by John Ball
“Yes, sir.” The boy knew that he had been trapped.
“Did you bring him here just to tease him a little—to show him how much better your home was than the place where he lives?”
Billy’s answer was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”
Ralph Hotchkiss stirred in his seat, but was wise enough this time to remain silent.
“Billy,” Tibbs looked at him steadily, “did you ever try to be a friend to Johnny McGuire? Any time at all?”
“I guess not.”
Tibbs eased the pressure. “That’s all right, there’s no reason why you should if you didn’t want to. It’s your privilege to choose your own friends. But Johnny McGuire has been here and does know where you live.”
“Yes, I remember now—when he was here he said that there’s only one bathroom in his apartment. That’s how I found out about that.”
“Good, I’m glad that you remembered. Now why do you think that you are in physical danger from Johnny McGuire?”
Billy responded to the letup in pressure as Virgil had intended he should. He felt that he could talk and be believed.
“Johnny called me up on the phone. I don’t know how he got the number, but he called. Then he said a funny thing—he said that I had killed his radio. That’s what he said, ‘killed.’ Then he said that he was going to kill me.”
“A lot of children say things like that.”
Billy lifted his face and revealed that tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks. “But he means it, Mr. Tibbs. He told me that he was coming to get me.”
He stopped to be sure that everyone understood.
“He said that he was going to kill me.” The tears came now in a torrent. “He said that he had taken his father’s gun, and that he had it with him.”
3
Virgil Tibbs knew, to his sorrow, that such a thing was entirely possible. He hoped fervently that it was not the case this time, but he could not afford to take any chances. “May I use the phone?” he asked.
“Of course,” Hotchkiss answered him. “If you would like privacy, there’s an extension in my den.” He got quickly to his feet, showed him the way, and then carefully closed the door of the study behind him as he left.
The atmosphere in the living room remained still and tense until Virgil reappeared. “I’ve made some arrangements,” he announced. “Officer Rothberg is going to remain here with you for a little while if you don’t mind. I think it’s desirable.”
“So do I,” Hotchkiss agreed.
“After I find out where he lives I’m going over to see the McGuire boy; it’s getting close to the dinner hour and I expect that will bring him home. As soon as I have any definite information, I’ll phone you here.”
“Let me give you the number,” Hotchkiss volunteered, reaching for his wallet.
“I already have it, thank you. Officer Rothberg will be responsible in the meantime; I suggest that you follow any instructions that he may give you.”
“We will,” Estelle Hotchkiss promised.
When Mike McGuire arrived home that evening he was in a dark and silent mood. He disappeared into the bathroom briefly and then returned to sit wrapped in his own thoughts in the small living room. When his wife came to tell him that his dinner was ready and waiting, he responded mechanically. As she set his plate in front of him he did not even appear to see his food. “Where’s Johnny?” he asked.
“He went out to play,” Maggie answered. “He hasn’t come back yet.”
The two of them sat down to the business of eating, but there was no sense of companionship and no attempt at conversation. Maggie had no idea what might be wrong, but ten years of marriage to this man had taught her not to probe. She waited several minutes for him to break the silence. “I don’t like the kid bein’ out like this,” he said at last. “He oughta be home eatin’ his dinner.”
“He can’t be long,” Maggie said. “He’s usually always here when he should be.”
“He come home from school all right?” Mike asked.
She nodded. “He stayed a little while and then went out again.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
Mike pondered for a moment. “Probably the Angels lost. He’s nuts about that ball team.”
It was almost an insult to tell her that, as though she did not know the first thing about her own child. She opened her mouth to say something and then quickly shut it again when she saw that her husband was about to speak once more. When he did, his tone was low.
“I went down this noon to pay that ticket that I got. Well, Maggie, it ain’t so good; the cop put me down for reckless driving and I’ve got to go to court. The boss belongs to the motor club so I called them and they said that it could cost as much as five hundred dollars.”
Maggie’s breath stopped dead in her throat.
“Mike!” she gasped.
“I know,” her husband answered. “It was my damn foul luck that that cop was up on the bridge and saw me. He didn’t see the other guy of course, when he did what he did—they never do. Anyhow his car hit the divider, I didn’t know that, and it was bent up some.”
“Will we have to pay for that too?”
“We’ve got insurance.” Awkwardly he reached out and took her hand, something he had not done in years. “I’m gonna tell the judge that I thought the fellow in the lane to my left was goin’ to pull over and that I moved to get out of his way. That may help.”
“Will he believe you?”
“He might. Anyhow, I can’t go to court and admit I was just after that guy’s scalp. You know what that would mean.”
“Mike, if he doesn’t believe you, what’ll we do? You’d have to sell the car, then how’d you get to work?”
There was silence for several seconds. “I’ll go to a loan company,” he answered finally. “Maybe you could get something to do, part time while Johnny’s in school. For long enough to pay back the loan, that’s all.”
Maggie blinked, she had no skills she could use to get a job. All she had to offer was herself and besides, Johnny came home just a little after three.
Johnny.
They both remembered at the same moment. “He oughta be here,” Mike declared, as though by the statement he could make him appear.
