The Outsider (61 page)

Cross looked at Houston and laughed.

“Would
you
?” he countered.

“Will you answer the question?” Houston demanded.

“I decline to answer, sir,” Cross said.

“Why?”

“Because you know the answer.”

“You would kill them, wouldn't you?”

“I decline to answer.”

“Goddammit, I'll break your spirit yet!” Houston raged.

The next face that showed in the doorway made Cross feel that he should have been sitting down, be
cause, for a moment, he felt like falling. It was Gladys. She was smartly dressed. Her face was pale with apprehension and her movements stiff with shock. She was clutching a pocketbook and staring at Cross. Houston looked quickly from Gladys to Cross. Gladys reached out a trembling hand and caught hold of the edge of the desk for support. Cross was furious; he gritted his teeth. What point was there in Houston's dragging Gladys into this? Yes; Houston, too, liked to play at being a little god, liked to ravage the souls of others. That was why he was District Attorney…And Cross vowed that Houston would never see him humbled, unnerved, or weeping. Houston had thought that the sight of Gladys would make him break down and talk. Well, he would not react. He would show Houston that he had miscalculated. Then Cross sucked in his breath sharply; from the open door behind Gladys, being led by Neil, came his three sons, Cross, Jr., Robert, and Peter. He whirled to Houston and saw an expression of sensual excitement upon the hunchback's lean face. That sonofabitch…Cross, Jr., his eyes wide and his lips parted, stared at his father, then clutched his mother's hand, whimpering:

“Mummy, is he
Daddy
for real?”

Cross felt the muscles in his calves aching. Robert and Peter stood close to Gladys, staring; then they, too, began weeping, the flow of their tears being caused more by fear and uneasiness than any understanding.

“Why did Daddy come back, Mummy?” Peter asked.

“It's
not
Daddy,” Robert said emphatically, indignantly, still crying.

Keep still, Cross told himself. His body was rigid. He had often imagined many kinds of confrontations, but he had never dreamed of this. To let his sons see him standing mute, stony…! He could
kill
Houston! His
anger was so hot that he could not permit himself to look into Houston's face.

Gladys, blinded by tears, her mouth distorted with silent weeping, groped for her children and huddled them clumsily about her, trying to keep her face averted. Cross returned the stares of everyone in the room without allowing his face to betray any expression whatever. Then he could hold it in no longer.

“Why are you doing this?” the words broke from him in a spasm of rage.

“At last I got a rise out of you, hunh?” Houston asked, wetting his lips with his tongue, reveling in deep satisfaction. “I had your wife and children flown here this morning from Chicago…”

Cross could tell that Houston was trying to justify his actions.

“I didn't want to make any mistake about identifying you, Damon,” Houston said.

But Cross was not be be fooled; he knew that Houston loved this, just as he too sometimes loved lording it over others. But that look of sensual triumph on Houston's face had already sent Cross scuttling back to his shell of iron reserve, to his stance of defense. All right, suppose they were his sons? He had given them up, hadn't he? He would make a supreme effort and remain cold, hard. Sentiment must not subvert him now. He was lost, that much was true; but he must not let human claims drag him into a position where Houston could crow over him…Nothing could so undo him so easily now as Houston's gloating or bragging. Those frightened, little brown-faced boys were his sons, flesh of his flesh; they were the future of himself and he had rejected that self.

“Damon, I realize that you and your wife did not get along together,” Houston said. “She told me that. But,
man, here are your children…They need you. Go to them.”

Cross made his face a mask.

“Damon, can you stand there and look at the bewildered faces of those children and say nothing?” Houston demanded.

Cross shut out the sight of the world and tried not to hear.

“You can redeem yourself with them, Damon,” Houston was saying. “Are you going to let them remember you all of their lives like
this
? Boys love to think of their fathers as strong, wise men,” Houston went implacably on. “To many a son the image of his father is what lifts him up in life. A father can make a boy feel that he has a sure foundation under him, can give him confidence…”

Cross summoned all his control and pushed Houston's words away; he would not react; he would not be human; he was shunt of these claims and he would die shunt of them…

Houston turned and looked at Gladys whose face was hidden by her crumpled handkerchief; the woman's body seemed so rigid that if one touched her ever so lightly she would fall prone.

“Mrs. Damon,” Houston began in a loud, clear voice, “do you recognize this man standing there?” Houston pointed at Cross.

Gladys slowly turned her face and stared at Cross with wet, red eyes. Then she quickly bowed her head; both of her hands convulsively covered her face in one shuddering motion and her chest heaved as she wept in dry gulps. Houston gently grasped her shoulder and led her to a chair.

“I'm asking you: Do you recognize this man as your husband, Mrs. Damon?” Houston demanded.

Gladys was still, then she shook her head with a slow, dreamy movement, shook it negatively and at once Cross knew that Gladys was not shaking her head in answer to Houston's question, but was asserting her right to reject him as he had once rejected her! Gladys was protesting his presence on earth. Houston's face showed astonishment; he did not understand what was transpiring in the woman. He had thought that a storm of words would have poured out of Gladys, and that he, Cross, would have been moved to pity. Cross knew that Gladys would rather have had him dead.

“Mrs. Damon, I
asked
you if that is your
husband
?”

Her cheeks wet with tears as far down as her chin, Gladys finally nodded her head affirmatively. Houston blinked in bewilderment.

“Now,
which
answer is it, Mrs. Damon,” Houston demanded. “Is he your
husband
, or is he
not
?”

Cross burst into a gale of laughter that made the bodies of everyone in the room jerk. Houston gaped at Cross, then his face settled into a mold of anger. Cross knew that there was a conflict in Gladys. Her first reaction had been to say that she did not know him; then she had wanted to be honest with the District Attorney and had said yes. And now she was more confused than ever and she shook her head again, negatively. It was an identity deeper than that which Houston was asking for that Gladys was denying.

