by John Ball
“At the corner of Piney and the highway, approximately, man in the road, appears to be dead. No evidence of anyone else nearby, no traffic for several minutes. Send the doctor and the ambulance right away.”
As he paused, Sam wondered for an instant if he had used the proper language in reporting in. This was something new to him and he wanted to handle it properly. Then the voice of the night operator snapped him out of it. “Stand by. Any identification of the victim?”
Sam thought quickly. “No, not yet,” he replied. “I never saw this man before to my knowledge. However, I think I know who he is. He has long hair, wears a vest, carries a cane. A small man, not over five feet five.”
“That’s Mantoli,” the operator exclaimed. “The conductor. The man in charge of the festival. If that’s him, and if he’s dead, this could be one awful mess. Repeat, stand by.”
Sam pressed the mike onto its clip and walked quickly back to the fallen man. It was only nine blocks to the hospital and the ambulance would be on the scene within five minutes. As Sam bent over the man once more, he remembered the rundown dog, but this was infinitely worse.
Sam reached out his hand and laid it very gently on the back of the man’s head, as though by his touch he could comfort him and tell him that help was coming quickly, that he would only have to lie on the harsh pavement for two or three minutes more, and that in the meantime he was not alone. It was while these thoughts were running through his mind that Sam became aware that something thick and sticky was oozing against his fingers. With a quick involuntary motion he jerked his hand away. The pity he had felt evaporated and a growing red anger surged up in its place.
CHAPTER
2
AT FOUR MINUTES AFTER FOUR in the morning, the phone rang at the bedside of Bill Gillespie, chief of police of the city of Wells. Gillespie took a few seconds to shake himself partially awake before he answered. As he reached for the instrument he already knew that it was trouble, and probably big trouble, otherwise the night desk man would have handled it. The night man was on the line.
“Chief, I hate to wake you, but if Sam Wood is right, we may have a first-class murder on our hands.”
Gillespie forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Tourist?”
“No, not exactly. Sam has tentatively identified the body as that of Enrico Mantoli—you know, the fellow who was going to set up a music festival here. Understand, Chief, that we aren’t even sure yet that the man is dead, but if he is, and if Sam’s identification is correct, then somebody has knocked off our local celebrity and our whole music-festival deal probably has gone to pot.”
Bill Gillespie was fully awake now. While he felt automatically for his slippers with his feet, he knew that he was expected to take command. The schooling in his profession he had had back in Texas told him what to say. “All right, listen to me. I’ll come right down. Get a doctor and the ambulance there right away, a photographer, and dig up a couple more men. Have Wood stay where he is until I get there. You know the routine?”
The night desk man, who never before had had to deal with a murder, answered that he did. As soon as he hung up, Gillespie rose to his full six feet four and began quickly to climb into his clothes, running over in his mind exactly what he would do when he reached the murder scene. He had been chief of police and a Wells resident for only nine weeks, and now he would have to prove himself. As he bent to tie his shoes, he knew that he could trust himself to do the right thing, but he still wished that the hurdles immediately before him had already been cleared.
Despite the fact that he was only thirty-two, Bill Gillespie had abundant confidence in his own ability to meet whatever challenges were thrown at him. His size made it possible for him to look down literally on most men. His forcefulness, which had cost him the girl he had wanted to marry, swept away many normal obstacles as though they had never existed. If he had a murder on his hands he would solve it, and no one would dare to question him while he was in the process.
Then he remembered that he had not been told where the murder was. He picked up the phone angrily and misdialed in his haste. He slammed the instrument back into its cradle before what he knew would be a wrong number could ring, and then, forcing himself to be calm, tried again.
The night police desk man, who had been expecting the call, answered immediately. “Where is it?” Gillespie demanded.
“On the highway, Chief, just below Piney. The ambulance is there and the doctor has pronounced the victim dead. No positive identification yet.”
“All right,” the chief acknowledged, and dropped the instrument into position. He didn’t like having to admit that he had had to call back to know where to go. He should have been told the body’s position the first time.
Bill Gillespie’s personal car was equipped with a siren, red lights in the rear window, and a police radio set. He jumped in, kicked the starter, and jerked the car away from the curb and up to speed without any regard whatever for the cold engine. In less than five minutes he saw ahead of him the police car, the ambulance, and a little knot of people gathered in the middle of the highway. Gillespie drove up quickly, set the brake, and was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop.
Without speaking to anyone, he strode rapidly to where the body still lay in the street, then squatted down and began to run his hands quickly over the fallen man. “Where’s his wallet?” he demanded.
Sam Wood stepped forward to reply. “It’s missing. At least I didn’t find it on the body.”
“Any positive identification?” Gillespie snapped.
The young doctor who had come with the ambulance answered that. “It’s Enrico Mantoli, the conductor. He was the spark plug behind the musical festival we’ve been planning here.”
