committing him to more than he knew. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dressing gown and looked off.

“What do you want to tell me?” he asked her gently.

“Maybe I've waited too late to talk,” she stammered. “And I don't know what to do…” A tremor went through her. “I'm scared I'm being cheated. Oh, why was I such a fool to believe them?” Her face darkened.
“If they cheat me, I'll
kill
them!” A crazy light lit her eyes.

“Who are you talking about?” Cross asked.

“They
call
themselves my friends.” She was composed now and talked more coherently. “I'm a widow. My husband died six months ago. He left me this house. It's all I got…He was a good provider and took care of me. Now, I'm alone, and it's hell when you're a woman and all alone. I'm hounded by men running to me but for one reason: to steal this house. Every time I get to know a man, he's up to some lousy trick…I didn't know people were so
bad
.” She wagged her head and swallowed, overcome with self-pity. “About a month ago I met two men. One's a real estate broker, Mr. White. The other's a plain-clothes detective, Mr. Mills…”

A wave of voluptuous dread engulfed him. He stood, flexed for action. She was pulling a crude confidence trick by pretending to be in trouble and winning his sympathy and trapping him for the police! She noticed his agitation.

“What's the matter? Oh, you'll like Mr. Mills—”

“He's on the police force?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Where's he now?”

“At home, I guess,” she answered vaguely.

If she was really trying to deceive him, would she talk about a detective like that?

“How did you meet these men?”

She hung her head bashfully.

“Come on; tell me. How did you meet 'em?” he demanded.

“In a bar,” she answered coyly; it had been modesty that had made her hesitate. “Well, they told me how to make some quick money—”

“You mean you're building a printing plant here?” he asked her; she was beginning to amuse him now.

“Oh, no!
That
would be wrong!” she protested, her eyes widening with shock. “They know an old, blind, sick man who wants to sell a $100,000 apartment building. Now, I can get an $8,000 mortgage on my house and they can persuade this old, sick man to sell me his building for $8,000—It's a beauty; I've seen it.” Her eyes shone with hope.

“But why's he selling a $100,000 building for $8,000?” Cross asked, trying to make sense out of the picture.

“That's the point,” she explained eagerly. “You see, they're friends of the old man. He's about to die; he's blind and'll sign what they ask. I'll get the $8,000 and they'll draw up the papers and the old man'll sign 'em. He'll be dead in a month and can't make trouble, see? Now, that's an attractive proposition to me.” She added in a tone of regret: “Of course, I'm giving fifty percent to Mr. White and Mr. Mills.”

“Hattie, you're joking,” Cross accused her.

“But it's true,” she swore. “Ask Mr. White or Mr. Mills if you don't believe me.”

“I doubt if they'll talk to me,” he said.

“That may be,” she admitted. “They're
very
high class men.”

Every time he thought that he was going mad, he met somebody else who had already gone mad, but in a nice, sweet sort of way.

“Don't touch a deal like that,” he advised her.

“Why not? I'm alone and I need security—”

“But you've got your home—”

“But I want to
do
something! I don't read and I'm tired of listening to jazz all day.” She brought her life's problem to him.

“Hattie,” he spoke in a stilted manner to force the absurdity of her story upon her, “who's this sick, blind fool who signs strange papers, who's giving you a $100,000 apartment building for $8,000, and who's dying in a month so you'll have things clear?”

“You don't understand,” she chided him gently; she was debating if Cross was intelligent enough to grasp the subtlety of her project. “It's not quite fair for the old man,” she conceded. “But it's legal. Mr. White says so.”

For days he had crept about the house with loaded gun, shaking in fear—all because of a woman with fantasies like these!

“How old are you, Hattie?”

“What's that got to do with it?” she asked indignantly.

Cross knew the game: the sick, blind man, together with White and Mills, had chosen Hattie who didn't like reading and who was tired of jazz as their sucker. Cross studied her full breasts, her plump thighs, her smooth arms…Her husband had protected her, but no one else ever would. Men would either want her money or her body, and no doubt they would take both.

“Do any of your friends know White or Mills?”

“No. They don't associate with people like me, Mr. Jordan.”

“Hattie, you ever see Mills in the company of his fellow officers?”

“No,” she answered readily. “He works alone on very important cases.” What Cross was driving at finally hit her and she demanded: “Say, you act like Mr. Mills isn't a real person, like I'm making this up—”

“Oh, Mr. Mills is real, all right. Too real. Hattie, have you a lawyer?”

“No,” she laughed gaily. “Mr. White calls 'em
liars
!”

“Hattie, these men are trying to cheat you,” Cross told her.

Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand to smother words she wanted to speak but did not want to hear.

“You
think
so?”

“They're
crooks
!”

“Oh, Mr. Jordan, how
could
they be?”

He ought to leave right now and find another room. Was it his business if this woman wanted to lose her money? If he saved her now, she'd not rest until she had found others to deceive her. Hers was the kind of personality that bred the desire to cheat, and he was certain that, despite her tears of protest, she loved her role. Then why should he hinder her? If Hattie's life was what living was without the screen of civilization, why did he not leave her with it? But it was not for Hattie that he was worrying. What was happening to her made a mockery of his conception of life, offended him and he wanted to stop it.

“Don't see these men anymore,” he told her. “And don't give them one damn red cent of your money, see?”

Hattie's mouth gaped open; she stood abruptly, looked wildly about her, then flopped weakly on the bed, shaking with sobs.

“I don't know,” she wailed.

“Now, don't cry,” he told her. “Everything's all right.”

