In the Heat of the Night (RosettaBooks into Film)

by John Ball

  An arm suddenly pushed Tibbs aside and Pete, his face flushed, appeared in the doorway. “We’ve got him, Chief, dead to rights. It’s Harvey Oberst. He’s been in trouble before. The boys picked him up and found Mantoli’s wallet on him.”

  Gillespie looked back at Tibbs, who was still visible on one side of the doorway. “Like I said, Virgil, we know our business down here. Go home.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  BILL GILLESPIE LOOKED at Sam Wood. “You had anything to eat?” he asked.

  “Not this morning,” Sam replied.

  “Then stay here and get some chow. Let Arnold go and pick up the Mantoli girl.”

  “No, that’s all right, I’ll go. I know how to get to the Endicott place, and I don’t think Arnold does. Speaking of eating, we do owe Virgil some breakfast—we promised it to him.”

  “I told him to beat it.”

  Sam Wood sensed that he could go a little further. “Yes, sir, but there is no train for hours and the only bus through here going north doesn’t carry colored. It’s my fault he missed his train. Since he is a cop, maybe we ought to let him wait here”—Sam paused as inspiration hit him—”so he’ll at least speak well of us when he gets back to Pasadena.”

  Gillespie recognized diplomacy as a necessary evil. “All right. But there’re no colored restaurants around here. Get hold of Virgil before he leaves, send him back in here, and have Pete bring him in a bologna sandwich or whatever he can pick up. It might be a good idea to let him see us wrap this one up—show him that we know how to handle men down here.”

  His point won, Sam nodded, and retreated rapidly before Gillespie could change his mind again. He found Tibbs saying his good-byes to Pete in the lobby. “Virgil,” Sam reported, “the chief just remembered that he had promised you some breakfast. He wants you to go back to his office.” Sam struggled with himself for a moment and was glad when right triumphed. “And thanks for letting me off the hook on false arrest. You could have made it tough.”

  Virgil Tibbs started to hold out his hand and then, to Sam’s immense relief, shifted his coat to his other arm instead. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Wood. I know you would extend me the same courtesy in Pasadena.”

  For a moment Sam was ashamed of the fact that if Tibbs had held out his hand, he would have had to look away. What with Pete there and all that. But Tibbs had saved him the embarrassment, and for that he was grateful. He left to carry out his unpleasant errand.

  Tibbs walked back down the corridor to Gillespie’s office. “Mr. Wood said you wanted to see me,” he said.

  Gillespie waved him to a chair against the wall. “I’ve sent for some breakfast for you. You can wait here until it comes; the boys are pretty busy right now. Meanwhile we’ve caught our murderer.”

  “You have a confession?” Tibbs inquired.

  “Don’t need one,” Gillespie retorted. “I’ve just read the folder on him. Nineteen years old and in trouble twice already. Once petty theft and once for playing around with a girl named Delores Purdy. He had Mantoli’s wallet on him.”

  “It sounds like a good start,” Virgil Tibbs agreed.

  “You’ll see how good a start it is,” Gillespie declared, and reached for his intercom. “Send Oberst in here,” he ordered.

  While he was waiting, Gillespie flashed a look toward Tibbs. “Do you know what ‘poor white trash’ means down here, Virgil?” he asked.

  “I’ve heard the term,” Tibbs replied.

  There were footsteps in the corridor and then a short, chunky policeman shoved a grown boy into the office. The prisoner was wearing handcuffs. He was too slender for even his moderate height. His blue denim pants fitted him so tightly that the awkward angles of his legs were outlined in sharp relief. His eyes were blinking rapidly—looking about him, down to his manacled hands, at Gillespie, and then back to his hands once more. He seemed to sway on his feet, as though balancing upright was a conscious effort almost beyond his skill.

  Gillespie drew himself up and roared at the prisoner. “Sit down!”

  Harvey Oberst sat down simply by letting his body go limp in front of the chair. His thin buttocks hit the hard seat with a bump, but he didn’t seem to care. He rested his hands in his lap and let his head fall to one side as though there was no point in trying to hold it upright any longer.

  The seconds ticked on as Bill Gillespie waited for the prisoner to become fully intimidated. Oberst, however, didn’t react.

  Gillespie looked up at the arresting officer. “Have you got it?” he demanded.

  The stocky policeman reached inside his tunic and produced a heavily tooled wallet thick with its contents. Gillespie took it, examined it in detail, and peered at the identification cards which it contained. “You can take the cuffs off him,” he said almost conversationally.

  As soon as he was released from the handcuffs, Harvey Oberst began to rub his wrists, first one and then the other, but he said nothing.

  “Whatcha do it for?” Gillespie demanded.

  Oberst drew breath and lifted his head up. “Because it was just lying there. Right where I could see it. Full of money. I looked; he was dead and couldn’t use it. It was just lying there. If I hadn’t a taken it, somebody else would of. I needed it bad; so I took it.” He paused. “That’s all,” he added apologetically.

  “That is, after you killed him,” Gillespie prompted.