“I know that,” Gillespie retorted curtly, and turned his attention again to the body. He had a strong desire to tell it to sit up, wipe the dirt off its face, and tell him what happened, who did it. But this was one man whom he could not command. All right then, it would have to be done some other way. Gillespie looked up.
“Sam, take your car, check the railroad station and the north end of town to see if anyone is crazy enough to try to hitchhike out of here. Wait a minute.” He turned his head quickly toward the doctor. “How long has this man been dead?”
“Less than an hour, I should say, possibly less than forty-five minutes. Whoever did it can’t be too far away.”
Gillespie allowed an expression of angry annoyance to cross his face. “All I asked you was how long he has been dead; you don’t have to tell me my job, I’ll tell you. I want photographs of the body from all angles, including some shots long enough to show its position relative to the curb and the buildings on the west side of the street. Then mark the position in chalk outline and barricade the area to keep traffic off this spot. After that you can take the body away.” He stood up and saw Sam standing quietly by. “What did I tell you to do?” he demanded.
“You told me to wait a minute,” Sam answered evenly.
“All right then, you can get going. Hop to it.”
Sam moved quickly to his patrol car, and drove away with enough speed to avoid any possible criticism later. As he headed toward the railroad station, for a brief moment he allowed himself to hope that Gillespie would somehow make a public fool of himself and bungle the case. Then he realized that such a thought was totally unworthy of a sworn peace officer and he resolved that no matter what happened, his part would be done promptly and well.
At the last moment, as he approached the silent railroad station, he slowed his car down to avoid giving any undue warning to a possible murderer lurking inside. Sam pulled up close to the wooden platform and climbed out without hesitation. The station was a small one which dated back at least fifty years; at night it was inadequately lighted by a few dusty bulbs which seemed as ageless as the worn hard benches or the unyielding tile floor. As Sam walked rapidly toward the main waiting-room door, he had a sudde
n desire to loosen the pressure of his uniform cap. He rejected the idea at once and entered the station every inch a police officer, his right hand on his gun. The waiting room was deserted.
Sam sniffed the air rapidly and detected nothing to suggest that anyone had been there recently. No fresh cigarette smoke, only the habitual aroma of all such railroad stations, the evidence of thousands of nameless people who had passed through and gone on.
The ticket window was closed; the glass panel was down. Posted inside was a square of cardboard with the arrival times of the night trains printed in heavy crayon. Sam looked carefully about the room once more while he thought. If the murderer was here, he probably did not have a gun. He had killed by hitting the dead man on the back of the head with a blunt instrument, and with a blunt instrument Sam was confident he could deal. He bent and checked the small area under the benches. It was clear except for dirt and a few bits of paper.
Striding through the room, Sam pushed open the door to the train platform and looked both ways. The platform, too, was deserted. Walking with firm, authoritative steps, Sam passed the locked baggage-room door, which he tested and found secure, and paused by the dingier door over which a white board sign specified COLORED. With his right hand once more on his sidearm, Sam pushed into the poorly lighted room and then drew a quick gulp of breath. There was someone there.
Sam sized him up at a glance, and knew at once that he did not belong in Wells. He was fairly slender and dressed up in city clothes, including a white shirt and a tie. Sam guessed that he might be about thirty, but it was always hard to tell about blacks. Instead of being stretched out on the bench, he was wide awake and sitting up straight as though he were expecting something to happen. His coat was off and laid neatly beside him. He had been reading a paperback book up to the moment Sam entered; when he looked up, Sam saw that his face lacked the broad nose and thick, heavy lips that characterized so many southern laborers. His nose was almost like a white man’s and the line of his mouth was straight and disciplined. If he had been a little lighter, Sam would have seen white blood in him, but his skin was too black for that.
The Negro forgot his book and let his hands fall into his lap while he looked up into Sam’s broad face.
Sam took immediate command. “On your feet, black boy,” he ordered, and crossed the room in five quick steps.
The Negro reached for his coat. “No you don’t!” Sam knocked his arm aside and with a single swift motion spun his man around and clamped his own powerful forearm hard under the Negro’s chin. In this position Sam could control him easily and still leave his right hand and arm free. Swiftly Sam searched his captive, an action which the Negro appeared too frightened to resist. When he had finished, Sam released the pressure on the man’s windpipe and issued further orders. “Stand against the wall, face to it. Put your hands up, fingers apart, and lean against them. Keep them up where I can see them. Don’t move until I tell you to.”
The Negro obeyed without a word. When his order had been executed, Sam picked up the Negro’s coat and felt inside the breast pocket. There was a wallet and it felt unusually thick.