“Men are so
awful
,” she lamented.

“They tried to take you,” he told her. “Now, you're wise. Break with 'em.”

She turned on the bed and looked at him with stricken eyes and he wondered if she had already given them her money. Then suddenly he knew; she had given
them her money and did not want to tell him, hoping that before she did, he would tell her something that would redeem the horror and undo her actions!

“What have I done?” she begged him meekly.

“You
didn't
give them your money?”

Her weeping took on a quality of laughter, high-pitched and painful. Cross wanted to kick her. How could anyone be so avariciously dumb? And could he help her now?

“You gave them the money? A check?”

“No,” she gasped in reply. “Cash.”

“But why cash? We could stop the payment of a check.”

“They said deals went quicker with cash. They wanted to close the deal before the old man died…”

Had she a right to be alive? Was anybody bound to respect a creature like this?

“How old are you, Hattie?”

“You asked me before,” she complained. “Why do you want to know? I'm twenty-nine.”

She began talking in a whimper, reliving the events of the morning. “We took a taxi to Mr. White's office and signed the mortgage, then we went to my bank and got a certified check and I cashed it. We stopped and had a drink—”

“Who paid for the taxi?”

“Me. Why?”

“And the drinks?”

“Me. They said I was making the biggest profit. That's the way men do it. I want to be business-like and I did what they said.” She dabbed softly at her eyes. “What can I
do
now?”

“Hattie, I want to ask you something and you must answer truthfully. I want you to understand what you've done, see?” he argued gently.

“Yes,” she answered, looking at him with dark, placid eyes.

“You were trying to steal a building, weren't you?”

“But it was
legal
!” she defended herself.

“You're lying!” he shouted at her. “I asked you to tell the truth!”

She did not answer; it was odd how respectable she really was. The crime did not offend her; but the idea of it did.

“You don't have to talk to me,” he said, rising. “I've been thinking of moving—”

She whirled and clutched him with both of her hands.

“Don't leave me! I need you, God knows—Don't be mad at me. I'll do anything you
say
!” She collapsed on the bed again.

“Hattie, you turned thief and while you were trying to steal from the blind man, they stole your $8,000. It's an old trick,” he explained.

“I'll lose my
house
,” she wailed. “What must I
do
?”

“Tell the police at once—”

“And I'll get my money back?”

“I doubt it. They're not so foolish to keep that money. That so-called blind man's got it. Mills and White are watching you to see if you get wise. When are you seeing Mills and White?”

“They're coming tonight.”

“I'll talk to them,” he said.

She rested quietly against him on the bed and he could feel the heavy, slow beat of her heart. He would try to scare those crooks into giving her her money back, and then he would move at once. He feared getting involved; it was possible that something would go wrong and he would be questioned by the police and his identity would come out. And under no conceivable conditions could he allow his fingerprints to be taken; if
that happened, he was lost, for his prints were on file in the Post Office in Chicago and in Washington.

The doorbell rang and Hattie locked her arms about his neck.

“That's them now,” she whispered.

“Let's go down,” he said.

She rose and went to the mirror and began rearranging her hair, tucking stray curls into their accustomed niches. She turned to him and asked coyly:

“Do I look all right?”

“You're wonderful,” he assured her.

“You're so kind to me,” she said with eyes round with gratitude. “Come on.”

He followed her down the stairs and was standing behind her when she opened the door.

“Good evening, my lady,” a tall black man called.

“How are you, Mrs. Turner?” a short brown man boomed.

“Come in,” Hattie said. When the men were in the hallway, Hattie gestured toward the tall black man and said:

“Mr. Jordan, this is Mr. White.”

“How are you?” Cross asked.

“Fine,” White said, eyeing Cross intently. “You're a friend of Mrs. Turner?”

“Sort of,” Cross said, turning to the brown man. “And you're Mr. Mills, I take it?”

“That's right,” Mills came out with a hearty voice; but his eyes were cold and watchful.

“Come into the living room and sit down, won't you?” Hattie asked them.

“We'd like to speak to you alone, if it's all right, Mrs. Turner,” White said, smiling at Hattie.

“But Mr. Jordan wants to ask you some questions about my business,” Hattie told them.

“I'm looking after her, gentlemen,” Cross said.

There was a split-second silence. The eyes of White and Mills were directly on the face of Cross.

“Sure, sure,” White said suddenly, entering the living room.

“Why not?” Mills said, following White in.

Cross knew that he had two tough men on his hands and he had no stomach for the job. White and Mills sat, their overcoats still on, their hats on their knees, their eyes never straying from Cross's face. Hattie stood in the doorway, demure and anxious. Cross lingered in the center of the room, cleared his throat and waded in.

“Let's get to the point,” he began. “I'm wise to the game. You want to cough up her money and call it quits?”

“Who in hell are you?” White shot at him.

“Does it matter?” Cross countered.

“Are you interested in real estate?” Mills asked him.

Cross knew that Mills was asking if he would be
their
partner in cheating Hattie.

“No deals,” Cross said. “Can we settle this between ourselves?” He found himself referring obliquely to the police long before he had wanted to. “Where's the money you took from her?”

White turned to Hattie and asked:

“Mrs. Turner, are you letting
him
horn in on this? He's after money, that's all! Is this the man who walked in one morning with a suitcase? Haven't we been fair with you? Are you out of your senses?”

Hattie blinked and Cross knew that she was already influenced by White's words.

“I don't want her money,” Cross said. “I advised her to get a lawyer. Then she can make any deal she likes. Where's her money?”