  The prisoner jumped to his feet, his face twisted so tightly that he seemed to be in sudden acute pain. “I took his wallet,” he screamed. “Because he was dead I took his wallet. I needed it, bad—but I didn’t kill him!” His voice cracked on the last words so that he croaked them out, robbed of any strength of meaning.

  Oberst tried again. With his left forefinger he thumped himself on the chest. “I didn’t kill him, I wouldn’t of had to kill him even if I wanted to grab his dough. He was a real little guy, I seen him before. I could’ve handled him easy if I’d wanted to. I just picked up his wallet, I tell you!” Suddenly he gave up and dropped back into the chair. This time he let his head roll forward until his chin almost touched his chest.

  Bill Gillespie waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Book him,” he ordered. “Suspicion of murder.” He rocked back in his chair as far as he dared and stared at the ceiling. He continued to look there until the prisoner had been taken away.

  When a cell door could be heard clanging shut a few moments later, Gillespie relaxed visibly and looked at Virgil Tibbs, who still sat on the uncomfortable chair at the side of the room. “Well, that clears it up,” he commented.

  “It helps,” Tibbs agreed.

  “How much more help do you want?” Gillespie asked, his voice somewhat closer to a normal level for a change.

  “It eliminates the superficial motive,” Tibbs replied, “it means digging a little deeper. I expected it, but it is an advantage to see it confirmed.”

  Gillespie swiveled to face Tibbs, an amused smile dawning on his face. “Don’t tell me you bought that kid’s story. I thought you were supposed to be the hotshot cop, the deadly manhunter, the Sherlock of the Pacific. If you’re a cop, I’m an anteater.”

  Arnold appeared in the doorway carrying a waxed-paper-wrapped sandwich in one hand and a paper container of coffee in the other. Without comment he handed them to Tibbs, then turned toward his chief. “Is he our boy?” he asked.

  Gillespie waved his hand toward Tibbs, who was unwrapping his sandwich. “Ask him,” he suggested.

  Arnold looked obediently at Tibbs. “Well?” he asked.

  “He’s innocent of the murder, I’m almost certain of that,” Tibbs replied.

  “Now tell him why,” Gillespie invited.

  “Because he’s left-handed,” Tibbs answered, and bit into his sandwich.

  Arnold looked at Gillespie. “Go on,” he said.

  Tibbs waited a moment until his mouth was empty. “When I examined the body of the deceased this morning,” Tibbs explained patiently, “it was evident that the fatal blow h
ad been struck by a blunt instrument at an angle of about seventeen degrees from the right as the skull is viewed from the rear. That makes it almost certain that the assailant was right-handed. If you’ll pick up your desk ruler for a moment by one end, Chief Gillespie, I’ll explain the point.”

  To Arnold’s utter amazement, Gillespie complied.

  “Now imagine that you want to strike something with it at about the level of your own shoulders, or even a little higher. If you hold the ruler tightly, you will see that it is almost impossible to hold it straight out; your wrist isn’t built that way. If you want to point it toward the right, you will have to turn your hand over, palm up, to do it. Even to hit straight ahead, you have to turn your wrist ninety degrees.”

  Gillespie looked at the stick in his hand and then laid it back on top of his desk. “And you think Oberst is left-handed,” he said.

  “I know he is,” the Negro replied. “You remember when he thumped himself in the chest when he was trying to defend himself. Even if he was ambidextrous, he would still use his primary hand to do that, and he thumped himself with his left forefinger. I noticed when he walked in that he was probably innocent, but that confirmed it, in my judgment.” Tibbs took another bite from his sandwich and moistened it with a sip of the thick black coffee.

  “I didn’t ask if you wanted sugar,” Arnold said.

  “This is fine, thank you,” Tibbs replied.

  “You just looked at that guy and decided that he was probably innocent. What was that, intuition?” Gillespie asked.

  “No, his shoes,” Tibbs answered, “and the fact that he needed a shave.”

  Suddenly Gillespie fell silent. Arnold waited for his superior to ask why shoes and a shave were important. Then he realized that Gillespie would not do that; it would be a comedown for him and Bill Gillespie did not take kindly to come-downs. Arnold cleared his throat.

  He waited until Tibbs had his mouth empty between bites and then asked, “Why?”

  “Consider the circumstances of the attack,” Tibbs replied. “Mantoli was hit over the head from behind. That means that he was either assaulted by someone he knew and trusted, who stepped behind him for a moment and then hit him, or, more likely, someone sneaked up on him quietly enough to hit him without warning. If Mantoli had been warned, even by a second, he would have turned his head somewhat and the blow would have landed at a different angle on the skull.”

  “I can see that,” Arnold agreed.

  “The suspect is wearing hard leather heels,” Tibbs continued, “and he has steel plates on them to make them wear longer. In those shoes every step he takes is noisy and he couldn’t possibly have made a surprise attack with them on.”

  “A man can change his shoes any time,” Gillespie interrupted.

  “You’re correct, of course, Chief Gillespie,” Tibbs agreed, “but you mentioned to me that this man is ‘poor white trash,’ which suggests that he has only a limited number of pairs of shoes and doesn’t change them too often. Judging by the stubble on his chin I would guess that he was up all night. If he went home to change his shoes, he would probably shave, too. He does so regularly; there were razor nicks under his chin that showed that.”

