Native Son - Richard Wright [92]
“Don’t stall us!” a voice answered. “Some of it’s already in the papers. You may as well tell the rest.”
“What’s in the papers?” Britten asked as the men entered the basement.
A tall red-faced man shoved his hand into his pocket and brought forth a newspaper and handed it to Britten.
“The Reds say you’re charging ’em with spiriting away the old man’s daughter.”
Bigger darted a glance at the paper from where he was; he saw: RED NABBED AS GIRL VANISHES.
“Goddamn!” said Britten.
“Phew!” said the tall red-faced man. “What a night! Red arrested! Snowstorm. And this place down here looks like somebody’s been murdered.”
“Come on, you,” said Britten. “You’re in Mr. Dalton’s house now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Where’s the old man?”
“Upstairs. He doesn’t want to be bothered.”
“Is that girl really missing, or is this just a stunt?”
“I can’t tell you anything,” Britten said.
“Who’s this boy, here?”
“Keep quiet, Bigger,” Britten said.
“Is he the one Erlone said accused him?”
Bigger stood against the wall and looked round vaguely.
“You going to pull the dumb act on us?” asked one of the men.
“Listen, you guys,” said Britten. “Take it easy. I’ll go and see if the old man will see you.”
“That’s the time. We’re waiting. All the wires are carrying this story.”
Britten went up the steps and left Bigger standing with the crowd of men.
“Your name’s Bigger Thomas?” the red-faced man asked.
“Keep quiet, Bigger,” said one of Britten’s men.
Bigger said nothing.
“Say, what’s all this? This boy can talk if he wants to.”
“This smells like something big to me,” said one of the men.
Bigger had never seen such men before; he did not know how to act toward them or what to expect of them. They were not rich and distant like Mr. Dalton, and they were harder than Britten, but in a more impersonal way, a way that maybe was more dangerous than Britten’s. Back and forth they walked across the basement floor in the glare of the furnace with their hats on and with cigars and cigarettes in their mouths. Bigger felt in them a coldness that disregarded everybody. They seemed like men out for keen sport. They would be around a long time now that Jan had been arrested and questioned. Just what did they think of what he had told about Jan? Was there any good in Britten’s telling him not to talk to them? Bigger’s eyes watched the balled newspaper in a white man’s gloved hand. If only he could read that paper! The men were silent, waiting for Britten to return. Then one of them came and leaned against the wall, near him. Bigger looked out of the corners of his eyes and said nothing. He saw the man light a cigarette.
“Smoke, kid?”
“Nawsuh,” he mumbled.
He felt something touch the center of his palm. He made a move to look, but a whisper checked him.
“Keep still. It’s for you. I want you to give me the dope.”
Bigger’s fingers closed over a slender wad of paper; he knew at once that it was money and that he would give it back. He held the money and watched his chance. Things were happening so fast that he felt he was not doing full justice to them. He was tired. Oh, if only he could go to sleep! If only this whole thing could be postponed for a few hours, until he had rested some! He felt that he would have been able to handle it then. Events were like the details of a tortured dream, happening without cause. At times it seemed that he could not quite remember what had gone before and what it was he was expecting to come. At the head of the stairs the door opened and he saw Britten. While the others were looking off, Bigger shoved the money back into the man’s hand. The man looked at him, shook his head and flicked his cigarette away and walked to the center of the floor.
“I’m sorry, boys,” Britten said. “But the old man won’t be able to see you till Tuesday.”
Bigger thought quickly; that meant that Mr. Dalton was going to pay the money and was not going to call in the police.
“Tuesday?”
“Aw, come on!”
“Where is the girl?”
“I’m sorry,” said Britten.
“You’re putting us in the position of having to print anything we can get about