In the Heat of the Night (RosettaBooks into Film)

by John Ball

  For the first time Tibbs appeared to notice that Oberst was present. “I bought them from a white man,” he answered.

  Harvey Oberst turned his attention now to his cellmate and looked him up and down with unconcealed appraisal. “You been to school?” he asked.

  Tibbs nodded slowly. “College.”

  Oberst bristled. “You think you’re smart or something?”

  Virgil Tibbs continued to look at his locked fingers. “I graduated.”

  The silence returned for a moment.

  “Where’d they let you go to college?”

  “In California.”

  Oberst shifted his position and lifted his feet up onto the hard surface of the bunk. “Out there they don’t care what they do.”

  Tibbs ignored the comment. “Who’s Delores Purdy?” he asked.

  Oberst leaned forward. “None of your business,” he snapped. “She’s a white girl.”

  Tibbs unfolded his hands, swung around, and put his own feet on the bunk exactly as Oberst had done. “Either you answer my question,” he said, “or take your chances on being hanged for murder.”

  “Don’t you give me any of your lip, black boy,” Harvey snarled. “You ain’t nobody and you ain’t never going to be nobody. High school or college don’t make you white and you know it.”

  “I don’t especially want to be white,” Tibbs said, “but white or black, it doesn’t make much difference when you’re at the end of a rope. And after you’ve rotted for a few months in the ground—say, a little more than a year from now—no one will know or care what color your skin was. You won’t have a skin anymore. Is that the way you want it?”

  Oberst pulled his knees up close to his chest and clasped his arms around them as though to protect himself. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded. But there was fear in his voice and the arrogance with which he tried to replace it didn’t come off.

  “I’m a cop. I’m after the man who killed the one you robbed. Whether you believe it or not, that’s so. I also happen to be the only one around here who thinks you might not be guilty of murder. So you’d better back me up because I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

  “You ain’t no cop,” Oberst said after a pause.

  Tibbs reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small white card sealed in plastic. “I work in Pasadena; I’m an investigator. Call it detective if you like. I’ve been loaned to the police department here to find out who killed Mantoli—that’s the dead man you found. Never mind how or why. Either you gamble on me or stand trial for murder.”

  Oberst remained silent.

  Tibbs waited a long minute. “Who is Delores Purdy?” he asked again.

  Oberst made his decision. “She’s a girl who lives near where I do. One of a whole flock of kids.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen, almost seventeen.”

  “You know what we call that kind in California? San Quentin quail,” Tibbs said.

  Oberst reacted quickly. “I got in trouble with her, but not that way.”

  “What happened?”

  Oberst didn’t answer.

  “I can go out and look up the record,” Tibbs reminded him. “I’d rather get it from you.”

  Oberst accepted defeat. “This Delores, she’s young but real stacked, if you know what I mean. A real hot sweatergirl type.”

  “There’re lots of those,” Tibbs commented.

  “Yeah, but this Delores is real proud of what nature done for her. She likes to show off. I took her on a date to Clarke’s Pond. We weren’t plannin’ nothing wrong; I don’t want to join no chain gang.”

  Tibbs nodded.

  “Anyhow, she asks me if I don’t think she’s got a nice figure, and when I say yes, she decides to show me.”

  “It was her idea?” Tibbs asked.

  “Like you said, her idea. I didn’t mess her up or anything like that; I just didn’t try to stop her.”

  “Not too many people would blame you for that, but it was pretty dangerous.”

  “Maybe so. Anyhow, she gets half undressed and right then a cop comes out of the bushes. I get hauled in.”

  “How about the girl?”

  “She got sent home.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “After a while they let me go, told me never to mess around with that girl anymore.”

  “Have you seen her since?”

  “Sure, she lives on Third Street at the corner of Polk. I live half a block from there. I see her all the time. She wants another date.”

  “That’s all that happened?”

  “Nothin’ else, so help me.”

  Tibbs got to his feet, took hold of the bars of the cell and swung his weight backward so as to pull at the cramped muscles of his arms. Then he walked back and sat down again.

  “Do you shave every day?” he asked.

  Surprised, Oberst felt his chin. “Usually I do. I didn’t this morning; I been up all night.”

  “How come?”

  “I went up to Canville to see a guy I know there. We … had a couple of dates.”

  “Then you got back here pretty late?”

  “Sometime around two, maybe later. That’s when I found the guy in the road.”

  “Exactly what did you do? Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear; just tell me what really happened.”

  “Well, this here guy was lying on his face on the road. I stopped to see if I could help him. But he was dead.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Well, I just knew, that’s all.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I seen his wallet lying on the road, maybe four or five feet from him.”

  Virgil Tibbs leaned forward. “That’s very important,” he emphasized. “I don’t care whether you found the wallet or whether you took it out of his pocket, it makes no difference. But are you absolutely sure you found it on the road beside him?”