Maggie got up, opened the outside door, and remained there for a long minute. When she turned back, her face was lined with anxiety. She said nothing, because there was nothing to say.
“He might be asleep in his room.” Mike spoke quickly, then led the way for the few steps to Johnny’s little sanctuary. He was not there. His bed was smooth and undisturbed, just as Maggie had made it for him that morning. They both stood and looked at the narrow empty bed.
“Is his radio there?” Mike asked.
Maggie did not have to search for long to determine that it was gone. While she was looking she came across his little strongbox, which was actually made of light metal and held shut with a toy lock. She left it strictly alone because it held a secret which she shared with her son.
Mike turned toward the other bedroom. He swung the door open quickly, took one look, and saw that it too was empty. He smothered his disappointment with the thought that if his son had been asleep it would have been in his own room. But it had been worth a look.
Then he thought about kidnappers. They picked up children, sometimes without any knowledge of who their parents were or how much they might be able to raise to get them back. Another idea hit him: Johnny was nine now and there were people who were looking for young boys of just about that age. He clamped his teeth together and for one hot instant saw himself throttling to death anyone who would attempt such a thing with his son. Then he forced himself to calm down and remembered that Johnny had only been gone a little more than an hour past the time when he should have been home.
He turned to his wife. “It’s light now to past eight-thirty. He’s forgotten about what time it is; he’s probably playing baseball somewhere. Kids are
like that. Let’s finish dinner.”
Reluctantly Maggie accepted his judgment and went back to the kitchen where the beef stew she had prepared was now cold and congealed. “It’s all right,” Mike said. “I like it this way.” He ate a few mouthfuls in silence, listening for the sound of footsteps on the concrete walkway outside. When he heard them he jumped, although he knew at once that it was not his son who was coming. When he heard the sound of the doorbell he was already on his feet.
He flung the door wide and found himself looking at a slender but well-built Negro who appeared to be in his early thirties.
“Well?” Mike demanded.
“My name is Tibbs,” the man said. “I’m from the Pasadena police. It’s very important that I talk to you and your son immediately.”
“Well Johnny ain’t here!” Mike blazed out the words. Then his chest tightened at the sudden thought that perhaps this black man had news to tell him. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“Nothing—yet. May I come in, please?”
Mike let him in, hostility forming an aura around him. He disliked all policemen automatically, today more than usual.
Maggie looked up and saw the visitor was wearing better clothes than her husband owned. She was dubious of his color, but anxiety overrode her other feelings and she said, “Won’t you sit down, please.”
Virgil Tibbs seated himself quietly at the table and then waited for Mike McGuire to calm down enough to join them.
“As far as we know now your son is all right,” Virgil began. “Can you tell me when you saw him last?”
Maggie pressed the back of her hand against her forehead. “He came home this afternoon after school. He poked around a little while in his room. I didn’t pay much attention; I was ironing. Then he went out again.”
“Has he been out late like this before?”
“Never,” Mike answered.
“Has he any close friends he might be visiting?”
Maggie unwittingly confirmed what Billy Hotchkiss had already said. “He don’t really have any friends here yet. We’re new.”
Tibbs said, “You left Tennessee in February I assume.”
Mike tightened so that the veins of his muscular forearms stood out. “You been checking up on us?” he demanded.
Virgil shook his head. “When I came in, I noticed the cars parked downstairs. There were seven—four with California plates, and one each from Canada, New Jersey, and Tennessee. Your manner of speaking suggests that the Tennessee car is yours. And most people with young children plan their moves, if they can, at the end of school terms.”
Mike rubbed his fingers hard against his jaw. “I guess it’s all right, I just never like to have people prying into our business.”
Tibbs studied him. “I don’t pry, Mr. McGuire, I’m a police investigator and it’s my business to notice things. Right now I’m trying to use what abilities I have to help you.”
“I’m sorry,” Mike said.
Virgil produced a notebook and opened to a clean page. “I’d like a description of Johnny,” he requested. “And please tell me what he’s now wearing.”
Maggie responded. “Johnny has just turned nine. He’s a little small for his age, but he’s a nice-looking boy. His hair is still light and he has blue eyes. He’s got on a pair of jeans from Penney’s and his black school shoes.” Then she remembered. “He has his jacket,” she added a little lamely. “A red one. It’s out at the elbows and we’ve been meaning to get him a new one.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
Maggie got up. “I’ll try and find one,” she said.
As soon as she had gone Mike leaned forward, enough to be heard softly, but not enough to bring him too close to the black man who was a cop in the bargain. “You think he’s been kidnapped?” he asked.
Tibbs shook his head. “I’m very confident that that isn’t the case, for a number of reasons.”
“Such as?” Mike asked.
“If kidnappers were looking for a child to seize and hold for ransom, I doubt if they would choose one who was wearing a worn-out jacket.” He could have supplied a much better reason, but he was not ready yet to disclose all that he had learned at the Hotchkiss house.
The phone rang, loudly because it was installed in the kitchen. Mike scooped it up quickly and made the word “Hello?” into a question.
“Mr. McGuire?”
