In the Heat of the Night (RosettaBooks into Film)

by John Ball

  Sam swung the car down Main Street and let the soft purr of the engine blend with the stillness of the night. He watched the picket fence of parking meters go by and then he paused to draw up to the curb across from the Simon Pharmacy. “Is it safe to stop here tonight?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Virgil answered him. Sam touched the brake gently and let the car drift almost by itself over toward the curb. When he stopped, the wheels were an even two inches away from the concrete facing. He picked up his clipboard to write.

  “We’ve got company,” Virgil said.

  Sam looked up, startled. Then he saw movement in the thick, silent shadows which filled the store entrance. A figure stepped out of the blackness and walked toward them. It was a very tall man, but he walked without making much noise. An instant later, Sam recognized Bill Gillespie.

  The police chief bent down and rested his forearms on the windowsill of the car. “How is it going with you guys?” he asked.

  Sam found his tongue thick; it was hard to answer. “All right so far. Nothing unusual. Couple of lights on, but no indication of any trouble.”

  Gillespie reached down and pulled the rear door open. “I think I’d like to ride along for a while,” he said. He climbed in and shut the door. “Not much room back here,” he added as his knees pressed against the rear of the front seat.

  Sam reached his left hand down and notched the seat forward an inch or two to make more room in back. “Where would you like to go?” he asked.

  “I don’t care,” Gillespie said. “Virgil said he was going to point out the murderer to you tonight and I’d like to see him do it, that’s all.”

  Sam stole a look at the silent man beside him. The realization had just come that for the first time in his police career he had a partner. And despite his color, Sam felt he could rely on him. Virgil could think and he could handle himself. Both might be necessary before the night was over.

  Sam slipped the car into gear, crossed the highway, and entered the shanty ville section of the city. He drove slowly and looked as usual for dogs that might be sleeping in the street. He saw one and made a careful detour.

  The garage of Jess the mechanic was silent and dark. So was the little parsonage of Reverend Amos Whiteburn. There was a night light showing in the combination office and residence of Dr. Harding, who ministered to the physical needs of the colored citizens of Wells. The car bumped across the railroad tracks and started up the street that led to the Purdy house. Sam debated what to do. Then he went ahead; after what had happened, everything should be quiet tonight. The Purdy house was dark and still.

  “There’s an odd feeling to this time of night,” Gillespie said.

  Sam nodded his agreement. “I always notice it,” he answered. “It’s a miasma in the air.”

  “A what?” Gillespie asked.

  “I’m sorry. A certain feeling, a kind of atmosphere.”

  “That’s what I meant,” Gillespie commented. “Don’t the Purdys live around here somewhere?”

  “We just passed their house,” Sam told him.

  He drove on another three blocks and then turned toward the highway. He slowed up for the stop that he always made even though the street was usually deserted at this hour. This time there was a car coming and he waited for it to pass. As it did so, the overhead street light outlined it enough so that Sam recognized it. It was Eric Kaufmann’s, or one exactly like it.

  Sam turned and followed in the direction of the diner. “I usually stop about now for my break,” he explained.

  “That’s OK with me,” Gillespie said.

  Sam picked up speed and kept the car ahead of him in sight. As they neared the city limits, the other car slowed and turned into the diner parking lot. Sam slowed down and allowed Kaufmann enough time to get inside before he drove into the lot. Sam and Gillespie got out.

  “What about Virgil?” Gillespie asked.

  “I’ll wait here,” Tibbs said.

  “What would you like me to get you?” Sam asked him.

  “Nothing, I guess. If I think of something, I’ll let you know.”

  Sam and Gillespie walked into the diner.

  Eric Kaufmann looked up in surprise when they entered. Then he got to his feet to shake hands. “This is quite an unexpected pleasure,” he said.

  “For us, too,” Gillespie added. “How come you’re here at this hour?” It was a friendly question, but there was an undertone to it which suggested that Gillespie really wanted to know the answer.

  “I just came in from Atlanta,” Kaufmann explained. “I’ve gotten in the habit of driving at night. It’s cooler that way and there’s less traffic on the road.”

  “I see,” Gillespie said as he sat down. “Any news?”

  “Definitely,” Kaufmann replied. “I’ve managed to line up a big-name conductor, one of the very best, to take over in Enrico’s place. I’m not telling you who he is because I want George Endicott to be the first to know. And the ticket sales are excellent. You are going to have some real crowds here next month.”

  Sam sat down and wondered what to order. He motioned to Ralph, the counterman, to attend to the others while he thought about it. All that would come into his mind was the promise that tonight he would arrest a murderer. His shift was now almost half over and nothing yet gave signs of action. In a little while the daylight would come and when it did the mystery of the night would evaporate. Somehow it seemed to Sam that it would be too late then. The murderer had struck by night; it would have to be at night, or so it seemed, that he would be captured. He became an unreal entity, not a normal person who walks down the street and who looks like everybody else.

