by John Ball
“I earned it,” the Negro replied.
Gillespie dropped back into his chair, satisfied. Colored couldn’t make money like that, or keep it if they did, and he knew it. The verdict was in, and the load was off his shoulders.
“Where do you work?” he demanded in a voice that told Sam the chief was ready to go home and back to bed.
“In Pasadena, California.”
Bill Gillespie permitted himself a grim smile. Two thousand miles was a long way to most people, especially to colored. Far enough to make them think that a checkup wouldn’t be made. Bill leaned forward across his desk to drive the next question home.
“And what do you do in Pasadena, California, that makes you money like that?”
The prisoner took the barest moment before he replied.
“I’m a police officer,” he said.
CHAPTER
3
AS A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE Sam Wood did not like Negroes, at least not on anything that approached a man-to-man basis. It therefore confused him for a moment when he discovered within himself a stab of admiration for the slender man who stood beside him. Sam was a sportsman and therefore he enjoyed seeing someone, anyone, stand up successfully to Wells’s new chief of police.
Until Gillespie arrived in town, Sam Wood had been rated a big man, but Gillespie’s towering size automatically demoted Sam Wood to near normal stature. The new chief was only three years his senior—too young, Sam thought, for his job, even in a city as small as Wells. Furthermore Gillespie came from Texas, a state for which Sam felt no fraternal affection. But most of all Sam resented, consciously, Gillespie’s hard, inconsiderate, and demanding manner. Sam arrived at the conclusion that he felt no liking for the Negro, only rich satisfaction in seeing Gillespie apparently confounded. Before he could think any further, Gillespie was looking at him.
“Did you question this man at all before you brought him in?” Gillespie demanded.
“No, sir,” Sam answered. The “sir” stuck in his throat.
“Why not?” Gillespie barked the question in what Sam decided was a deliberately offensive manner. But if the Negro could keep his composure, Sam decided, he could, too. He thought for an instant and then replied as calmly as he could.
“Your orders were to check the railroad station and then to look for possible hitchhikers or anyone else worth checking. When I found this ni— this man in the railroad station, I brought him in immediately so I could carry out the rest of your orders. Shall I go now?”
Sam was proud of himself. He knew he wasn’t much with words, but that, he felt sure, had been a good speech.
“I want to finish checking this man out first.” Gillespie looked toward Tibbs. “You say you’re a cop in California?”
“Yes, I am,” Tibbs replied, still standing patiently beside the empty hard chair.
“Prove it.”
“There’s an ID card in my wallet.”
Gillespie picked up the wallet from his desk with the air of handling something distasteful and somewhat unclean. He opened the pass-card section and stared hard at the small white card in the first transparent sleeve, then snapped the wallet shut and tossed it carelessly toward the young Negro. Tibbs caught it and slipped it quietly into his pocket.
“What have you been doing all night?” There was an edge of irritation in Gillespie’s voice now. The voice was trying to pick a fight, and daring anyone to defy it.
“After I got off the train, I went in the station and waited. I didn’t leave the station platform.” There was still no change in Tibbs’s manner, something which Gillespie apparently found irritating. He changed the topic abruptly.
“You know we wouldn’t let the likes of you try to be a cop down here, don’t you?”
He waited; the room remained still.
“You knew enough to stay out of the white waiting room. You knew that, didn’t you?” Once more Gillespie pressed his huge hands against the desk and positioned himself as if to rise.
“Yes, I knew that.”
Gillespie made a decision. “All right, you stick around awhile. I’m going to check up on you. Take care of him, Sam.”
Without speaking, Sam Wood turned around and followed Virgil Tibbs out of the room. Ordinarily he would not have permitted a Negro to precede him through a doorway, but this Negro did not wait for him to go first and Sam decided it was a bad moment to raise an issue. As soon as the two men had left, Gillespie raised one massive fist and slammed it down hard on the top of his desk. Then he scooped up the phone and dictated a wire to the police department of Pasadena, California.
Sam Wood showed Virgil Tibbs to a hard bench in the small detention room. Tibbs thanked him, sat down, pulled out the paperback book that he had had in the station, and returned to reading. Sam glanced at the cover. It was On Understanding Science by Conant. Sam sat down and wished that he, too, had a book to read.
When the sky began to gray through the window, and then grew streaked with curiously dirty stripes of high clouds against a lightening background, Sam knew that he would not be driving his patrol car anymore that night—it was too late for that. He began to ache from sitting on the hard bench. He wanted a cup of coffee despite the heat; he wanted to move around. He was debating whether he wanted to stand up and stretch, and make a slight exhibit of himself doing so, when Gillespie abruptly appeared in the doorway. Tibbs looked up with quiet inquiry in his eyes.
