Native Son - Richard Wright [73]
“Oh!” he said softly.
The white man at Mr. Dalton’s side was squinting at him; he felt that tight, hot, choking fear returning. The white man clicked on the light. He had a cold, impersonal manner that told Bigger to be on his guard. In the very look of the man’s eyes Bigger saw his own personality reflected in narrow, restricted terms.
“What’s the matter, boy?” the man asked.
Bigger said nothing; he swallowed, caught hold of himself and came forward slowly. The white man’s eyes were steadily upon him. Panic seized Bigger as he saw the white man lower his head, narrow his eyes still more, sweep back his coat and ram his hands into his pants’ pockets, revealing as he did so a shining badge on his chest. Words rang in Bigger’s mind: This is a cop! He could not take his eyes off the shining bit of metal. Abruptly, the man changed his attitude and expression, took his hands from his pockets and smiled a smile that Bigger did not believe.
“I’m not the law, boy. So don’t be scared.”
Bigger clamped his teeth; he had to control himself. He should not have let that man see him staring at his badge.
“Yessuh,” he said.
“Bigger, this is Mr. Britten,” Mr. Dalton said. “He’s a private investigator attached to the staff of my office….”
“Yessuh,” Bigger said again, his tension slackening.
“He wants to ask you some questions. So just be calm and try to tell him whatever he wants to know.”
“Yessuh.”
“First of all, I want to have a look at that trunk,” Britten said.
Bigger stood aside as they passed him. He glanced quickly at the furnace. It was still very hot, droning. Then he, too, went to the trunk, standing discreetly to one side, away from the two white men, looking with surface eyes at what they were doing. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets; he stood in a peculiar attitude that allowed him to respond at once to whatever they said or did and at the same time to be outside and away from them. He watched Britten turn the trunk over and bend to it and try to work the lock. I got to be careful, Bigger thought. One little slip now and I’ll spoil the whole thing. Sweat came onto his neck and face. Britten could not unlock the trunk and he looked upward, at Bigger.
“It’s locked. You got a key, boy?”
“Nawsuh.”
Bigger wondered if this were a trap; he decided to play safe and speak only when he was spoken to.
“You mind if I break it?”
“Go right ahead,” Mr. Dalton said. “Say, Bigger, get Mr. Britten the hatchet.”
“Yessuh,” he answered mechanically.
He thought rapidly, his entire body stiff. Should he tell them that the hatchet was somewhere in the house and offer to go after it and take the opportunity and run away? How much did they really suspect him? Was this whole thing a ruse to confuse and trap him? He glanced sharply and intently at their faces; they seemed to be waiting only for the hatchet. Yes; he would take a chance and stay; he would lie his way out of this. He turned and went to the spot where the hatchet had been last night, the spot from which he had taken it to cut off Mary’s head. He stopped and pretended to search. Then he straightened.
“It ain’t here now…. I—I saw it about here yesterday,” he mumbled.
“Well, never mind,” Britten said. “I think I can manage.”
Bigger eased back toward them, waiting, watching. Britten lifted his foot and gave the lock a short, stout kick with the heel of his shoe and it sprang open. He lifted out the tray and looked inside. It was half-empty and the clothes were disarrayed and tumbled.
“You see?” Mr. Dalton said. “She didn’t take all of her things.”
“Yes. In fact, she didn’t need a trunk at all from the looks of this,” Britten said.
“Bigger, was the trunk locked when she told you