In the Heat of the Night (19 page)

“Paw made me,” Delores admitted candidly.

“There’s something you can do to help if you will,” Tibbs went on. “It’s more important than you might think. Could you tell us how you happened to dream about Mr. Wood?”

“I said she seen him come past and that put her mind to it,” Purdy said angrily.

Tibbs ignored the remark and kept his eyes on Delores. Finally she took notice. She smoothed her skirt again and for the first time showed the beginning signs of embarrassment.

“Well,” she said slowly, “he’s a real OK guy. I never got to meet him, but I heard talk. He’s got a real good job, steady, and a car, and I thought about him. I thought maybe he’d like me, especially ‘cause I heard he didn’t have no girl.”

“I’m his girl,” Duena said.

Sam Wood looked at her with wonder and disbelief.

Delores, too, looked at Duena. When she had finished, she turned listlessly back to face Bill Gillespie. She was inert, ready to topple whichever way she was pushed.

“He can’t have my girl, he’s too old for her,” Purdy said.

Bill Gillespie made a decision. “Since you both came forward with a statement that clears Mr. Wood, as far as my department is concerned, we’ll call it a closed incident. That doesn’t mean that Mr. Wood won’t sue you for defamation of character; I imagine he probably will.”

“I don’t want to sue anybody,” Sam said.

Purdy turned toward his daughter. “We’ll go home,” he said, and rose. Delores got up after him. Then she turned and tried hard to smile at Sam. “I’m real sorry,” she said.

Sam remembered he was a gentleman and got to his feet. So did Virgil Tibbs. George Endicott remained seated. With no further remarks, the Purdys filed out. It took a few moments after they had gone for the atmosphere to clear.

“Now what happens?” Gillespie asked.

Virgil Tibbs answered him. “We finish clearing Mr. Wood. Is there any other point you want settled before you release him?”

“Yes,” Gillespie replied. “I want him to tell me how come he had six hundred dollars plus in cash to use in paying off his mortgage.”

Tibbs spoke before Sam could. “I think I can answer that. The bank told you he had that amount in cash, but they didn’t tell you what kind of cash.”

“Cash is cash,” Gillespie said.

“Not in this case,” Tibbs replied. “When I asked about it, they told me the money was largely in coins—quarters, halves, and even nickels and dimes. There were some bills, too, but the largest one was five dollars.”

The light dawned. “You mean he’d been hoarding it?” Gillespie asked.

“That’s right,” Virgil replied. “It wasn’t the smart way because he could have deposited it at interest and earned around eighteen dollars a year. And his money would have been a lot safer. I am inclined to believe he has been saving what he could this way ever since he has been on the force in order to pay off his mortgage. Probably on the basis of a quota he set for himself.”

“I tried to make it fifty cents a day,” Sam explained.

“Actually you did a little better than that,” Tibbs told him, “closer to four dollars a week. But why didn’t you put it in the bank?”

“I didn’t want to spend it. That was my mortgage money. I kept it by itself and I never took a nickel out of it until I paid for my home.”

“Anyhow, I think that clears that one up,” Tibbs said, speaking to Gillespie. “Is he a free man now?”

Gillespie looked at George Endicott before he answered. The spirit seemed gone out of him. “I guess so,” he said.

“Then,” Virgil said, “I want to ask you to restore him to duty immediately so he can make his regular patrol tonight.”

“I’d like to spend a night at home first,” Sam said.

“I think it’s important that you drive tonight,” Tibbs answered. “And if you don’t mind, I’m coming with you.” Tibbs turned to face Gillespie. “I’m going to give you a guarantee,” he said. “Unless something radical happens, before morning Mr. Wood will arrest the murderer of Enrico Mantoli.”

W
HEN
S
AM
W
OOD WALKED
through the lobby of the police station and out into the open air, he had the strong feeling that he had just lived through a bad dream. The extremes of anger, outrage, and hopelessness he had felt were all spent now and he was back exactly where he had been before it had all started. Except for one thing: he had held Duena Mantoli in his arms and she had kissed him. And in the presence of witnesses she had stated she was his girl.

