The Outsider (45 page)

His words seemed to have some effect, for Hilton was now a little easier in attitude.

“Just the same, I'd like to know more about that,” Hilton said.

“Sure,” Cross said. “Whenever you like. I've no secrets.”

The hell with him, Cross thought. Only one thing worried him about Hilton. Would the man try to poison his relations with Eva? Anger rose slowly in him. He would fight for Eva. He tried to catch her eye, but she was sunk in deep thought, staring blankly before her. He longed to be at her side when she was with Houston, but he knew that that was impossible. What was to be his relationship to her now that Gil was dead? Did it mean that he would have to move from the apartment? After the police had gone, he would talk to her about it. He would tell her, openly and frankly, that he did not ever want to leave her.

Farrel came to the door.

“Mrs. Blount,” he called.

Eva rose and followed Farrel into the hallway. Hilton at once closed the kitchen door and turned to Cross.

“What are your plans, Lane?”

“I have no plans,” Cross told him.

“Do you intend to stay here?”

“I don't know.”

“If you don't, who does?”

“I'm going to speak to Eva about it,” Cross said.

“When?”

“Look, I can't very well bother her
now
,” Cross protested.

Hilton paced the floor. This man is after me, but why…? He thought of Bob's squirming on the floor, weeping; he thought of Bob's dodging the Immigration authorities and again he was drifting into that state of danger where he was judging others with supreme and final contempt. What right had Hilton to say
who could live and who could not live? Damn him…Hilton must have sensed his mood, for he came close to Cross and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You're okay, Lane,” he said. “We just have to be careful, that's all. But I must see you sometime,
soon
. As
soon
as this is over.”

“Sure,” Cross said.

At some time in the future, he had a score to settle with this little god and it filled him with anger to think of it; then he was angry with himself for getting angry. I must keep cool, he told himself. Farrel came to the door and beckoned to Hilton who strode out with defiance in his eyes and manner. A moment later Cross could hear Hilton's strident voice rising in vehement argument with Houston. Why didn't the damn fool let well enough alone? If he kept hammering at Houston, Houston would, in the end, start wondering about the case, start trying to find new theories he could make fit into it. He strained to hear what was being said in the living room, but could not make out any words. He looked at Menti and Menti smiled.

“He's tough, that Hilton,” Menti said, nodding approvingly.

“Yes,” Cross agreed.

“Eva likes you,” Menti said.

“She's a wonderful person,” Cross said.

Cross thought that Menti was a weak man who followed Hilton's lead. Could he placate Hilton a little through Menti? He would try.

“Hilton seems suspicious of me,” Cross said. “Is it because I know Houston?”

“Well,” Menti drawled, pulling at his ear and smiling with embarrassment, “knowing cops is not exactly in our line, you know.”

“But I've no relations with this man,” Cross defended
himself. “I met him simply and honestly in the dining car of a train some weeks ago.” He recalled that Bob had witnessed their meeting and he added: “Look, I remember now…Bob saw it happen—”

“Bob? Bob Hunter?”

“Yes. You know Bob?”

“Let me give you a tip,” Menti said, jerking down the corners of his mouth. “From now on, it's not wise to give the name of Bob Hunter as a reference in the Party.”

“Why?”

“He's a counter-revolutionary,” Menti said simply.

Cross blinked. He had blundered. He felt that he had become entangled in moving shadows.

“You're new to all this,” Menti told him kindly. “I believe you're solid. But Hilton trusts nothing and nobody but the Party.”

Cross decided to beg and wheedle a bit; he wanted to remain near Eva and the Party had the power to take her from him.

“Look, I've been in connection with the Party for only twenty-four hours,” he argued. “I've worked for Hilton, so far…I'd like to set his mind straight. What does he think I'm after?”

“What
are
you after?” Menti demanded.

That shot caught Cross squarely unawares. “You distrust me too?”

“We distrust everybody,” Menti said.

“Why do you distrust me?”