“You can go if you want to,” Gillespie said, looking at Tibbs. “You’ve missed your train and there won’t be another one until afternoon. If you want to wait here, we’ll see you get some breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Tibbs acknowledged. Sam decided this was his cue, and stood up. As soon as Gillespie cleared the doorway, Sam walked out and down the short hall to the door marked MEN—WHITE. The night desk man was inside, washing his hands. Something about the twist of the man’s mouth told Sam there was undisclosed news. “Got anything, Pete?” he asked.
Pete nodded, splashed water over his face, and buried it in a towel. When he came up for air, he replied. “Chief got a wire a few minutes ago.” He paused, bent down, and checked that all the toilet compartments were empty. “From Pasadena. Gillespie sent one out that said: ‘We have serious homicide here. Request information re Virgil Tibbs, colored, who claims to be member Pasadena Police Department. Holding him as possible suspect.’ “
“I don’t blame him for checking up,” Sam said.
“Wait till you hear what he got back.” Pete lowered his voice so that Sam had to take a step closer to hear him.” ‘Confirm Virgil Tibbs member Pasadena Police Department past ten years. Present rank investigator. Specialist homicide, other major crimes. Reputation excellent. Advise if his services needed your area. Agree homicide serious.’ “
“Wow,” Sam said softly.
“Exactly,” Pete agreed. “I bet Gillespie doesn’t know a damn thing about homicide investigation. If he doesn’t clear this one up, and fast, the whole town will be down on his neck. So he has the offer of a specialist who is both chief suspect and a nig—” He paused when Sam shot up his hand as a warning. Footsteps passed down the corridor and disappeared into silence.
“What I want to know,” Sam inquired, “is if Gillespie is as stupid as I think he is, how did he get this job in the first place? He was supposed to have been a hotshot in Texas, wasn’t he?”
Pete shook his head. “He was never a cop; he’s over the height limit. He was a jailor—a strong-arm boy who could handle the drunks. After three years of that, he answered an ad and got this job. He probably figures it will set him up for something bigger after a little while. But if he flubs this one he’s done for, and he knows it.”
“How did you get all this dope?”
Pete pressed his lips together and grinned. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and I’ve made quite a few friends here and there. I think I’ll stick around awhile and see what happens. I go on days beginning tomorrow so it will look all right. How about
you?”
“I think I will, too,” Sam agreed.
Ten minutes later, the body of Maestro Enrico Mantoli was brought in. The hospital had refused to hold it any longer. When Pete went to Gillespie’s office to notify his chief of that fact in person, he found him with his hands thrust inside the waistband of his trousers and his mind obviously miles away. Pete waited until he was recognized, conveyed the news, and retreated rapidly while he was still in good order. A few moments later, Gillespie came out of his office, stalked down the corridor, and paused before the door of the detention room. He stared at Tibbs, who sat there reading. When he saw Gillespie, he looked up and waited for the big man to speak.
“Pasadena tells me you’re supposed to be a homicide investigator,” Gillespie barked.
“I’ve done that,” Tibbs replied.
“Ever look at dead bodies?” Gillespie put a leer into the question.
“Oftener than I like.”
“I’m going over to look at one now. Suppose you come along.”
Tibbs got to his feet. “After you, sir,” he said.
No one in the small morgue looked especially surprised when Virgil Tibbs came in silently in the wake of the towering Gillespie. The police morgue was a modest facility with a single surgical table in the middle of the room, and a half-dozen grim drawers like a massive filing cabinet in one wall. There was a wood desk and a chair at one side and next to it a cabinet half filled with instruments. The chief walked without hesitation to the slab in the middle of the room, bent over and stared hard at the dead man. He walked around him twice. Once he reached out and carefully bent the dead man’s arm at the elbow, then he replaced it as it had been. Finally he squatted down and scrutinized the top of the man’s head where he had been struck. Then he rose once more to his feet. With a long arm and an almost accusing finger, he pointed. “Virgil here works for the Pasadena Police Department investigating homicides. He wants to look at the body. Let him.”
Having made his pronouncement, Gillespie stalked out to the men’s room to wash.
As soon as he had removed both dirt and the feel of the dead man from his hands, Bill Gillespie began to think of breakfast. He had given up completely any idea of trying to complete his night’s sleep. He decided also that there was no need to return home and shave; good grooming was not expected under emergency conditions and the fact that he showed visible signs of his extra duty might well be to his advantage. He decided to go and eat.
He walked out through the station, folded himself behind the wheel of his car, and U-turned fast enough to skid at the finish. Six minutes later, he slid the car to a stop at the all-night drive-in, terrifying the youthful attendant simply by the way he planted himself on a counter stool. “I want the ranch breakfast,” he ordered.
The night man nodded quickly and set to work at once to prepare the wheat cakes, eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast, and coffee that made up the ranch package. Striving to please, he broke the yolks of both eggs, scraped them away, and tried two more. This time he succeeded. By the time all the food was served, he had refilled Gillespie’s coffee cup three times. When at last the big man had finished eating, paid without leaving a tip, and left, the boy’s hand was shaking so hard he had difficulty drawing a glass of water to slake his own thirst. Apart from stating his order, Gillespie had not said a single word, but the furrows on his brow had betrayed the fact that he had been concentrating on some thought or idea which he did not like.