  “I didn’t see them,” Gillespie challenged.

  “I’m sitting at a lower angle than you are, Chief Gillespie,” Tibbs answered, “and the light was much better from my side.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Virgil,” Gillespie retorted. “Incidentally, Virgil is a pretty fancy name for a black boy like you. What do they call you around home where you come from?”

  “They call me Mr. Tibbs,” Virgil answered.

  Sam Wood drove slowly as he guided his patrol car up the road that led to the Endicott place. Although the sun was blazing down now, the intense heat seemed more bearable, largely because he expected the days to be hot. The thing that bothered him was the hot nights, for somehow the darkness and the setting of the sun ought to bring relief. When they didn’t, the discomfort seemed twice as great.

  The road climbed steadily. The main section of Wells was now several hundred feet below and there was still a distance to go to reach the very top of the hill where the Endicotts had their home. Sam knew where it was, as did nearly everyone in Wells, since the Endicotts were known to have money, but he had never met them or been to their home. As he drove he tried to form in his mind the sentences that he would use in breaking the news. It would not be easy. Somehow he imagined that Mantoli’s daughter, the Endicotts’ house guest, did not have a mother. Now she would be all alone in the world—unless, of course, she had a husband. Probably she did, he decided; Italian girls married early, had too many kids, and got fat.

  The road leveled off at the top of the hill, ending at a small parking lot which Sam quickly estimated would hold six or eight cars. He parked carefully and closed the door quietly as he stepped to the ground. The sun seemed brighter up here, but the air, he thought, was not quite as hot. It was a magnificent location; despite the seriousness of his errand, Sam could not help being moved by the sweeping panoramic view of the Great Smokies. Long rows of serrated mountains lifted their peaks all the way to the distant horizon. Sam walked toward the front door, which opened for him before he had an opportunity to ring.

  He was received by a woman who waited, with an air of both hospitality and restraint, for him to state his business. Sam liked her immediately. She was well into her fifties, but the years which she had lived had treated her with great respect. In a quiet, tasteful linen dress, her body was molded into the same contours that had been attractive thirty years before. Her face was unwrinkled, her hair was beautifully cut and shaped. She waited while Sam took the last steps to reach the doorstep.

  “Mrs. Endicott?” he asked, suddenly conscious that his chin would be rough with an eighteen-hour growth of beard.

  “Yes, Officer, what can I do for you?”

  Sam made a fast decision. “May I see Mr. Endicott, please?”

  Grace Endicott stepped back and held the door open. “Come in,” she invited. “I’ll get him for you.”

  Sam walked in, conscious of being out of his element. He followed his hostess into a long, bright living room, the left wall of which was almost entirely glass. The opposite wall was covered with long shelves that reached from floor to ceiling and held the largest collection of books and record albums that Sam had ever seen.

  “Sit down, won’t you, please,” Mrs. Endicott invited, and then walked quickly from the room. Sam looked about him at the big, comfortable-looking chairs and decided to remain on his feet. He told himself that it would all be over in ten minutes, maybe even less, and then he could get back into his car and drive down into town once more.

  Sam turned as his host walked into the room. Endicott showed his age more than did his wife, but he carried his years with a calm dignity. He belonged in his house, and the house in turn specifically belonged to him. They fitted each other as certain captains fit the ships which they command. While Sam waited for the man to speak, he wished for a moment that his position was such that he could have these people for his friends. Then he remembered what he had to do.

  “I believe you wished to see me.” Endicott made it an invitation.

  “Yes, sir. I believe you know a Mr. Mantoli?” Sam knew it wasn’t good, but he had started now, and couldn’t retreat.

  “Yes, we know Maestro Mantoli very well. I hope he is not in any trouble?”

  Sam reached up and removed his uniform cap, ashamed that he had forgotten to do so until now. “Yes and no, Mr. Endicott.” Sam flushed. There was nothing for it now but to state the facts. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you … that he has been killed.”

  Endicott rested his hand for a moment on the back of a chair and then sank into it, his eyes focused far away. “Enrico dead. I can’t believe it.” Sam stood awkwardly still and waited for Endicott to recover himself.

  “This is dreadful, Officer,” Endicott said finally. “He was ou
r close and dear friend; his daughter is a guest here now. I …” Sam cursed the day he had left his job at the garage to become a police officer. Then Endicott turned to him. “How did the accident happen?” he asked very quietly.

  This time Sam found better words. “Unfortunately, sir, it was not an accident. Mr. Mantoli was attacked early this morning in the downtown area. We don’t know yet by whom or how. I found his body around four this morning.” Sam wanted to say something else. “I’m terribly sorry to have to bring you this news,” he added, hoping that the words would somehow help to lessen the shock to the man who sat before him.

  “You mean,” Endicott said very carefully, “he was murdered.”

  Sam nodded, grateful that he didn’t have to put it into words.

  Endicott rose. “I had better tell my wife,” he said. To Sam it seemed as if the man had suddenly grown tired, not the weariness of a single day, but the kind of fatigue that sinks into the bones and remains there like a disease.