Of course she wasn’t, Sam knew that. She had said that simply to embarrass Delores Purdy and she had succeeded. For a few precious moments, Sam allowed himself to imagine that she had meant it. Then he snapped out of it and remembered it was time for dinner.

He drove to the café that offered the only acceptable steaks in town and ordered one. He felt he had it coming.

The manager came over to exchange a word with him. “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Wood,” he said.

Sam knew exactly what he meant. “I’m glad to be here,” he answered in the same vein. “Tell the cook to make that a good steak, will you?”

“I did,” the manager said. “Say, I wanted to ask you something. Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to, but the whole town is wondering. What goes with this black cop you got working?”

“Virgil?” Sam asked. “What about him?”

“Well, how come?”

“He’s a murder expert,” Sam said. “He happened to be on hand and the chief put him to work. That’s all.”

“Must be pretty hard on you,” the manager ventured.

“Not on me, it isn’t,” Sam answered shortly. “He’s smart as hell and he got me out of a jam.” Sam was instantly proud of himself for standing up for the man who had stood up for him.

“Yes, but he’s a nigger,” the manager persisted.

Sam put his hands flat on the table and looked up. “Virgil isn’t a nigger. He’s colored, he’s black, and he’s a Negro, but he isn’t a nigger. I’ve known a lot of white men who weren’t as smart as he is.”

The manager made peace at once. “Some of ‘em are smart, I know. One of them even wrote a book. Here comes your steak.” The manager saw to it that it was served with gestures. He even personally brought the bottle of catsup. Then he told himself that Sam Wood should be excused for anything he said because he had just been through a hell of an experience.

When he had finished eating, Sam drove home and threw up the windows to clear out the musty air inside. He got out his uniform and checked it over. Then he took a shower, ran over his chin with an electric razor, and lay down to get some rest.

He remembered briefly Virgil’s promise that he was to arrest a murderer that night. It seemed a little unreal as the desire for sleep grew on him. His mind went blank and he slept deeply until his alarm jangled at eleven.

Virgil Tibbs was waiting for him in the lobby of the police station when he got there. Sam checked in as he always did; the desk man struggled to pretend that nothing had happened. With his report sheet under his arm, and the keys to his patrol car in his hand, he nodded to Tibbs. “Let’s go,” he invited.

They set out together as they had once before. “Where to, Virgil?” Sam asked.

“You’re doing the driving,” Tibbs answered. “Anywhere you like. It doesn’t make any difference to me. Only let’s stay away from the Purdy place tonight. I don’t want to go through that again.”

Sam asked the question that had been in his mind for the last hour. “Do you think the murderer of old man Mantoli will be out tonight?”

“I’m almost sure of it,” Tibbs replied.

“Then maybe we had better check up on the Endicotts, see that everything is all right.”

“I’m sure she is,” Virgil answered. “Go up if you like, but there is better reason to stay down here.”

“Do you want to tell me about it now? I’m supposed to arrest the guy, you said.”

“I’d rather not, Sam. If I did, you might betray something at the wrong time. Keeping something to yourself to the point where everything you say, every movement you make, is still just the same as though you didn’t have that knowledge is very hard to do. Until the time comes, the fewer who know the better.”

“Can’t we do something about it now?”

Tibbs looked out the window. “Sam, without giving offense, would you trust me and let me handle it? I promise you you’ll be there when it happens. In fact, I’m trying to arrange it so you will make the arrest.”

“OK, Virgil.” Sam was disappointed.

The night had never seemed so long. They talked of California and what it was like on the Pacific Coast, where Sam had never been. They discussed baseball and prizefighting. “It’s a tough way to earn a living,” Tibbs commented. “I know some fighters and what they have to take is pretty rugged. It isn’t all over when the last bell rings. When the cheering stops, if there is any, it’s down to the dressing room, where the doctor is waiting. And when he has to sew up cuts over the eyes or in the mouth, it hurts like hell.”

“Virgil, I’ve wondered how come there are so many colored fighters? Are they just better, or is it maybe easier for them?”

“If it’s any easier I don’t know how. I talked to a fighter once who had had a bout in Texas. He took an awful whipping although he fought hard; he was overmatched. Anyhow, when the doc came around to fix him up, the needle in his bruised flesh hurt so much he let out a yell. Then the doctor told him he’d presumed it didn’t hurt him because he was a Negro.”

