In the Heat of the Night (6 page)

Sam had planned to bow out at that point and ask permission to go home. When Endicott turned to follow Arnold to the morgue, he changed his mind and walked beside the older man in the hope that by so doing he might lend him some moral strength. He hated the moment when the sheet was turned back and Endicott weakly nodded his head.

“That is the body of Maestro Enrico Mantoli,” he said, and then, his duty done, he turned quickly to go. Back in the lobby, he made a request. “May I see your police chief?” he asked.

Fred, at the desk, spoke into an intercom. A moment later he nodded, and Sam, sensing his role, led the way. “Mr. Endicott, this is Chief Gillespie,” he said after they reached the office.

Endicott held out his hand. “We have met,” he said simply. “I am a member of the city council.”

Gillespie got to his feet and came out quickly from behind his desk. “Of course, Mr. Endicott. Thank you very much for coming down.” He started back to his chair and then turned around. “Please sit down,” he invited.

George Endicott seated himself carefully in the hard oak chair. “Chief Gillespie,” he began, “I know that you and your department will do everything possible to find and punish the person who did this. Whatever I can do to help, I want you to call on me. Maestro Mantoli was our very good friend; we brought him here. To that extent we brought him to his death. I think you understand how I feel.”

Gillespie reached for a pad of paper and plucked a pen out of his desk set. “Perhaps you can give me a few facts now,” he suggested. “How old was the deceased, do you know?”

“Enrico was forty-seven.”

“Married?”

“Widowed.”

“Next of kin?”

“His daughter, Duena, his only child. She is our house guest now.”

“Nationality?”

“He was an American citizen.”

Gillespie frowned very slightly, then cleared his features consciously. “Where was he born?” he asked.

Endicott hesitated. “Somewhere in Italy. I can’t remember exactly.”

“Genoa, I believe,” Virgil Tibbs supplied quietly.

Both men turned to look at him; Endicott spoke first. “You were a friend of Maestro Mantoli’s?” he asked.

“No, I never had the honor of meeting him. But at Chief Gillespie’s invitation, I examined his body this morning.”

Endicott looked puzzled. “You are a … mortician?” he suggested.

Tibbs shook his head. Before he could speak, Gillespie intervened. “Virgil here is a police investigator out in Beverly Hills, California.”

“Pasadena,” Tibbs corrected.

“All right then, Pasadena. What difference does it make?” Gillespie let his temper edge his voice.

George Endicott got to his feet. “I haven’t heard your name,” he said, and held out his hand.

The young Negro rose and took it. “My name is Tibbs.”

“I’m happy to know you, Mr. Tibbs,” Endicott acknowledged. “What type of investigation do you do?”

“Quite a variety, sir. I’ve done some narcotics work for the vice division, traffic work, and burglary, but I specialize in crimes against persons—homicide, rape, and similar major offenses.”

Endicott turned toward Gillespie. “How does it happen that Mr. Tibbs is here?” he asked.

When Sam Wood saw the look that was forming on Gillespie’s face, he realized it was up to him. “I’m responsible,” he admitted. “I found Virgil waiting for a train and brought him in as a possible suspect. Then we found out who he was.”

“Officer Wood acted very promptly,” Tibbs added. “He didn’t take any chances of letting a possible murderer get away.”

At that moment, for the first time in his life, Sam Wood found himself liking a Negro.

Endicott spoke again to the Pasadena detective. “How long are you going to be in Wells?” he asked.

“Until the next train,” Tibbs answered.

“And when is that?”

“If I remember, three-forty this afternoon.”

Endicott nodded that he was satisfied. Gillespie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It occurred to Sam Wood that this was the time to leave. Gradually it was dawning on him that his chief was on a spot and that he had put him there. He cleared his throat to give notice that he intended to speak. “Sir,” he said to Gillespie, “if I can be spared now, I’d like to clean up and get some rest.”

Gillespie glanced up. “Go on home,” he said.

As Sam Wood settled himself behind the wheel of his four-year-old Plymouth, he began to think about the obvious tension between Bill Gillespie and the Negro detective. There was no question in his mind who would win out, but he was disturbed by the growing feeling that if things broke the wrong way, he could be caught in the middle.

