In the Heat of the Night (9 page)

“I’m on my way to Atlanta. Why?” Sam sensed antagonism in the voice and he didn’t like it.

“Is this the hour you usually start trips to Atlanta?”

Kaufmann leaned partway out of the car window. “Is that any business of yours?” he asked.

Sam stepped quickly from his car and stood beside Kaufmann, his right hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. “In case you have forgotten,” he said, biting each word off separately, “less than twenty-four hours ago someone committed a murder in this town. Until we catch him, everyone’s business is our concern, especially when they start out on long drives past midnight. Now explain yourself.”

Kaufmann rubbed his fingers across his face for a moment. “I’m sorry, Officer,” he apologized. “I’m not myself and you know why. I was up at the Endicotts’ discussing the festival until a few minutes ago. Because a good deal of local money has been advanced for this project, we decided that we have to go ahead despite the fact that Enrico is dead. If we let it ride for a year, we’ll all be dead. I’m sorry—that’s a bad choice of words.” Kaufmann stopped and made an effort to collect himself. “Anyhow, I’ve got to go to Atlanta and see what can be done to locate a name conductor to take over. And I’ve got to arrange for the orchestra; it was all lined up but the news may have thrown everything off again.”

Sam relaxed a little. “That’s fine, but why leave at this hour? According to the story you told me and Virgil, you got very little sleep last night. You can’t be in very good condition to drive.”

“You’re right about that,” Kaufmann agreed. “I’m leaving, frankly, because I don’t want to be in the way up there. Duena is sleeping in the only guest room and right now she needs all the rest and quiet she can get. The only sensible thing was for me to leave, drive out of town a little ways, and go to a motel. Then I can get an early start and be in the city by noon. Any objections?”

Sam knew that the story made sense and he didn’t want to let his dislike of the man color his judgment. And he remembered that this lonely mountain road was not in his patrol area. In fact, he was neglecting that area right now. And if the killer should be prowling somewhere down there …

“How is everything on top of the hill?” he asked.

“All right. Strained, of course, but there’s nothing wrong. Are you going up there? If you went up there now you’d disturb them and possibly give them a scare. I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind.”

Sam motioned Kaufmann to go on. “Be careful,” he warned. “Get off the road as soon as you can and get some sleep. Otherwise you may end up in the morgue alongside your boss.”

Kaufmann winced but didn’t comment. “All right, I will. Follow me down if you like. But leave them alone up there; they’ve had all they can take for one day.” He pushed the drive button on his station wagon and eased it back into the center of the downgrade. Sam stood silently until Kaufmann had gone well on ahead, then he turned his car cautiously on the narrow road and followed.

As he kept the car under control with second gear and brake, Sam reflected that Kaufmann and Duena were probably very good friends. At least Kaufmann was in a position to see a lot of the girl, and the way those people traveled around, he probably had a monopoly. The thought made Sam mad. He had met the girl only once, on the day when her father had been murdered, and yet he felt he was entitled to an interest and to worry about her protection.

The wheels of the car hit the city pavement and the ride smoothed out. As it did, Sam brought his mind back to the murderer loose in the city. At least there was a good chance he was still in the city. The streets were silent and dark now except for the lonesome dots of light under the widely scattered street lamps. Once more Sam reminded himself that he was a prime target; the baking heat of the night began to be streaked with a kind of chill that hung in the blackness, waiting.

A while back, Sam had read a book about a situation something like this. The author had used a word to describe it, an odd and unusual word which Sam had dutifully looked up in the dictionary. He could not remember the word now, but it began with m, he was pretty sure of that. Whatever it was, what the word meant hung in the air now.

Sam was not a coward. Determined to do his duty, he made his complete patrol of the city. When he had finished, he took the precaution of parking in a different place to make out his report. He would not tempt fate by stopping across from the Simon Pharmacy as he always did; anyone familiar with his movements at night would know to lie in wait for him there. When he had finished making out his careful statement, Sam put the board down and felt as though something was just about to be pressed against the back of his neck. He flipped the car into gear and drove at an unusually high speed, for him, to the drive-in and the sanctuary of its bright lights.

