In the Heat of the Night (16 page)

Jess fitted the hose and began to feed gas into the tank. “I won’t.”

“Pretty fancy car.” Tibbs nodded toward the Lincoln. “How come you’re working on it?”

“Tourist car,” Jess answered laconically. “The garage on the highway gets ‘em, then they farm ‘em out to me to fix. I’d like to get what they do for my work.”

“They’ve got to pay their overhead,” Tibbs pointed out, “and if they’re on the highway, it must be a lot more.”

Jess finished filling the tank. “Wait a minute,” he said, and disappeared around the side of his shop. In three minutes he was back. “We figure on you eating with us,” he announced flatly.

“Thanks a lot,” Tibbs replied, “but I couldn’t.”

“I got a boy,” Jess explained, “he’s thirteen and he’s never seen a real live detective. I promised him.”

Silently Tibbs got out of the car. A few minutes later he sat down to eat a modest meat-loaf dinner which was obviously being stretched for his benefit. At his right, Jess’s son Andy watched his every movement until it was an embarrassment to eat. Finally, when the boy could contain himself no longer, he burst into speech. “Would you tell us about your first case?” he blurted, and waited with shining eyes.

Tibbs obliged. “It was a narcotics-smuggling problem. Somewhere in Pasadena little capsules of heroin were being transferred and sold. I was assigned to the case along with several officers.”

“Were you a detective then?” the boy interrupted.

“No, I wasn’t. But I had five years’ service on the force and they decided to give me a chance. Then one day at a downtown shoeshine stand a man who was getting his shoes shined finished his newspaper and offered it to another man, who was waiting for service. The point was that the first man had on a new pair of shoes that didn’t really need shining.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I was the shoeshine man,” Tibbs explained. “No one expected a Negro in a job like that to be a police officer.”

“So if’n you’d been white, you couldn’t of done it!” the boy burst out.

“I guess you’re right,” Tibbs agreed. “Though of course they’d have been caught sooner or later. But that was my real first case.”

Andy turned to his food and tried the difficult job of eating without taking his eyes off the sensational guest who was actually sitting at his father’s table.

When dinner was over, Tibbs excused himself, saying that he had urgent work to do. Since Jess’s house was a short block from the garage, where he had parked, Virgil said his good-byes at the door and began to walk down the darkened street to where he had left his car. His mind was reviewing carefully what he had to do next. It would not be pleasant and there would be problems. But, as he had learned many years ago, he would have to overcome problems if he wished to remain in his profession. It was harder here, that was all. This thought was still in his mind when a warning was flashed to him—too late.

He whirled to look into the faces of two men who had crept up behind him. As they lunged forward, he saw only that one of them held a heavy piece of wood in his hand and that he had it raised to strike.
Tibbs
braced himself, although he knew he was slightly off balance. As the man swung, Virgil leaped toward him and thrust his left shoulder into the man’s right armpit. The heavy piece of wood snapped downward. As it did, Tibbs grabbed the man’s forearm and at the same instant straightened his knees upward with all his strength.

The assailant’s arm was trapped on top of Tibb’s shoulder. His weight was thrust forward so that when Tibbs bent his back sharply forward, he had no choice but to ride over on Tibbs’s back until he was upside down. In the same coordinated motion, Tibbs yanked hard at the attacker’s trapped wrist. The man screamed as the back of his neck hit the concrete.

He was still falling when Tibbs let go of him and spun to face the other man, who was big but awkward, and had no weapon. Instead he doubled his fists and rushed in. Tibbs ducked under his first wild swing, grabbed his wrist, and spun around to the left. The big man, propelled by his own strength, twisted through the air and then fell heavily. Tibbs picked up the piece of firewood which so closely resembled the murder weapon. Then he looked up to see Jess’s boy, attracted by the noise, staring at him with mixed fright and disbelief.

“Andy, go get your father as fast as you can. Then call the police and tell them to come here.”

Andy ran off rapidly. He met his father halfway and poured out his message. A moment later, Tibbs was joined by the big mechanic, whose hands were opening and closing quickly as if waiting for the chance of combat. “They attacked me,” Tibbs said. “Help me watch them.”