Still churning over this sobering thought, he parked the car in front of his small house, let himself in, lost no time in taking off his clothes, and showered. For a moment he contemplated getting something to eat. Then he decided he wasn’t hungry and climbed into bed. He pulled a single sheet over his body in lieu of pajamas and, despite the broiling heat and his disturbed state of mind, went immediately to sleep.

A
S SOON AS
E
NDICOTT
had left his office and was safely out of the corridor, Bill Gillespie turned toward Virgil Tibbs.

“Who in hell asked you to open your big black mouth,” he demanded. “If I want you to tell me anything, I’ll ask you. I was questioning Endicott exactly the way I wanted to until you butted in.” He clenched his massive right hand into a fist and rubbed it in the palm of his left. “Now get this—I want you out of here right now. I don’t know when the next train is and I don’t care; go down to the station and wait for it. When it comes in, never mind which way it’s going, just get on. Beat it!”

Virgil Tibbs rose quietly to his feet. He walked to the door of the office, turned, and looked directly into the face of the big man who dominated the small room. “Good morning, Chief Gillespie,” he said. As he walked through the outer lobby, the desk man stopped him.

“Virgil, did you leave a brown fiber-glass suitcase in the station this morning? Initials V.R.T. on it?”

Tibbs nodded. “Yes, that’s mine. Where is it?”

“We’ve got it. Wait five minutes till I finish this and I’ll get it for you.”

Tibbs waited uncomfortably; he did not want Gillespie to come out of his office and find him still there. He was not afraid of the big man, but he saw no possible advantage in another scene. He stayed on his feet to suggest politely that he was expecting the wait to be a short one.

After a long five minutes, the desk man returned with his bag. “Can I get a ride to the station?” Tibbs asked.

“Go ask the chief. If he OK’s it, it’s fine with me.”

“Never mind,” Tibbs answered shortly. He picked up his bag and began to walk down the long flight of steps that led to the street.

Nine minutes later, the phone rang in Gillespie’s office. It was his private line, the number of which was known to only a few people. He picked up the instrument. “Gillespie,” he acknowledged tersely.

“This is Frank Schubert, Bill.”

“Yes, Frank.” The chief made an effort to sound confident and cordial. Frank Schubert ran a hardware store and owned two gas stations. He was also the mayor of Wells and the chairman of the small committee which ran the city’s affairs.

“Bill, George Endicott just left my office.”

“Yes,” Gillespie almost shouted, and resolved to keep his voice under better control.

“It was about this colored detective that one of your boys spaded up. He wanted me to call Pasadena and ask if we could borrow him for a few days. George is terribly upset about Mantoli’s death, you know.”

“I know that, too,” Gillespie cut in. He felt he was being treated like a child.

“We got through immediately to Chief Morris in Pasadena,” Schubert went on. “He gave us his OK.”

Gillespie gulped a deep breath. “Frank, I appreciate your effort very much, but I just got rid of that guy and frankly, I don’t want him back. I have good people here and I’m not inexperienced myself. Excuse my saying this to you, but Endicott is a meddler.”

“I know he is,” Schubert agreed, “and he comes from up North, where they think differently than we do. But I think you’re overlooking something.”

“What’s that?” Gillespie asked.

“The fact that this gives you a perfect out. Endicott wants us to use his black friend. OK, go ahead and do it. Suppose he finds the man you want? He has no police power here, so he will have to hand the whole thing over to you. But if he fails, that lets you completely off the hook. And everybody in town will be with you; the whole blame goes to him. Either way you win. If you don’t use him and for any reason fail to nail your murderer in fairly short order, Endicott will be out for your scalp, and he’s got more dough than anybody else in this town.”

Gillespie chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “I just kicked him out of here,” he said.

“You better get him back,” Schubert warned. “He’s your alibi. Be nice to him and let him hang himself. If anybody blames you, say that you did it on my orders.”

Gillespie knew then that he was hooked. “All right,” he said in an unwilling voice, and hung up. He got up quickly, reminding himself that he didn’t know the first thing about the procedure in catching a murderer and that Virgil Tibbs was the unwitting alibi that would lift the whole responsibility from his shoulders. By the time he jackknifed himself into his car, he had decided that it would be good to give Tibbs the rope with which to hang himself.