When he had finished a root-beer float, and topped it off with a piece of lemon pie, he returned to his car and to the city it was his duty to protect. Not till the sky streaked with light and then came aglow did the feeling leave him that he was being silently watched, that at some time he had passed close to danger. At eight in the morning he drove his car with careful skill into the police-department parking lot. This past night, at least, he had earned his pay.

B
ILL
G
ILLESPIE WAITED
impatiently while the long-distance operator made the connection. Ordinarily he would have assigned this routine check to someone else, but he had personal reasons for waiting to do it himself. Virgil Tibbs was his alibi now for whatever happened, but he did not want to settle for an alibi—he wanted to catch the killer himself. The hotel clerk came on the line.

“You have an Eric Kaufmann registered with you?” Gillespie asked.

“Yes, sir, we have.”

“You understand who I am. Now tell me what you can about Kaufmann’s movements night before last. When was he registered, when did he come in, and all that. Spell it out in detail as close as you can. Wait a minute.”

Gillespie reached for a block of scratch paper. He started to write “Kaufmann” at the top of the sheet and then stopped in time. Someone might see it. It had been his own idea to check Kaufmann’s alibi and he didn’t want to tip his hand to anyone. “OK, shoot.”

“Mr. Kaufmann registered with us four days ago. He took a moderate-priced room with bath. Night before last, he came in sometime after midnight, actually closer to two, I should say. The night man admits that he cannot fix the time very accurately as he had been dozing up to the time that Mr. Kaufmann came in and didn’t look at the clock. He believes it was about two when Mr. Kaufmann went up with him. He does remember that Mr. Kaufmann remarked to him that he had taken a meal before coming to the hotel and was afraid he had been unwise in eating cherry pie at that hour.”

Gillespie interrupted. “How does it happen that you have all of this information so conveniently at hand? Were you expecting my call?”

“No, sir, actually I talked to the night man at the request of one of your men yesterday when he phoned me—Mr. Tibbs I believe he said his name was.”

The chief grunted into the telephone. “Uh … OK, and thanks. Mention this call to no one, of course.”

“Certainly not, sir; Mr. Tibbs warned us about that. But we knew anyway. I hope you get your man; I’m sure you will.”

“Thank you,” Gillespie concluded, and hung up.

He told himself as he leaned back in his chair that he had no reasonable grounds for getting sore. He had told Virgil to investigate the murder and Virgil was following his orders. Which was what he had better do. Anyhow, Kaufmann was in the clear. At that moment Arnold poked his head in the door.

“Chief, Ralph, the night man at the drive-in, just phoned. He stayed over to eat his breakfast before he went home. He says a man is at the diner, just drove up through town, and Ralph thinks he knows something about the murder.”

“Any car description?” Gillespie snapped.

“Pink Pontiac, this year’s. California license.”

“Go get him,” Gillespie ordered. “Ask him politely to see me for a few minutes. And bring Ralph in here as quick as you can.”

Gillespie leaned back and thought for a while. Ralph was none too reliable, but he might have something. Ralph’s mind was limited, but at times he had a glint of intelligence, the instinct of an animal for its enemies. To Ralph anything that upset the status quo would be an enemy. Asking a passing motorist for his cooperation wasn’t out of line even if the counterman was imagining things. The pressure of the case was making Gillespie jittery. He had consulted with himself about it and had decided to control his temper a little better, at least until the case was over. He was still new on the job and a blunder could cost him his whole future career. He knew that he was capable of blundering if he didn’t take the time to watch his steps.

Virgil Tibbs appeared at the door of his office. At that precise moment Bill did not want to see the Negro detective—as a matter of fact he did not want to see him at any time—but he recognized necessity when it stood before him.

“Morning, Virgil,” he said lazily. “Making any progress on the case?”

Tibbs nodded. “Yes, I believe I am.”

Gillespie bristled with suspicion. “Tell me about it,” he ordered.

“I’ll be glad to, Chief Gillespie, as soon as I’m able. What I have now isn’t pinned down tight enough to bring it to your attention. As soon as it is, I’ll report to you in full.”

Stalling
, Gillespie thought to himself.
Won’t admit it
. He let the matter drop. Arnold put his head in the door.