“Mrs. Damon, again I ask you, is this your husband, Cross Damon?”

Gladys rose, turned her back on Cross, nodded affirmatively to Houston and murmured brokenly: “Yes; it's he—”

She ran to the door, turned, snatched wildly at her children, grabbing them by their clothes and pulling them into the other room.

“But, Mrs. Damon, you—” Houston was trying to speak.

“No, no, no!” Gladys screamed and wept and the little boys joined her in crying, crying because they saw their mother unnerved and bitterly hysterical.

“Help her, Neil,” Houston said; comprehension was now in his eyes.

The two men assisted Gladys into the next room and finally the door closed. Cross still stood, his face impassive.

“You are the lowest sonofabitch I've ever seen in all of my life,” Houston said savagely.

“I return the compliment,” Cross said. “What on earth did you gain by dragging her in here?”

Houston did not answer and Cross knew that he could not. Houston ran his spread fingers through his hair and sat again behind his desk, glaring at Cross.

“Damon, I'll get to the point. The Communists have been badgering me night and day to take action against you. They are charging that you killed Blount, Hilton, and Herndon,” Houston told him.

“And what are
you
charging me with?” Cross asked.

Houston did not reply.

“How can you charge me merely on the insistence of Communists who are suspicious and frightened of me?” Cross demanded.

“
Why
are they frightened of you?”

“Ask them.”

“Are you a member of any anti-Communist group?”

“I'm not a member of
anything
, Mr. Houston.”

“Are you anti-Communist even as an individual?”

“I'll tell you as I told them: I'm not anti anything.”

“But you don't support them, do you?”

“Hell, no. And millions of other men don't either—”

“But you are like them in your reactions. That much
I know,” Houston said. “And the motive is right here.”

“You think so?”

“The strongest motive on earth—”

“There are millions of men with the same motives—”

“I've no evidence against you, Damon, or Lane; if I had, I'd tell you so. I'm straight in this office. But I had a right to find out who you are,” Houston explained in a tired voice. “There's another motive you could have had—”

“Yes?”

“You wanted Mrs. Blount. Men have killed for women before—”

“Mr. Houston, I don't believe that you really believe that,” Cross told him. “Before Gil died, I never touched his wife, never so much as looked at her with desire in my eyes. Now, for the rest of this mess, you will have to prove your case against me.”

“You started living with Mrs. Blount right off, before her husband was even buried,” Houston charged.

“What law did I violate in doing that?” Cross countered. “And don't forget that I was living in the apartment
when
he died.”

“You took her to Harlem—”

“That was to get her away from the press.”

Cross was now convinced that Houston had no evidence; he had thought that Cross would have collapsed at the sight of Gladys and his sons and would have made some fatal mistake, some slip that would have helped him to build his case.

“The Communist case against you is as follows,” Houston told him. “They claim that you went downstairs that night to see if Blount was all right. You saw him wounded. You finished him off. Then Herndon came upon you and you had to kill him. Hilton found
out about it in some way, and you had to kill him to keep him silent.”

“I've no comment to make on that.”

Houston stood again and Neil and the other assistant reentered the room.

“I was thinking of remanding you for a psychiatric examination,” Houston said.

“What purpose would that serve?” asked the youngish man who had stood silent through all of this.

“Sending me for psychiatric observation would be as good an excuse as any to hold me on,” Cross told him placidly.

Houston sat down heavily in his chair.

“Hell,
no
!” He turned and stared exasperatedly at the youngish man who had spoken. “I'm not going to play games with this man. I've run this office straight so far, and I'll continue. If the police and the Medical Examiner cannot dig up enough evidence, I'll be damned if I'll hold him 'til they cook up something.”

Cross realized that the youngish man was no doubt a psychiatrist.

“No opinion that we could give you from the hospital would be of any legal use in relation to what I've heard so far. The man seems to be orientated and is defending himself,” the young man said.

Houston stood and smiled shyly at Cross.

“That's all for tonight, Lane,” he said.

“You mean you are through with me for the time being?” Cross asked.

“For the time being, yes. You may go.”

Neil held open the door for him and Cross slowly walked toward it; then he paused, his mind filled with an impish notion. He turned to Houston.

“The best way to get a victim is to find an innocent man,” he told the District Attorney. “An
absolutely
inno
cent man. Such a man is
free
to be charged with anything. An innocent man is overwhelmed when he is falsely accused and he is at a loss for words. He doesn't know how to defend himself,” Cross went on, teasing the District Attorney. “You don't really need much evidence at all to charge an innocent man. The bigger the charge, the more likely people are to think that that man
must
have done something, or else no one would have charged him. The way to make a man guilty is to attack him without cause, without reason. The logic there is: if he was not guilty, no one would have dared to charge him. I was innocent to the extent that I didn't have a good name that would stand up under investigation. I had a secret name and you found it, ergo, I'm guilty of something. Good night, sir.”

He walked down the corridor to the elevator and dropped to the street, thinking, I've got to see Eva…He grabbed a taxi and shot uptown. He knew that Houston was not through with him yet. But I
dare
him to admit what he knows…He already knows, but of what use is his knowledge…? But the Party…? That was another thing. They did not have to be certain to brand you guilty. If they could not
understand
you, then you were guilty! Yes; he'd have to take Eva away at once, take her out of New York. He'd ask her to come away tonight…

He paid the taxi and looked up at the windows of Sarah's apartment. Lights were blazing through the curtains. Were Menti and Hank up there? He grew hot with hate. He'd send them packing, those fools! He'd take Eva with him right now…

He bounded up the steps and pushed the bell of the door. Sarah opened it almost at once. Her face was tense with fear and curiosity.