Two blocks from the station he found his man. Tibbs had paused for a moment to switch his suitcase from one hand to the other as Gillespie slid his car up to the curb. “Virgil, get in, I want to talk to you,” he said.

As the young Negro moved to obey, Gillespie had a sudden revolting thought. Tibbs had been walking and carrying a heavy bag for some blocks in the hot sun.
That
meant he would be sweating and Gillespie hated the odor he associated with black men. He reached around and quickly rolled down the rear window behind him. As soon as that was done, he motioned Tibbs to come in the front seat. “Put your bag in back,” he instructed. Tibbs did as directed, climbed into the car, and sat down. To Gillespie’s intense relief, he didn’t smell.

Gillespie started the car and moved out into traffic. “Virgil,” he began, “I was a little rough on you this morning.” It occurred to him to stop right there and he did.

Tibbs said nothing.

“Your friend Endicott,” Gillespie went on, “spoke to our mayor about you. Mayor Schubert phoned Pasadena. After consulting with me, we reached a decision to have you investigate Mantoli’s murder under my direction.”

There was silence in the car for the next three blocks. Then Tibbs broke it carefully. “I think, Chief Gillespie, that it might be better if I left town as you suggested. It might make things easier for you.”

Gillespie swung the car around a corner. “What would you do if your boss asked you to stay here?” he inquired.

“If Chief Morris asked me to,” Tibbs replied promptly, “I’d go to England and look for Jack the Ripper.”

“Chief Morris sent word to you to spend a week here with us. You won’t be a member of our department, of course, so you won’t be able to wear a uniform.”

“I haven’t for some time,” Tibbs said.

“OK. What do you think you will need?”

“I have been up all night and haven’t had a chance to clean up,” Tibbs answered. “If there is a hotel here that will take me, I’d like to shave, shower, and put on some clean clothes. Then if you can fix me up with some sort of transportation, that will be about all I’ll need. At least for a while.”

Gillespie thought for a moment. “The hotels here won’t take you, Virgil, but there is a motel for colored about five miles up the road. You can stay there. We’ve got an old police car in reserve I could let you have.”

“Please,” Tibbs requested, “not a police car. If you know a used-car dealer who will lend me something that runs, that would be a lot better. I don’t want to be conspicuous.”

Gillespie realized that it was going to be harder to make Tibbs undo himself than he thought. “I think I know a place,” he said, and U-turned in the middle of the block. He drove to a garage on the other side of the railroad tracks. A huge Negro mechanic came out to meet him.

“Jess,” Gillespie instructed, “this is Virgil, who is working for me. I want you to lend him a car or get him one he can use. For a week or so. Something that runs all right, something maybe you’ve fixed up.”

“Anything I fix up,” Jess replied, “runs right. Who’ll be responsible?”

“I will,” Tibbs said.

“Come on, then,” Jess retorted, and walked back into his shop. Virgil Tibbs got out of Gillespie’s car, pulled his bag from the rear seat, and spoke to his new superior. “I’ll report in as soon as I can clean up,” he said.

“Take your time,” Gillespie answered. “Tomorrow will be all right.” He pushed hard on the gas pedal and the car jumped away, throwing up a cloud of dust. Virgil Tibbs picked up his suitcase and walked into the garage.

“Who are you?” Jess asked.

“My name is Tibbs. I’m a policeman from California.”

Jess wiped his hands on a garage rag. “I’m saving up to move west myself. I want to get out of here,” he confided, “but don’t tell nobody. You can take my car. I got another one to drive if I need it. What are you supposed to be doing?”

“They had a murder here this morning. They don’t know what to do about it, so they’re using me for a fall guy.”

A look of heavy suspicion crossed Jess’s round black face. “How you gonna protect yourself?” he asked.

“By catching the murderer,” Tibbs answered.

Because of the heat, and the upsetting of his routine, Sam Wood had a short and fitful sleep. By two in the afternoon he was up and dressed. He made himself a sandwich from the simple provisions he kept on hand and then read his mail. The last of the three letters in the small pile he opened with shaking fingers. There was a note on a legal letterhead and a check. When he looked at the check, Sam stopped worrying about the murder. He shoved the letter and check into his breast pocket, looked at his watch, and hurried out of his house. Suddenly it was important to him to reach the bank before three.