On the way back to the station, Gillespie drove more slowly. The sun was up now and there was traffic on the highway. Part of his caution was dictated by the fact that he did not want to be detected flouting the traffic laws he was sworn to enforce, the rest by the fact that he wanted time to think.
How, he asked himself, do you go about catching a murderer? Normally you would probably start checking up to see who held a grudge against the deceased, but this was a simple case of robbery. He had learned two things during his brief visit to the morgue—that the dead man’s wallet was missing and that he had been reputed to carry considerable sums on his person. All right then, how do you find the man who hit the deceased over the head in the dead of night and got away without a single witness being anywhere around? How do you find the man who wants more money than he is entitled to, how do you trace money without serial numbers, without anything to go on other than the fact that it exists? There won’t be footprints to pick up in plaster in the middle of a paved highway, or any usable tire marks. Just what the hell do you do?
Well, you might ask to borrow a homicide expert. And then what do you do if you have one dropped into your lap and he has a black skin?
Gillespie changed his mind and drove home. He shaved, put some deodorant under his armpits in lieu of a shower, rebrushed his hair, and drove back through the morning traffic to the police station. On the way he made one decision: he would get rid of Tibbs as soon as possible. The Pasadena boys had been pulling his leg when they recommended him. Nobody could tell him that a colored man could do anything he couldn’t do.
Reinforced by this thought, Gillespie climbed the steps to the station three at a time, stopped at the desk, and demanded, “Where’s Tibbs?”
The day man, who clearly knew fully what was going on, said, “I believe, sir, he’s still examining the body.”
“Still examining the body!” Gillespie exploded. “What the hell is he trying to do, find out how a man died who was hit over the head hard enough to break his skull?”
“I looked in a minute before I came on duty,” the day man replied. “At that time he was removing the dirt from under the fingernails. He asked if we had a microscope and I said that we didn’t. Then he took a ring off the corpse’s finger and looked at the initials inside. By that time I had to leave to come on duty.”
When Gillespie reached his office, he found Sam Wood waiting for him. “I thought I had better report to you before I went home,” Sam explained, “in case you wanted to ask me any questions or have me stay on duty for a while.”
Gillespie allowed himself to look human for a moment. “That was very thoughtful of you, Wood,” he acknowledged. “Sit down and tell me what you think of our colored friend, Officer Virgil Tibbs.”
Sam sat down. “I think he’s got guts,” he answered, looking at his chief. Then he changed his tone, as though the statement, in retrospect, had been too strong for him. “At least, he isn’t afraid to handle a corpse.”
“I thought he said he didn’t like to examine bodies,” Gillespie interjected.
“I took that to mean that he didn’t like homicides,” Sam replied.
“I thought homicides were supposed to be his business.”
The conversation was interrupted when Virgil Tibbs appeared in the doorway.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but could you tell me where I can wash?”
Gillespie answered immediately. “The colored washroom is down the hall to your right.”
Tibbs nodded and disappeared.
“There’s no soap or towels down there,” Sam reminded Gillespie.
“That’s what he’s got a shirttail for,” Gillespie snapped back.
Sam recrossed his legs the other way, tightened for a moment, and then relaxed. It was none of his affair. He wanted to leave, but when he half started to rise, he remembered that he had offered to stay on duty and that he had not received an answer. He looked at Gillespie, who, in turn, was staring down at his immense hands, which he had folded on top of his desk. The storm clouds began to gather in his face. Then he looked up. “Suppose you take your car and see if you can locate Mantoli’s daughter. I heard she was a house guest of the Endicotts. Break the news to her and get her down here to make a positive identification of the body. I know that it will be difficult, but that is part of our job. You had better leave right away if you want to get to her before she hears it some other way. We haven’t given anything out, but you can’t keep a secret in this town very long.”
Virgil Tibbs reappeare
d in the open doorway and looked at Gillespie. “Do you wish the results of my examination, sir?” he asked.
Gillespie leaned back at a slight angle; because of his size, it was as far as he could go without risking a fall backward. “I’ve thought about it, Virgil, and I’ve decided that the best thing would be for you to leave town on the next train. This is no place for you. I know all I need to know about the body. Tell your boss when you get home that I appreciate his offer of your services, but they are quite unacceptable and you know why.”
Gillespie leaned forward again. “Oh, yes,” he added. “I’m having a release typed up absolving us from false arrest charges in your case. I want you to sign it before you go.”
“As one policeman to another,” Tibbs said evenly, “I don’t intend to sue you or Mr. Wood for false arrest. You don’t need to bother with a release. Thanks for your hospitality.”