Sam flashed back mentally to a conversation he had had with Ralph, the night man at the diner. It seemed to him it had been weeks ago. Actually it had been the night of the murder. “How about those two guys who jumped you?” Sam asked after a while. “I didn’t hear what happened to them.”

“A guy named Watkins, a councilman, got them off. He told me if I knew what was good for me I’d shut up about it, otherwise I would be booked for breaking the man’s arm.”

“Do you think Watkins hired them?”

“I hope so, because if he did, he’ll have to foot the medical expenses for the guy who got hurt. There are supposed to be some others out looking for me now.” Tibbs said it calmly, as though he were commenting that it might rain in the next day or two.

“I just hope they try it when I’m along,” Sam offered.

“So do I,” Virgil admitted quickly. “It won’t be so easy next time. Judo is a good system but it can only go so far. After that you’re licked and there’s nothing you can do about it but take one or two out on the way down.”

“Does anything beat judo?” Sam asked.

“Aikido is very good, especially for handling belligerent suspects when you don’t want to do them any physical harm. The Los Angeles police use it extensively. In a real fight when the chips are down, then Karate is the last word. A good Karate man is a deadly weapon.”

“Are there any in this country?”

Tibbs paused before answering. “Yes, I know some of them. A lot of the things you hear about Karate aren’t true, it doesn’t ruin your hands, for instance. But as a method of protecting yourself, Karate is the best thing there is in the way of unarmed combat technique. The training is severe, but it’s worth it.”

Sam swung the car down Main Street and let the soft purr of the engine blend with the stillness of the night. He watched the picket fence of parking meters go by and then he paused to draw up to the curb across from the Simon Pharmacy. “Is it safe to stop here tonight?” he asked.

“I think so,” Virgil answered him. Sam touched the brake gently and let the car drift almost by itself over toward the curb. When he stopped, the wheels were an even two inches away from the concrete facing. He picked up his clipboard to write.

“We’ve got company,” Virgil said.

Sam looked up, startled. Then he saw movement in the thick, silent shadows which filled the store entrance. A figure stepped out of the blackness and walked toward them. It was a very tall man, but he walked without making much noise. An instant later, Sam recognized Bill Gillespie.

The police chief bent down and rested his forearms on the windowsill of the car. “How is it going with you guys?” he asked.

Sam found his tongue thick; it was hard to answer. “All right so far. Nothing unusual. Couple of lights on, but no indication of any trouble.”

Gillespie reached down and pulled the rear door open. “I think I’d like to ride along for a while,” he said. He climbed in and shut the door. “Not much room back here,” he added as his knees pressed against the rear of the front seat.

Sam reached his left hand down and notched the seat forward an inch or two to make more room in back. “Where would you like to go?” he asked.

“I don’t care,” Gillespie said. “Virgil said he was going to point out the murderer to you tonight and I’d like to see him do it, that’s all.”

Sam stole a look at the silent man beside him. The realization had just come that for the first time in his police career he had a partner. And despite his color, Sam felt he could rely on him. Virgil could think and he could handle himself. Both might be necessary before the night was over.

Sam slipped the car into gear, crossed the highway, and entered the shanty ville section of the city. He drove slowly and looked as usual for dogs that might be sleeping in the street. He saw one and made a careful detour.

The garage of Jess the mechanic was silent and dark. So was the little parsonage of Reverend Amos Whiteburn. There was a night light showing in the combination office and residence of Dr. Harding, who ministered to the physical needs of the colored citizens of Wells. The car bumped across the railroad tracks and started up the street that led to the Purdy house. Sam debated what to do. Then he went ahead; after what had happened, everything should be quiet tonight. The Purdy house was dark and still.

“There’s an odd feeling to this time of night,” Gillespie said.

Sam nodded his agreement. “I always notice it,” he answered. “It’s a miasma in the air.”

“A what?” Gillespie asked.

“I’m sorry. A certain feeling, a kind of atmosphere.”

“That’s what I meant,” Gillespie commented. “Don’t the Purdys live around here somewhere?”

“We just passed their house,” Sam told him.