  “I swear I did,” Oberst answered.

  “Then you did,” Tibbs conceded. “What happened after that?”

  “I picked it up and looked quick inside. I seen a lot of money. I figured he couldn’t use it anymore, and if I left it there, whoever came along next would grab it.”

  “That’s probably right,” Tibbs agreed. “Now how did you get caught with it on you?”

  “Well, I got worried about it on account of the guy had been killed. If anybody found me with the wallet, I could be in awful bad trouble. So I went to see Mr. Jennings. He’s head man at the bank and I know him because I work for him weekends. I told him about it. He said it would have to be reported and he called the cops. So I got stuck in here anyway. Now I don’t know what I’ll get.”

  Tibbs got to his feet. “Leave it to me,” he advised. “If your story holds up, you’re all right.” He called loudly enough to be heard and waited for Arnold to come and let him out.

  Shortly thereafter Tibbs went to the weather bureau and checked the rainfall records for the last month.

  Bill Gillespie looked up from his desk to see his new assistant from Pasadena standing in the doorway. He did not want to see Virgil Tibbs; he did not want to see anybody. He wanted to go home, wash up, get something to eat, and go to bed. It was late in the working day and he had been on duty since the very early hours of the morning.

  “Well, what is it?” he demanded.

  Tibbs walked in a short way, but did not sit down. “Since you put me in charge of the investigation of Mantoli’s death, Chief Gillespie, I’d like to ask you to release Harvey Oberst.”

  “Why?” Gillespie made the question a challenge.

  “He’s not guilty of the murder, I’m sure of that, and for more reasons than I gave you this morning. Technically you could hold him for grand theft for taking the wallet, but I checked with Mr. Jennings at the bank and he confirmed Oberst’s story that he turned the wallet in to him—at least he asked Jennings’ advice about it. With a responsible citizen to testify, you’d never get
a conviction against Oberst.”

  Gillespie waved one hand to show that he assumed no responsibility. “All right, let him go. It’s your responsibility. He looked like a good suspect to me.”

  “I don’t want a suspect,” Tibbs replied. “I want a murderer. Oberst, I’m sure, isn’t our man. Thank you, sir.”

  As Tibbs left the room, Gillespie noted with some satisfaction that at least he had known enough to say “sir.” He got up and scowled at the papers on his desk. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked out through the lobby. It was Virgil’s responsibility and whatever else happened, he, Gillespie, was in the clear.

  At a few minutes past midnight, Sam Wood climbed into his patrol car, checked the gas gauge to be sure the tank had been filled, and drove out of the police parking lot. He had ahead of him eight hours alone with the city, which would soon be asleep. But things were different tonight. Somewhere, probably still within the city, there was a killer. A killer to whom human life was not as important as something he wanted.

  Tonight, Sam resolved, as he swung west on his accustomed route, he would keep his eyes and ears open as he had never done before. He let his imagination take hold briefly while he visualized trapping and catching a murderer so clearly guilty of his crime that it would show the moment he marched him into the police station.

  But it didn’t work that way, Sam told himself. Everything was on the killer’s side. He could hide where he chose, unknown and unseen, strike at a time and place of his own choosing. Perhaps, Sam thought, the unknown killer might seize on the idea that somehow he, Sam, had seen too much. In that case the killer would be out for him—tonight. Sam reached down carefully and for the first time since he had put on a police uniform, loosened his sidearm in its holster. It would be a long eight hours.

  As the car wove westward through the already silent and deserted streets, Sam had a sudden idea. To put it into effect might be dangerous and it would be definitely exceeding his authority. It might even be called a neglect of duty. Despite all of these objections, he knew almost at once he was going to do it anyway. He swung the car around a corner and headed for the dirt road that led up to the Endicott place.

  When the wheels of the car bit into the gravel, Sam was as calmly determined as he had ever been in his life. Mantoli was dead; no one knew why. Whatever the reason, it might apply also to his daughter. Sam thought of the girl who had sat beside him looking out over the mountains, and almost wished that the killer would prowl again tonight, but not until he, Sam, got there first.

  As the road climbed upward, the air seemed to grow cooler and cleaner. Sam switched on the bright lights and swung the car expertly around the curves of the semiprivate road.

  It was a flicker of light against a white guard rail that first told him that another car was coming in the opposite direction.

  At a point where the road widened slightly, Sam pulled over, switched his headlights to parking position, and waited. He reached for the flashlight that was clipped to the steering column and held it ready in his left hand. The headlights of the approaching car threw a brighter loom into the sky; as they came into view, Sam, on impulse, switched on his red spotlight. The driver of the other car hit his brakes and pulled up opposite. Sam stabbed him with the beam of the flashlight, and as the driver threw up his arm to shield his eyes, Sam recognized Eric Kaufmann.

  “What are you doing on this road at this hour?” Sam demanded.

  “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, Sa
m 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.