Native Son - Richard Wright [90]
“That’s just ten thousand dollars shot to hell, if you ask me.”
“But he wants the girl.”
“Say, I bet it’s those Reds trying to raise money.”
“Yeah!”
“Maybe that’s how they get their dough. They say that guy, Bruno Hauptmann, the one who snatched the Lindy baby, did it for the Nazis. They needed the money.”
“I’d like to shoot every one of them Goddamn bastards, Red or no Red.”
There was the sound of a door opening and more footsteps.
“You have any luck with the old man?”
“Not yet.” It was Britten’s voice.
“He’s pretty washed up, eh?”
“Yeah; and who wouldn’t be?”
“He won’t call the cops?”
“Naw; he’s scared stiff.”
“It might seem hard on the family, but if you let them snatchers know they can’t scare money out of you, they’ll stop.”
“Say, Brit, try ’im again.”
“Yeah; tell ’im there ain’t nothing to do now but to call the cops.”
“Aw, I don’t know. I hate to worry ’im.”
“Well, after all, it’s his daughter. Let him handle it.”
“But, listen, Brit. When they pick up this Erlone fellow, he’s going to tell the cops and the papers’ll have the story anyway. So call ’em now. The sooner they get started the better.”
“Naw; I’ll wait for the old man to give the signal.”
Bigger knew that Mr. Dalton had not wanted to notify the police; that much was certain. But how long would he hold out? The police would know everything as soon as Jan was picked up, for Jan would tell enough to make the police and the newspapers investigate. But if Jan were confronted with the fact of the kidnapping of Mary, what would happen? Could Jan prove an alibi? If he did, then the police would start looking for someone else. They would start questioning him again; they would want to know why he had lied about Jan’s being in the house. But would not the word “Red” which he had signed to the ransom note throw them off the track and make them still think that Jan or his comrades did it? Why would anybody want to think that Bigger had kidnapped Mary? Bigger came out of the closet and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He had knelt so long that his blood had almost stopped and needle-like pains shot from the bottom of his feet to the calves of his legs. He went to the window and looked out at the swirling snow. He could hear wind rising; it was a blizzard all right. The snow moved in no given direction, but filled the world with a vast white storm of flying powder. The sharp currents of wind could be seen in whorls of snow twisting like miniature tornadoes.
The window overlooked an alley, to the right of which was Forty-fifth Street. He tried the window to see if it would open; he lifted it a few inches, then all the way with a loud and screechy sound. Had anyone heard him? He waited; nothing happened. Good! If the worst came to the worst, he could jump out of this window, right here, and run away. It was two stories to the ground and there was a deep drift of soft snow just below him. He lowered the window and lay again on the bed, waiting. The sound of firm feet came on the stairs. Yes; someone was coming up! His body grew rigid. A knock came at the door.
“Yessuh!”
“Open up!”
He pulled on the light, opened the door and met a white face.
“They want you downstairs.”
“Yessuh!”
The man stepped to one side and Bigger went past him on down the hall and down the steps into the basement, feeling the eyes of the white man on his back, and hearing as he neared the furnace the muffled breathing of the fire and seeing directly before his eyes Mary’s bloody head with its jet-black curly hair, shining and wet with blood on the crumpled newspapers. He saw Britten standing near the furnace with three white men.
“Hello, Bigger.”
“Yessuh,” Bigger said.
“You heard what happened?”
“Yessuh.”
“Listen, boy. You’re talking just to me and my men here. Now, tell me, do you think Jan’s mixed up in this?”
Bigger’s eyes fell. He did not want to answer in a hurry and he did not want to blame Jan definitely, for that would make them question him too closely. He would hint and point in Jan’s direction.
“I don’t know, suh,” he said.
“Just tell me