  But how do you tell a murderer?

  Sam ordered a root-beer float and toast, a ridiculous combination, he realized a moment later, but he waited while Ralph made it and then just looked at it as it sat in front of him. Then he heard a noise behind him.

  Sam turned to see Virgil Tibbs standing just inside the door. The Negro seemed pathetically weak at that moment, as though he was all too aware that he had ventured where he did not belong.

  Ralph looked up and saw him. “Hey, you, there! Out,” he ordered.

  Virgil hesitated and came a cautious step or two more inside. “Please,” he said, “I’m awfully thirsty. All I want is a glass of milk.”

  Ralph looked quickly at his guests and then back at Tibbs. “You can’t come in here, you know that. Go back outside. When these gentlemen get through, maybe one of them will bring a carton out to you.”

  “I will,” Sam offered.

  Instead of retreating, Virgil walked farther into the forbidden room. “Look,” he said. “I know you have rules down here, but I’m a police officer just like these gentlemen. I don’t have any diseases. All I want is to sit down and have something like the others.”

  Sam drew breath to arbitrate. Virgil was “out of line” for the first time since he had known him and Sam was suffering acutely from secondary embarrassment. Then, before he could speak, Ralph walked around the end of the counter and over to where Virgil was standing.

  “I heard about you,” Ralph said. “You’re Virgil and you don’t come from around here. I know about you. For the sake of these gentlemen I don’t want to get rough, but you’ve gotta leave, if my boss ever hears that I let you walk in the door, he’ll fire me for sure. Now please go.”

  “Why?” Tibbs asked.

  Ralph’s face flushed and his temper snapped. “Because I told you to.” With these words, he put his hand on Virgil’s shoulder and pushed him around.

  Tibbs whirled on the balls of his feet, seized Ralph’s extended arm with both hands, and pulled it behind him in a painful hammerlock.

  Sam could stand no more; he was on his feet and came forward. “Let him go, Virgil,” he said. “It isn’t his fault.”

  Virgil Tibbs seemed not to hear the remark. His hesitant manner had vanished and on the instant he was all business.

  “Here he is, Sam,” he said. “Yo
u can arrest this man for the murder of Enrico Mantoli.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  IT WAS A DIRTY, HOT DAWN which streaked the sky. What colors there were were smoky and the beauty that often comes with the first light of day was not there. Virgil Tibbs sat waiting in the detention room of the police station, reading another paperback book; this one was Anatomy of a Murder.

  After almost three hours, the door of Gillespie’s office opened. There was the sound of footsteps and then the clanging of a cell door. A few moments later, the big man who headed the Wells police department came into the detention room. He sat down and lighted a cigarette. Tibbs waited for him to speak.

  “He signed a confession,” Gillespie said.

  Tibbs put his book down. “I was sure you could do it,” he said. “Did he implicate the abortionist?”

  Gillespie looked slightly startled. “You seem to know all about this, Virgil. I‘d like to know how you doped it all out.”

  “Where’s Sam?” Virgil asked. It was the first time he had used Wood’s first name in Gillespie’s presence.

  Apparently Gillespie didn’t notice it. “He went back out on patrol. Said it was his job.”

  “He’s an exceptionally conscientious officer,” Virgil said, “and that means a great deal. With the music crowds coming here soon, you will be needing more help.”

  “I know it,” Gillespie said.

  “I was thinking that Sam would make a good sergeant. The men could look up to and respect him and Sam is ready for the job.”

  “Are you trying to run my department for me, Virgil?” Gillespie asked.

  “No, I was just thinking that if you did decide on something in that direction, Sam would probably be very grateful to you. Under those circumstances I think he might forget all about the recent inconvenience he went through. Pardon my bringing it up.”

  Gillespie said nothing for a moment. Tibbs waited and let him take his time. “How long ago did you know it was Ralph?” the chief asked finally.

  “Not until yesterday,” Tibbs said. “I’ve got a confession to make, Chief Gillespie: I almost bungled this one beyond recovery. You see, up until yesterday I was hotly in pursuit of the wrong man.”

  The phone rang. The night desk man answered and then called to Gillespie. “It’s for you, Chief,” he said.

  Gillespie rose to his feet and went to see who was calling at a little after seven in the morning. It was George Endicott.

  “I called to ask when you would be in,” Endicott explained. “I didn’t expect to find you at this hour.”

  “You’re an early riser,” Gillespie said.

  “Not normally. Eric Kaufmann called with the news that you and your men have caught Enrico’s murderer. Please accept my very sincere congratulations. I understand you made the arrest personally. That was certainly a fine piece of work.”

  Gillespie remembered some of the resolutions he had made. “The actual arrest was made by Mr. Wood,” Gillespie said. “I was there, that’s all. My part came later when I questioned him until he broke down and confessed.”