Jess looked at the men. “Don’t nobody move!” he commanded. The one who had attacked first was whining softly; his right arm lay twisted in an unnatural position. Andy came running back. “They’re comin’,” he reported. “I told ‘em two men set on Mr. Tibbs and to get the doctor.”

“Good, son,” Jess said. “Now go get me a big tire iron. I don’t need it, but it might be handy.”

Andy took off, winded but eager to do as he was bid. He was back in seconds with the wicked tool. “It’s a good thing we got that phone for emergency repair calls,” Jess said to Tibbs.

Presently a siren could be heard wailing its way from the direction of the highway. Red lights came into view down the street and then the patrol car obeyed Andy’s frantic signal to pull up to the curb. There were two uniformed men in it. Tibbs pointed to the figures which still lay quietly on the ground. “Assault with a deadly weapon,” Tibbs said. “I’ll prefer charges when we get to the station.”

“You’ll
prefer charges?” one of the uniformed men questioned.

“I think he’s Virgil,” his partner said.

“I’m Virgil,” Tibbs admitted. “Go easy with the man on the right. I think his arm’s dislocated or broken.”

When they reached the station, Gillespie was waiting for them in the lobby. “What happened?” he demanded.

“I had dinner with Jess the mechanic, the man you introduced me to,” Virgil told him. “When I came out and was on my way back to my car, two men jumped me. One of them tried to club me with a piece of wood.”

Gillespie seemed strangely pleased. “Bring ‘em into my office,” he ordered, and led the way. When the party had assembled as he directed, the chief sat behind his desk and viewed the two men for a long minute without speaking. Then he drew breath and made the room shake with the power of his voice. “Which of you two punks wrote me an anonymous letter?” he demanded.

There was no answer. The silence was broken by the buzz of the intercom. Gillespie flipped the key. “The doctor you sent for is here,” the night man announced.

“Bring him in,” Bill directed. A moment later, the desk man ushered in a tall, very slender, elderly Negro who carried a black bag. “I’m Dr. Harding,” he said.

Gillespie pointed a long finger at the man who clutched his injured arm to his side. “Fix him up,” he ordered. “When I heard two guys had jumped Virgil, I figured it was Virgil who got hurt so I told the desk man to call a colored doctor. Now you’re here, you might as well go to work.”

Dr. Harding ignored the insult and looked at his patient. “He’ll have to lie down,” he said. “Where can we put him?”

“Keep your hands off me,” the man said. “I want my own doctor.”

“Shut up,” Gillespie barked. “I don’t like people who write me letters and tell me what to do. We’re providing you with a doctor like the law says.”

“You won’t last long in this town,” the man retorted.

“Long enough,” Gillespie said. “Take him in a cell and let the doctor work on him there.”

The injured man was led away. Gillespie directed his attention to the other man. “All right, whose idea was this? Talk or you’ll be in one heap of trouble.”

“I ain’t worried,” the man told him. “I’ll demand a jury trial. You know what that means.”

“Sure, I know what it means,” Gillespie told him. “So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to call the paper and tell them how you and your pal jumped a little colored guy and that he beat the both of you up. Then you can have your jury trial.”

“My story is that he and his big black pal jumped us with clubs,” the man said, still unshaken. “We was minding our own business.”

“Sure, in niggertown. You and your pal were on your way to a nice black whorehouse, just two respectable citizens, when you got mugged. Wise up; either way you lose.”

“I ain’t talkin’,” the man maintained stubbornly.

Gillespie turned toward Tibbs. “You aren’t a white man, but I guess you can fight,” he conceded.

“The credit goes to the man who taught me,” Tibbs said. “His name is Takahashi and he isn’t Caucasian, either.”

He turned toward the door. “I’ve got a job to finish and I’m getting near to the end. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.”

To Tibbs’s surprise, Gillespie got up and walked down the corridor with him. “Virgil,” he said when they were by themselves, “I think you’re smart enough to know you’ve got to get out of this town. Tonight you were lucky. Next time somebody may take a shot at you and that you can’t duck. I’m giving you my advice—get out of here before I’ve got another murder on my hands. I’ll tell them in Pasadena you did a good job for me.”

“I’ll get out, Chief Gillespie,” Virgil answered, “but not until I have delivered Mantoli’s murderer to you together with the proof of his guilt. I’ve got to do that first; perhaps you understand why.”