“We don't know you.”

“All right,” Cross said, feeling trapped. “Tell me what I should do in order to be trusted by the Party—”

“You have to belong to the Party,” Menti said.

“I'm going to join—”

“I don't mean that.”

“What
do
you mean, then?”

Menti chuckled cynically, scratched his chin, and looked quizzically at Cross.

“You have to
belong
to the Party,” Menti said.

Then Cross understood. The Party would have to have some hold on him before it could trust him; the Party would have to own him morally. And Menti had spoken of it as casually as if he had been reciting the number of inches in a foot…

“Do you
belong
to the Party?” Cross asked softly.

“Yes. I've no life except that of the Party. I have no wish, no dream, no will except that of the Party,” Menti confessed.

Cross stared in disbelief. Menti had willingly submitted himself to be ravaged and violated by others. And Cross felt that he could never surrender that completely to anybody or anything.

“I don't understand,” Cross murmured.

“I know you don't,” Menti said indulgently.

“But suppose the Party told you to do something you didn't want to do?”

“That's unthinkable,” Menti said stoutly.

“Even unto death?”

“Even unto death and beyond,” Menti maintained.

“Beyond?” Cross echoed. “Do you believe in a beyond?”

“In a sense, yes,” Menti answered. “If, after I'm dead, the Party wanted to make use of me, wanted to place some interpretation upon my life or death, upon any of my actions for organizational or propaganda purposes, it has the right.”

“But, Menti, don't you feel that you've got some value that's yours and yours alone?”

“In the eyes of the Party, no.”

They both started at the vicious slamming of a door
down the hallway. Hilton stomped into the kitchen, his face distorted with anger.

“That goddamn sonofabitch,” he railed.

Farrel came into the door, beckoned to Menti and said: “You're next.”

Hilton took hold of Menti's arm and hissed: “Tell him to go to hell for me!”

“Take it easy, guy,” Farrel warned.

Alone with Cross, Hilton changed his attitude quickly.

“When you go in there, stick to your story, see?”

“You can depend on me,” Cross assured him.

“We'll see.”

“Look,” Cross could no longer hold himself in, “you make me feel that I'm guilty of something. You don't trust me. Okay. Distrust breeds distrust. Now that I feel that you don't trust me, I wonder if I ought to trust you—”

“You want to change your story to the D.A.?” Hilton asked.

“Hell, no! Why should I? My talking to the D.A. has nothing to do with it. But, hell, man, don't make me feel I'm dirt under your feet. I don't like it.”

Hilton grinned and relented.

“Lane, there's only one thing I want to ask of you—”

“What's that?”

“Take care of Eva.”

“I'll do my best.”

“I
know
you will,” Hilton said and went abruptly out of the kitchen and out of the apartment.

What had he meant? Cross's hands twitched. I'd like to ram that bastard's head against a wall, he muttered to himself.

A few moments later Farrel tapped him on the shoulder.

“You're the last.”

When Cross entered the living room, Houston was sitting smoking a cigarette.

“There you are,” he greeted Cross. “Sit down.”

As Cross sat Houston rose and began to pace the floor, chuckling, now and then tossing a glance at Cross. Had Houston changed his mind? Was he about to spring a trap?

“Tell me, Lane, what do you make out of all this?”

“I hardly know, really, Mr. Houston.”

“I wonder how many men in this land refuse to acknowledge the laws of our society?” Houston mused out loud.

“That would be hard to find out, wouldn't it?” Cross asked.

“Yes. And that's just why I'm asking,” Houston continued. “Farrel, like the Medical Examiner, keeps mumbling about how somebody could have come upon those two men while they were fighting and killed both of them. That's possible, but highly improbable. What kind of motive could such a killer have? That's what's puzzling me.”

Cross was silent. Houston had returned to this dangerous ground. Why? He had to watch himself now. If he disputed such a theory, Houston might think that he was afraid of it. But if he acted casually, nonchalantly about it, would not that make Houston think that he was disinterested, had no emotional connections with it?