With a strange prickle of excitement Sam pulled the wallet out and checked its contents. It was well stuffed with money. Sam ran his thumb down the edges of the bills; they were mostly tens and twenties; when he stopped his riffling at the long, narrow oval that marked a fifty, Sam was satisfied. He snapped the wallet shut and put it into his own pocket. The prisoner remained motionless, his feet out from the wall, leaning forward with part of his weight supported by his outstretched hands. Sam looked at him carefully again from the rear. He guessed that the suspect was around a hundred and fifty pounds, maybe a little more, but not much. He was about five feet nine, large enough to have done the job. There was a hint of a crease on the back of his trousers, so his suit had at some time been pressed. He did not have the big butt Sam was accustomed to on many Negroes, but that didn’t mean he was frail. When Sam slapped him to see if he had a weapon, the Negro’s body was firm and hard under his hand.
Sam folded the man’s coat across his own arm. “Go out the door to your left,” he ordered. “There’s a police car in the drive. Get in the back seat and shut the door. Make one false move and I’ll drop you right then with a bullet in your spine. Now move.”
The Negro turned as directed, walked out onto the city side of the platform, and obediently climbed into the back seat of Sam’s waiting car. The prisoner slammed the door just enough to be sure that it was properly latched and settled back in the seat. He made no move to do anything other than what he was directed.
Sam climbed in behind the wheel. There were no inside door handles in the patrol car and he knew that his prisoner could not escape. For a moment he thought of the way Mantoli had been killed—hit over the head presumably from the rear and probably by the prime suspect who was sitting behind him at that moment. Then Sam reassured himself with the thought that there was nothing in the rear seat which the Negro could use for a weapon, and with a bare-hand attack Sam could easily deal. He would have welcomed one; the prospect of a little action was attractive, particularly with someone as easy to handle as his captive.
Sam picked up the radio microphone and spoke tersely. “Wood from the railroad station. Bringing in a colored suspect.” He paused, thought a moment, and decided to add nothing else. The rest of it could wait until he got to the station. The less police business put on the air the better.
The prisoner made no sound as Sam drove, smoothly and expertly, the eleven blocks to the police station. Two men were waiting at the drive-in entrance when he got there; Sam waved them aside, confident of his ability to handle his prisoner without help. He took his time as he climbed out, walked around the car, and swung the rear door open. “Out,” he ordered.
The Negro climbed out and submitted without protest when Sam seized his upper arm and piloted him into the police station. Sam walked in properly, exactly as the illustrations in the manuals he had studied told him to do. With his powerful left arm he controlled his prisoner, his right hand resting, instantly ready, on his police automatic. Sam regretted that there was no one to take a picture of that moment, and then realized that once more he had forgoten himself and the dignity of his position.
As Sam turned the corner toward the row of cells, he was intercepted by the night desk man, who pointed silently to the office of Chief Gillespie. Sam nodded, steered his man up to the door, and knocked.
“Come in.” Gillespie’s strident voice echoed through the door. Sam turned the knob with his right hand, pushed his man through the opening, and waited before Gillespie’s desk. The chief was pretending that he was occupied with some papers before him. Then he laid down the pen he had been holding and stared hard at the prisoner for a full twenty seconds. Sam could not see the prisoner’s reaction and did not dare to turn his head to look for fear of breaking the psychological spell.
“What’s your name!” Gillespie demanded suddenly. The question came out of his lips like a shot.
The Negro astonished Sam by speaking, for the first time, in a calm, unhurried voice. “My name is Tibbs, Virgil Tibbs,” he replied, and then stood completely still. Sam relaxed his hold on the man’s arm, but the prisoner made no attempt to sit in the empty chair beside him.
“What were you doing in the station?” This time the question was slightly less explosive, more matter-of-fact.
The Negro answered without shifting his weight. “I was waiting for the five-seventeen train for Washington.” The scene of complete silence was repeated: Sam did not move, Gillespie sat perfectly still, and the prisoner made no attempt to do anything.
“When and how did you get into town?” This time Gillespie’s question was deceptively mild and patient in tone.
“I came in on the twelve-thirty-five. It was three-quarters of an hour late.”
“What twelve-thirty-five?” Gillespie barked suddenly.
The prisoner’s tone in answering was unchanged. “The one
from downstate. The local.” The idea forced itself on Sam that this was an educated black, one of the sort that hung around the United Nations in New York, according to the newsreels. That might make it a little harder for Gillespie. Sam clamped his teeth together and held the corners of his mouth firm so he could not betray himself by smiling.
“What were you doing downstate?”
“I went to visit my mother.”
There was a pause before the next question. Sam guessed that it would be an important one and that Gillespie was waiting deliberately to give it added force.
“Where did you get the money for your train fare?”
Before the prisoner could answer, Sam came to life. He fished the Negro’s wallet from his own pocket and handed it to Gillespie. The chief looked quickly in the money compartment and slammed the wallet down hard onto the top of his desk. “Where did you get all this dough?” he demanded, and rose just enough from the seat of his chair so that the prisoner could see his size.