Native Son - Richard Wright [97]
“Listen, you guys,” Britten said. “Give the old man a chance. He’s trying to get his daughter back, alive. He’s given you a big story; now wait.”
“Tell us straight now; when was that girl last seen?”
Bigger listened to Britten tell the story all over again. He listened carefully to every word Britten said and to the tone of voice in which the men asked their questions, for he wanted to know if any of them suspected him. But they did not. All of their questions pointed to Jan.
“But Britten,” asked one of the men, “why did the old man want this Erlone released?”
“Figure it out for yourself,” Britten said.
“Then he thinks Erlone had something to do with the snatching of his daughter and wanted him out so he could give her back?”
“I don’t know,” Britten said.
“Aw, come on, Britten.”
“Use your imagination,” Britten said.
Two more of the men buttoned their coats, pulled their hats low over their eyes and left. Bigger knew that they were going to phone in more information to their papers; they were going to tell about Jan’s trying to convert him to Communism, the Communist literature Jan had given him, the rum, the half-packed trunk being taken down to the station, and lastly, about the kidnap note and the demand for ten thousand dollars. The men looked round the basement with flashlights. Bigger still leaned against the wall. Britten sat on the steps. The fire whispered in the furnace. Bigger knew that soon he would have to clean the ashes out, for the fire was not burning as hotly as it should. He would do that as soon as some of the excitement died down and all of the men left.
“It’s pretty bad, hunh, Bigger?” Britten asked.
“Yessuh.”
“I’d bet a million dollars that this is Jan’s smart idea.”
Bigger said nothing. He was limp all over; he was standing up here against this wall by some strength not his own. Hours past he had given up trying to exert himself any more; he could no longer call up any energy. So he just forgot it and found himself coasting along.
It was getting a little chilly; the fire was dying. The draft could scarcely be heard. Then the basement door burst open suddenly and one of the men who had gone to telephone came in, his mouth open, his face wet and red from the snow.
“Say!” he called.
“Yeah?”
“What is it?”
“My city editor just told me that that Erlone fellow won’t leave jail.”
For a moment the strangeness of the news made them all stare silently. Bigger roused himself and tried to make out just what it meant. Then someone asked the question he longed to ask.
“Won’t leave? What you mean?”
“Well, this Erlone refused to go when they told him that Mr. Dalton had requested his release. It seems he had got wind of the kidnapping and said that he didn’t want to go out.”
“That means he’s guilty!” said Britten. “He doesn’t want to leave jail because he knows they’ll shadow him and find out where the girl is, see? He’s scared.”
“What else?”
“Well, this Erlone says he’s got a dozen people to swear that he did not come here last night.”
Bigger’s body stiffened and he leaned forward slightly.
“That’s a lie!” Britten said. “This boy here saw him.”
“Is that right, boy?”
Bigger hesitated. He suspected a trap. But if Jan really had an alibi, then he had to talk; he had to steer them away from himself.
“Yessuh.”
“Well, somebody’s lying. That Erlone fellow says that he can prove it.”
“Prove hell!” Britten said. “He’s just got some of his Red friends to lie for him; that’s all.”
“But what in hell’s the good of his not wanting to leave jail?” asked one of the men.
“He says if he stays in they can’t possibly say he’s mixed up in this kidnapping business. He said this boy’s lying. He claims they told him to say these things in order to blacken his name and reputation. He swears the family knows where the girl is and that this thing is a stunt to raise a cry against the Reds.”
The men gathered round Bigger.
“Say, boy, come on with the dope now. Was that guy really here last night?”
“Yessuh; he was here all right.”
“You saw ’im?”
“Yessuh.”
“Where?”
“I drove him and Miss Dalton up here