“I thought you had accepted the idea of their having killed each other,” Cross said, simulating surprise.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Houston mused. “I'm just playing with this idea. Now, such a killer could not be either a Communist or a Fascist, could he?”

“Why not?” Cross asked.

“Why would a Communist want to kill another Communist in the presence of a Fascist?”

“I draw a blank there,” Cross answered.

“And, the other way around, why would a Fascist want to kill a brother Fascist in the presence of a Communist?”

“I couldn't think of a motive.”

Cross thought he saw a way of confusing the issue and he put in quickly: “Suppose a Communist came upon two men fighting…Suppose Blount was killing Herndon and his brother Communist helped Blount finish him off and then killed Blount too?”

“Why?” Houston asked, stopping and staring.

“I don't know,” Cross said. “I'm just exploring possibilities. Now, suppose a friend of Herndon showed up under the opposite circumstances? Suppose he helped to finish off Blount and then killed Herndon—?”

“Why?” Houston demanded again.

“I don't know.”

“I don't know either,” Houston said. “But while we're on this theory of a third man, suppose either Blount or Herndon killed one another and a third man came upon the victor and killed him. Why? No, your theory is wrong. If there's anything in a third man showing up, after you left, and joining in this fight—and I doubt this—he'd have to be somebody psychologically akin to either Blount or Herndon and yet some how outside of them. I can't see either a Communist or a Fascist acting in that way.”

“Come to think of it, I'm inclined to agree with you,” Cross said, trembling at how close to danger he was; only a shadow of a thought separated him from being considered guilty in Houston's eyes.

Houston paced the floor again, sucking at his cigarette.

“Such a killer, if he existed, would have to, for psychological reasons, be akin to both of them, wouldn't he? At least he'd have to
understand
them…”

“Why?” Cross asked, smiling.

“Only a brother absolutist would have any motives for killing them on purely ideological grounds,” Houston went on. “Let us suppose a normal person came upon those two men fighting…What would he do? He would do what you did when you looked into the room. You called the police, or you had Hilton call the police. Now, we've checked the time. It
is
possible that after you left the door, somebody did go into the room and find them fighting. But, in order to kill the two of them on ideological grounds, this killer would have to have the support of a
third
set of ideas…We've checked Herndon's apartment; nothing has been stolen. He had plenty of enemies, but they were nowhere near that apartment last night. Now, who is that
third
man with the
third
set of ideas?”

“And what is that
third
set of ideas?” Cross asked.

“That no ideas are necessary to justify his acts,” Houston stated without hesitation.

Cross felt a spasm go through his body. Yes, at last Houston was on the right track. But such a track did not lead to proof. He gave a gentle laugh to cover his terror.

Houston continued: “Now, let's see. Just for the sake of argument let us say that Blount, a Communist, hence an outlaw like you and me at heart, has his gang, that is, the Party on his side…Now, this Herndon is an outlaw too, but an
old
one. Tradition backs him…When he needs it, he has the law on his side, certain sections of society, money, the owners of property…Now, both of these men feel that it is beneath their dignity to obey the rules and laws made by what they would
choose to call ‘others', see? Now, this strange, dream-killer that lives on neither land nor sea, must be somehow akin to these two men, or he would not suspect that they are laws unto themselves. Only this outside killer who does not as yet exist knows that force and force alone guarantees the safety of these two tyrants. This mythical killer partakes of both their notions of lawlessness. That's what makes it possible for him to kill them…”

“Two questions I'd like to ask,” Cross interposed. “First, why would he partake of their lawlessness? And why do you think that Communist and Fascist ideas are alike?”

“When did I mention
ideas
?” Houston asked scornfully. “Ideas are just so much froth on the top of a mug of beer, my dear boy. Men are inventing ideas every day to justify for themselves and others their actions and needs. What makes these
three
men akin is the identity of the impulses in their hearts—”