by John Ball
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.
CHAPTER
7
BILL GILLESPIE 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 no
t 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.”
“What is your security clearance, Mr. Gottschalk?” Tibbs asked.
“Secret and Q.”
“Then you have done, or are doing, nuclear work.”
“Yes, that’s right. Our company has several contracts in the field.”
“To clear up a point, may I ask why you were driving at that hour instead of flying down or possibly taking the train?”
“That’s a reasonable question, Mr. Tibbs. I drove down this time because I hoped to have my wife join me and we would take a week on the Keys after the shoot. That is, if it went well. I can only say generally that after the shoot it was necessary for me to go back to the plant, which is why I am here now.”
“In other words, you drove down so you would have your car available in case Mrs. Gottschalk could join you for a week’s vacation?”
“Exactly.”
“And the reason for driving that late?”
“The heat. It was fierce. I don’t have air-conditioning in the car, so I chose to drive at night, at least as much as I safely could, in order to be a little more comfortable.”
“Then the only thing left to ask you, sir, is whether or not, in driving through Wells, you noticed anything unusual in any way. I’m assuming you didn’t see a body in the road or you would have stopped. But did you see anything else that might be helpful? Any pedestrians? Any signs of any sort of activity?”
Gottschalk shook his head. “I’m not trying to hold out on you to avoid involvement, but I truthfully didn’t see anything at all. In fact, if you will excuse my saying so, the town appeared completely dead to me.”
Tibbs rose. “You have been very helpful, sir, and we appreciate your willingness to take the time on our behalf.”
Gottschalk swung to his feet. “Am I free to go now?”
“Of course, sir. Technically you were free to go at any time and did not need to come here. I hope it was made clear to you that this was strictly a request.”
“Frankly,” Gottschalk replied, “that wasn’t the impression I got. I thought I had fallen into one of those local speed traps or trick-ordinance gimmicks that you hear about. I fully expected to have to pay a fine.”
“Chief Gillespie and the other responsible leaders of this city don’t do things like that. Let me say officially that you are not under suspicion in any way.”
“That’s a relief; I wish all cops were like you. And if I may say so without offense, I’m glad to see that democracy has hit the South in something besides the political sense. Good-bye, gentlemen.”
The office cleared, but Gillespie motioned to Tibbs to remain. He did not invite him to sit down again, so Tibbs stood waiting until the others were well out of range. Then Gillespie picked up a pencil and began to roll it between his fingers. “Virgil, I let you go ahead with the interview since you are supposed to be handling this case, but do you think it was the smart thing to tell that man that he was officially clear of any suspicion? He works for a very important company. If he reports that back to them, and he might do just that, then what are you going to do if you find out he knows more than he told us just now?” Gillespie leaned back in his chair. “Consider this if you haven’t already. This man drove south through town, by his own admission right past the place where Sam found the body—I mean where Mr. Wood found the body. And no other car was seen to go either way after that. Sure he doesn’t look guilty on the face of it, but he was at the scene of the crime at approximately the time of the crime. You remember, don’t you, what the doctor said about the time of Mantoli’s death. He fixed the time at just about the very moment that your friend Gottschalk was driving through. And you told him he was officially cleared of all suspicion.”
If Tibbs was ruffled, he failed to show it. “Those are very reasonable points you raised, Chief Gillespie, and I would agree with you completely except for one thing.”
“And what’s that, Virgil?”
“The fact that Mantoli wasn’t killed where his body was found.”
CHAPTER
8
AT FOUR O’CLOCK that afternoon, Sam Wood checked in at the station to see what was up. He caught a knowing look from Pete, now on day duty, as he walked in the door, so Sam headed for the washroom and in a few moments Pete joined him.
“Your friend Virgil put Gillespie over the barrel for good this morning,” Pete confided.
Sam bent over and made sure that the small toilet cubicles were empty. “What happened?” he asked.
“As near as I can get it, Gillespie dug up another suspect and Virgil sent him down the chute, too.”
“Another suspect?” Sam inquired.
“Yeah; some guy who was driving through that night just as the murder was taking place. Ralph, the kid out at the diner, spotted him and Gillespie had him brought in. Then he turned it over to Virgil and Virgil let him loose.”
“And Gillespie let him get away with it?” ”Yep. Virgil and Gillespie had a little talk afterward ….
“I’ll bet they did.”
“No, you don’t get me—a real nice friendly talk. Virgil told Gillespie something; when Arnold went past the door, there was Gillespie, as meek as Moses, listening to Virgil explain it to him. Arnold didn’t get the drift, but it must have been something good.”
“Maybe we could ask Virgil about it. Ask him if there are any developments. Show interest in his work.”
“Is he here?”
“No, he’s been out all day. Took that old car he’s got and left. No one knows where he is.”
“Maybe he got lonesome and went down to find some nice black girl to shack up with him.” As soon as he had uttered the words, Sam was ashamed of himself. He wished he hadn’t said them.
“I don’t know,” Pete answered slowly. “He’s awful smart for a black boy. I bet he’s working on the case somehow.”
Sam made amends, and was glad he could. “I was just kiddin’. Virgil’s all right. It wouldn’t fool me if he came out on top on this thing.”
“If he does, Gillespie’ll take it away from him.”
“Well, anyway, he’s no dope.”
“Smartest black I ever saw,” Pete concluded; then he added a remarkable tribute. “He oughta been a white man.”
Sam nodded his agreement.
Reverend Amos Whiteburn, despite the heat of the day and the presumed informality of his own home, wore clerical black. The parlor was poor and dingy; what furniture there was had not been new for decades. The cheap rug was threadbare and the window curtains totally disillusioned. Nevertheless the tiny
room was clean and was as presentable as its furnishings would permit.
“As long as I have been in this community,” Reverend Whiteburn said in a commanding bass voice, “this is the first time that I have ever been consulted by the police. I take it as an honor.”
“Perhaps,” Virgil Tibbs suggested, “your spiritual leadership has been such that there has never been any need.”
“Extremely kind of you, Mr. Tibbs, but I’m afraid I know to the contrary. Have you spent much time in the South?”
“No more than I have to,” Tibbs admitted. “My mother lives here. I’m trying to persuade her to move to California, where I can give her a better home, but she is elderly and has other children on the East Coast.”