“Yes, Mike McGuire speaking. Go on.”
“This is Ralph Hotchkiss, Mr. McGuire, Billy’s father. I’ve just been given your number by the police department.”
“I don’t want to talk about the accident now.”
“Very well, but I just wanted to tell you how very sorry Billy is for what he did. If your son is there, Billy would like to talk to him.”
“He ain’t come home. We’re worried about him.”
Hotchkiss was very guarded. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“One of ’em is here now.”
“Good. If I learn anything at all, I’ll call you. Good night, Mr. McGuire.”
As he hung up the instrument growing suspicion began to take over in the forefront of Mike’s mind. He did not see his wife as she reappeared in the doorway holding a snapshot in her hand, instead he stared straight ahead while he allowed the cancer of distrust to nourish itself and grow. His jaw muscles began to work and his eyes grew hard. “I think that guy knows somethin’!” he exploded. His voice echoed back from the hard walls. He turned toward Tibbs as though expecting him to do something at once.
“Mr. McGuire,” Virgil asked, “do you own a gun?”
“Yes, I’ve got a gun—what of it?”
“What kind of a gun?”
“A Colt thirty-eight. Why?”
Tibbs ignored the question. “Do you customarily keep it loaded?”
“What the hell good is a gun if it ain’t loaded? I’ve got a right to have it, the Constitution says so. Don’t you give me no argument on that!”
There was a moment of thick silence.
“You have the legal right to own a gun,” Tibbs said. “You’re asked to register it for your own protection, but you’re not required even to do that.”
“Then what’s the gripe?”
“I didn’t say that there was a gripe. Mr. McGuire, have you ever allowed your son to handle your gun?”
“Sure every kid should know how to handle a gun. He might have to protect his ma sometime when I’m not here.”
“He knows, then, where you keep it?”
“Of course he does.”
Virgil rose to his feet, automatically Mike did the same. That brought them face-to-face and Mike, to his surprise, read power and authority in the dark eyes opposite his.
“I’d like to see your gun, Mr. McGuire. Immediately, if you please.”
Mike sensed that he would have to comply. He walked firmly past his wife, out of the kitchen, and across the small living room in his role as master of the house. He paused in front of a narrow linen closet and opened the door. A moment later he turned around to find that Tibbs was behind him and waiting.
“It’s gone,” Mike said.
4
This time Virgil Tibbs did not wait to ask if he could use the telephone, he returned to the kitchen, picked it up without ceremony, and dialed the headquarters number.
“Tibbs at the McGuire home,” he reported in. “The boy, Johnny, has not come home. Almost certainly he has his father’s loaded handgun with him and he knows how to use it.”
“Good God!” the desk sergeant responded. “It’s true.”
“Right. You’d better call the Hotchkiss home immediately and tell Barry Rothberg the score. Then set up a stakeout to cover the exterior. The boy may still come home on his own, I hope to heaven that he does, but we can’t bank on it. Also run the full missing child routine—hospitals and all the rest. I’ll be here for a few more minutes.”
He hung up, turned, and found the McGuires where they had been standing, listening,
behind him. “I don’t want to upset you,” he told them, “but this could develop into a very serious situation. I’m hoping that Johnny will come home by himself. If he does, I suggest that you treat him with an extra measure of consideration and love, because he will be needing it.”
Maggie began softly to cry.
“I think you had both better sit down,” Virgil advised. “I have some things to tell you.”
The belligerency drained out of him for the moment, Mike did as directed. Maggie, her shoulders shaking, followed suit.
In quiet, calm tones Tibbs told them what had happened in the schoolyard and of Johnny’s violent reaction. Then he carefully repeated Ralph Hotchkiss’s offer to replace the smashed radio set at once.
Mike pondered the matter. “If this Hotchkiss will buy him a new radio, with a battery and everything, then I guess it’s all right. But it was plain dirty what his kid did to Johnny, and I can’t blame Johnny for getting damn mad. That smart-alec kid of Hotchkiss’s needs a good whipping and maybe someday Johnny’ll give it to him.” As he spoke the last words the first dawn of comprehension began to show on his face. “My gun,” he said, forming the words mechanically, “he took my gun.”
Grimly Virgil nodded. “Yes, Mr. McGuire, he has your gun. I think he means to use it and the Hotchkiss family is very frightened.”
“Oh, my God, no!”
Maggie flung her hands over her face and bent over the table, her body shaking with sobs. Mike got up quickly and put his arm around her, to comfort her and to hide his own acute embarrassment. After the single, shattering outburst Maggie calmed down and began to sob; she had no handkerchief so Mike tore off a paper towel and handed it to her. Tibbs remained silent; when the paper towel had been used and pushed away he reached into his own pocket and produced a clean linen handkerchief which he offered to her.
She hesitated a second, then took it, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. That finished she looked up at Tibbs. “What can we do?” she asked.
“First of all, stay here and wait for your boy to come home. If he does, tell him you’ve been worried, but don’t upbraid him. Give him his dinner, make him glad that he came home, then please call me right away. If I’m not there, talk to the man who answers the phone.” He laid a calling card on the table.