Native Son - Richard Wright [93]
“You all know Mr. Dalton,” Britten explained. “You wouldn’t do that. For God’s sake, give the man a chance. I can’t tell you why now, but it’s important. He’d do as much for you some time.”
“Is the girl missing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she here in the house?”
Britten hesitated.
“No; I don’t think she is.”
“When did she leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will she be back?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is this Erlone fellow telling the truth?” asked one of the men. “He said that Mr. Dalton’s trying to slander the Communist Party by having him arrested. And he says it’s an attempt to break up his relationship with Miss Dalton.”
“I don’t know,” Britten said.
“Erlone was picked up and taken to police headquarters and questioned,” the man continued. “He claimed that this boy here lied about his being in the home last night. Is that true?”
“Really, I can’t say anything about that,” Britten said.
“Did Mr. Dalton forbid Erlone to see Miss Dalton?”
“I don’t know,” Britten said, whipping out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. “Honest to God, boys, I can’t tell you anything. You’ll have to see the old man.”
All eyes lifted at once. Mr. Dalton stood at the head of the stairs in the doorway, white-faced, holding a piece of paper in his fingers. Bigger knew at once that it was the kidnap note. What was going to happen now? All of the men talked at once, shouting questions, asking to take pictures.
“Where’s Miss Dalton?”
“Did you swear out a warrant for the arrest of Erlone?”
“Were they engaged?”
“Did you forbid her to see him?”
“Did you object to his politics?”
“Don’t you want to make a statement, Mr. Dalton?”
Bigger saw Mr. Dalton lift his hand for silence, then walk slowly down the steps and stand near the men, just a few feet above them. They gathered closer, raising their silver bulbs.
“Do you wish to comment on what Erlone said about your chauffeur?”
“What did he say?” Mr. Dalton asked.
“He said the chauffeur had been paid to lie about him.”
“That’s not true,” Mr. Dalton said firmly.
Bigger blinked as lightning shot past his eyes. He saw the men lowering the silver bulbs.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Dalton. “Please! Give me just a moment. I do want to make a statement.” Mr. Dalton paused, his lips quivering. Bigger could see that he was very nervous. “Gentlemen,” Mr. Dalton said again, “I want to make a statement and I want you to take it carefully. The way you men handle this will mean life or death to someone, someone close to this family, to me. Someone….” Mr. Dalton’s voice trailed off. The basement filled with murmurs of eagerness. Bigger heard the kidnap note crackling faintly in Mr. Dalton’s fingers. Mr. Dalton’s face was dead-white and his blood-shot eyes were deep set in his head above patches of dark-colored skin. The fire in the furnace was low and the draft was but a whisper. Bigger saw Mr. Dalton’s white hair glisten like molten silver from the pale sheen of the fire.
Then, suddenly, so suddenly that the men gasped, the door behind Mr. Dalton filled with a flowing white presence. It was Mrs. Dalton, her white eyes held wide and stony, her hands lifted sensitively upward toward her lips, the fingers long and white and wide apart. The basement was lit up with the white flash of a dozen silver bulbs.
Ghostlike, Mrs. Dalton moved noiselessly down the steps until she came to Mr. Dalton’s side, the big white cat following her. She stood with one hand lightly touching a banister and the other held in mid-air. Mr. Dalton did not move or look round; he placed one of his hands over hers on the banister, covering it, and faced the men. Meanwhile, the big white cat bounded down the steps and leaped with one movement upon Bigger’s shoulder and sat perched there. Bigger was still, feeling that the cat had given him away, had pointed him out as the murderer of Mary. He tried to lift the cat down; but its claws clutched his coat. The silver lightning flashed in his eyes and he knew that the men had taken pictures of him with the cat poised upon his shoulder. He tugged at the cat once more