  “I still can’t believe you were there by accident,” Endicott said.

  The chief drew a deep breath and did what he had never done before. “You will have to give credit to Virgil; he had a lot to do with it.”

  Now that it was over, it hadn’t been so bad. And Endicott was from the North, which made it easier still.

  “Listen, I’ve talked to Grace and Duena. Although it may be a bit out of place so soon after Enrico’s death, we want to have a quiet gathering here tonight. I hope you can arrange to join us.”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  “Fine, and will you please ask Sam Wood and Virgil Tibbs? I’m sure you’ll see them.”

  That was a little harder to take, but Gillespie made the grade. “I’ll tell them,” he said.

  When he hung up, he reflected that he had met two challenges and had defeated them both. He might as well make it three in a row. And if anyone in the station said anything about it, he could and would deal with them. He walked into the detention room. He looked at Virgil Tibbs and held out his hand.

  Tibbs rose and took it.

  “Virgil,” Gillespie said, “I want to thank you for the help you’ve given us. I’m going to write a letter to Chief Morris and thank him for your services. I’m going to tell him you’ve done a fine job.”

  Gillespie let go of the first Negro hand he had ever clasped. He looked at the man behind it and saw, to his sudden surprise, that his eyes were moist.

  “You’re a man to be admired, Chief Gillespie,” Tibbs said. His voice shook a very little.

  Then it was that Gillespie recalled a famous quotation. He knew it because he had hated it; now, however, it could be of service to him.

  “Thank you, Virgil,” he said. “You’re a great credit to your race.” He paused. “I mean, of course, the human race.”

  At seven-thirty that evening, Bill Gillespie picked up Sam Wood and Virgil Tibbs at the police station in his personal car. The two men climbed in. Tibbs sat in back.

  There was little conversation as they drove up the mountain to the Endicott house; none of them had had very much sleep, but the summons to the gathering had to be obeyed. Gillespie wondered how he would feel at a social function where a Negro was a guest.

  When they arrived, Grace Endicott met them at the door and led them into the big living room, Gillespie first, Sam next, and Virgil bringing up the rear.

  The room was comfortably full. Eric Kaufmann was there, Jennings the banker and his wife, Duena Mantoli, and the Schuberts.

  Sam Wood was vaguely aware of them all; he was acutely aware of Duena, whose beauty tonight almost literally took his breath away. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor, looked at her, and told himself once more that he had held this girl in his arms, and that she had kissed him. Vivid as the memory was, it was clouded with a veil of unreality.

  George Endicott called for order. When it grew quiet and everyone was seated, he took the floor. He held a drink in his hands, which he looked at as he spoke. “This is a rather strange affair,” he said, “but Grace and I wanted you all to come because, on top of crushing misfortune, we have many things to celebrate. We have a conductor for our festival; you all know now who he is. Our tickets are already almost sold out. The orchestra is in rehearsal. Mr. Kaufmann conducted the session yesterday and he tells me that our concerts are going to be of very high quality. So I want to announce that I am asking Mr. Kaufmann if he will favor us by appearing as conductor on at least one of our programs.”

  There was a little ripple of applause. Kaufmann colored and recovered himself. “I’d be proud to,” he replied.

  “Next, we have been looking around for a suitable name for our outdoor theater. In recognition of the fact that it was one man’s energy, ability, and enthusiasm that made it possible, the trustees voted this afternoon to name it the Mantoli Bowl.”

  Everyone looked at Duena; she put her face in her hands and said nothing.

  “I’m sure Duena will consent to dedicate it for us on opening night,” Endicott went on. “Now we come to the third matter, the way in which our police force, augmented by the abilities of a most unusual man, found and arrested the person responsible for the disaster that overtook us. I don’t know how this piece of work was done; I wish somebody would tell me. That is, if this is the proper time and place.”

  “I’d like to know, too,” Frank Schubert seconded.

  “Chief Gillespie?” Endicott invited.

  In a moment of rare clarity, Gillespie saw there was only one thing he could do. He couldn’t tell the story because he didn’t know it. To confess ignorance at this stage of the game was unthinkable. And he realized fully that if he passed the credit to the place where it belonged, his own standing would grow as a result.

  “Mr. Wood and Virgil made up the team who tracked him down,” he said, keeping his voice moderated. “I suggest you ask them about it.”


  That, Gillespie thought, should square him with Sam for some time to come.

  George Endicott looked at Sam. “Mr. Wood?” he said.

  “Ask Virgil,” Sam replied with genuine humility. “He did it.”

  “Mr. Tibbs.” Endicott looked over to where the quiet Negro sat by himself. “You have the floor. I understand you are leaving us later tonight. Please don’t go without telling us the rest.”

  Tibbs looked at Gillespie. “Go ahead, Virgil,” the chief said.

  “This is extremely embarrassing,” Tibbs said. He looked as if he meant it.