“Mr. Gottschalk is here to see you, Chief.”

“Gottschalk?”

“The gentleman with the pink California Pontiac.”

“Oh. Ask him to come in.”

Gottschalk appeared in the doorway before Virgil Tibbs could leave. He was a middle-aged man and portly, with a crew haircut and a capable air. “Am I in trouble?” he asked abruptly.

Bill Gillespie waved him to a chair. “I don’t think so, Mr. Gottschalk. But I would appreciate it if you could spare me a little of your time. We had a murder here a couple of nights ago and we thought you might possibly shed some light on it for us.”

As soon as Gillespie finished speaking, Virgil Tibbs turned around in the doorway, came back into the office, and sat down. Gillespie noted it, but did not comment.

“Your name
is
Gottschalk, I believe?” Gillespie asked. It was clearly an invitation to supply additional information. Gottschalk reached into his breast pocket, removed his wallet, and laid a business card on Gillespie’s desk.

“May I have one?” Tibbs requested.

“Oh, certainly.” Gottschalk handed over the card. “You are … ah … on the force?”

“My name is Virgil Tibbs. I’m investigating the murder Chief Gillespie mentioned.”

“Excuse me, I didn’t understand.” Gottschalk held out his hand. The two men shook hands without rising. Then Tibbs sat back quietly, waiting for Gillespie to go on. Arnold appeared again in the doorway. “Ralph is here,” he said tersely. Gillespie hesitated, started to rise as if to leave the room. Just then Ralph appeared in the doorway, looked at Gottschalk, and pointed dramatically. “That’s him,” he declared.

Gillespie sat down again. Gottschalk craned his neck to look at Ralph and then turned back, frankly bewildered.

Arnold remained in the doorway, hesitant as to what to do.

“What about this gentleman, Ralph?” Gillespie asked easily.

The counterman took a deep breath. “Well, I forgot all about it until he showed up again, but this fellow, I mean him there, was in the diner the night of the murder, ‘bout forty-five minutes before Mr. Wood came in.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Gottschalk said.

“Before he came in I was mopping up the front of the place,” Ralph went on, “so I would have seen any other cars that went by. His was the only one.”

“Did you notice which direction he came from?” Gillespie asked.

“Yeah, he was goin’ south.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I found out later that Sam—I mean Mr. Wood-found the body of the Italian fellow right in the middle of the highway. No other car went through after this fellow did until Mr. Wood found the body.” Ralph paused and gulped. “So I figure he done it.”

Gottschalk sprang out of his chair with astonishing speed for a man of his bulk. Then he sensibly sat down again.

Bill Gillespie had an inspiration. “It’s all yours, Virgil,” he said, and leaned back. The idea of having a whipping boy available who could take none of the credit, but all of the blame in the event of a misfire, was beginning to appeal to him. And while he did not like to admit it to himself, he knew that Tibbs had something on the ball. How much he was not yet prepared to estimate, but the unhappy suspicion lurked that Tibbs might be better than anyone on the local force, which included himself. Gillespie felt much as a student pilot does who is sure he knows how to fly but who, faced with an unexpected situation which he has never before been called upon to meet, dearly wishes to have his instructor take over the responsibility. Gillespie had never had an instructor on whom to rely, which made it just a little bit worse.

“I see by your card, Mr. Gottschalk,” Tibbs began, “that you are a field-test engineer.”

“That’s right,” Gottschalk replied in a reasonable tone of voice. “We’ve heavily tied in with the work at the Cape. I was on my way down there when I passed through here.”

“To be at the shoot they had yesterday?”

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Tibbs.”

“What’s the Cape?” Gillespie interjected.

“Cape Kennedy.”

“Oh, of course.” Gillespie nodded to Tibbs to go on. Then he glanced over at Ralph. The counterman was standing with his mouth partway open, as though struck by the fact that the man at whom he had pointed the finger of suspicion had something to do with the spectacular events about which he had read in the papers.

“After you stopped at the diner, Mr. Gottschalk, did you continue on south through the city?”

“Yes, I did. I stayed right on the highway. In fact I didn’t stop until I needed gas about a hundred and fifty miles or so down the line.”