“I won’t be responsible,” Gillespie said.

“That’s all right,” Tibbs acknowledged, and hurried through the lobby.

Duena Mantoli sat in the quiet of the early evening in the high lookout where, a few days before, Sam Wood had perched stiffly beside her. Now she was alone, looking out over the silent parade of the mountains trying to sort out her thoughts. She knew now that Sam Wood stood accused of seducing a sixteen-year-old girl, the daughter of an almost illiterate laborer.

Although she did not want to do so, she coldly compared herself to what she imagined the other girl to be. Then, with mounting shame, she saw herself standing on tiptoe in a jail cell to press her kiss on the lips of the man in whom she had found a sudden faith. That faith was gone now, which made her action, in retrospect, something cheap and vulgar. She folded her arms about herself and knew she had been a fool. It was hopeless to assume that breeding and what is called common decency could ever stamp out the basic instincts of sexual drive. Sam Wood was a big, strong man and he was unmarried. The girl, whoever she was, had been able to give him animal gratification.

Duena shuddered and tears of anger came to her eyes. She continued to sit there until Endicott, worried, came down to find her and take her back.

It was a little after nine on Saturday morning when Delores Purdy answered the doorbell. She preened herself for a moment first, because a girl could never tell who might be there. When she swung the door open and looked into the dark-skinned face of Virgil Tibbs, her mood changed abruptly. “Niggers go to the back door,” she snapped.

“This one doesn’t,” Tibbs said. “I came to see your father.”

“Don’t you come in the door,” she ordered, and then shut it in his face. A minute later, it was reopened by Purdy with an expression of profound distaste on his face. “Get away from here,” he said. “We don’t want you ‘round.”

“You don’t have any choice,” Tibbs told him, and calmly walked in. “I’m from police headquarters and I’ve come to talk to you and your daughter.”

“I know who you are,” Purdy snarled. “Now get out of here fast or I’ll break you in two.”

“If you try that,” Tibbs retorted, “I won’t be responsible for what happens to you. Two other guys tried it last night.”

“Yeah, I heard tell. You and your pal jumped ‘em at night and beat ‘em up with tire irons. One of ‘em is in the hospital.”

“If you don’t want to join him, shut up and sit down,” Tibbs commanded. “I’ve had about all I’m going to take of ignorant back talk from you or anybody else.
You
came in and filed charges; I’m here to talk about them.”

“Ain’t nothing more to say,” Purdy said. “And no nigger is gonna sit down in my front parlor.”

Tibbs walked in and sat down. “I came here to help you keep out of prison,” he said.

Delores entered. “Pa, make him go away,” she demanded.

“I’ll go when I’m ready,” Tibbs said. “Before I’m through talking to you, you’ll both know that my coming here was the luckiest thing that could have happened to you.”

“Niggers bring bad luck,” Delores said.

“Mr. Purdy,” Tibbs began, assuming a conference had begun, “you and your daughter came to the station and told us that somebody had done her wrong. Now it’s our job to see that she’s taken care of, that the man is punished, and that her reputation is protected.”

“Sam Wood done her wrong,” Purdy said.

Tibbs nodded as though he believed it. “So you told us. Of course, Chief Gillespie was very surprised; Mr. Wood has been on the force for several years and was always looked on as a very reliable man.”

“He’s in jail for murder.” Purdy raised his voice almost to a scream.

Tibbs nodded again. “I know. I’m not going to give away any secrets but maybe there’s a reason for it you don’t know. I sat in a jail cell once for almost three weeks until the man who was in there too told me something the police wanted very badly to know.”

“Black cop,” Purdy threw it down like a curse.

“Now about the case of your daughter,” Tibbs said quietly. “Whenever this happens and the man admits his responsibility, that’s all there is to it. But Wood is a stubborn man. He won’t admit that he did it. So now all the tests will have to be given. That is unless you can help me prove him guilty.”

“You mean I got to tell it again?” Delores asked.

“What tests?” Purdy wanted to know.

“Well, in a case of this kind there is a lot that has to be done. The law says so. You see, it’s hard for a man to prove he didn’t have relations with a girl; the only way he can do it is through certain medical evidence.”

“What’s that?” Purdy asked. “She’s my natural-born daughter.”