by John Ball
Bob swung his chair around to face his colleague. “All right, unload. Give me all you’ve got and I’ll see what I can make of it.”
Tibbs got up, shut the door, and returned to his desk. “You know the basic facts. From these I put a few things together. First, the deceased had very distinct bathing-trunk marks, which substantiates the statement of the nudist-park people that he was not one of their members. This makes me think that the nudist angle is either purely accidental or else a deliberate red herring.”
“I’d say the latter,” Bob decided. “The coincidence of the nude body and the place where it was found is a little too strong.”
“I’m inclined to agree, but don’t forget that quite often dead bodies are found nude. Marilyn Monroe for example.”
“Go on. I’m still listening.”
“All right. Now, the swimming trunks he had been wearing were minimum briefs. Does that mean anything to you?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, as you know, that kind of thing just isn’t worn in this country, not even down on Muscle Beach. They are quite popular abroad, though, and are usually accepted over there. That makes me think that our man had been living overseas. The marks were so sharp and distinct I would infer a reasonably warm and sunny climate.”
“Also that he was out a lot, on the beach or somewhere similar.”
“Exactly, and since non-swimmers don’t usually go in for that kind of brief, our man was probably well at home in the water. Either that or he was trying to show off, and he didn’t look that type to me. No beard and none shaved off recently—no spectacular haircut, no tattoos, nothing of that sort at all.”
“So he probably didn’t drown.”
“No, that’s definite. He was expertly beaten to death. A blow in the solar plexus got him.”
“Karate?” Bob suggested.
“Based on what I know of the art, I doubt it. The injuries apparently weren’t that type. Just to be sure, when I get the detailed report, I’m going to see Nishiyama and ask him for an opinion.”
“Good idea. Anything else to go on?”
“Mostly just guessing from here on out. He was well fed and apparently prosperous and successful. That combined with the deep suntan marks, which suggested a lot of leisure time, gave me the idea he might have been either a part-time high-salaried person like a movie director or else someone who had retired relatively young. That would add up if he were, say, an electronics engineer who had hit one or two good patents and was able to retire on the royalties.”
“Problem,” Bob interjected. “If he had been living abroad, then he could have been a Frenchman, a German, almost anyone.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Tibbs agreed. “The only solid fact I have to go on here is that his body was found in this country, which increases the chances that he was an American. Also his general appearance did not suggest a foreigner, except for the trunks. When we hit a trail, we can keep in mind that he may have had a foreign accent. But we can’t tell that now.”
“So you come back to the contact lenses.”
“Right. I’ve been praying that someone would raise a howl about a missing person and we would have an answer the easy way. That could still happen, but I’m not banking on it.”
Bob Nakamura folded his hands behind his head and took his turn at staring at the ceiling. “Obviously somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to hide this man’s identity. The missing dental plates, and all that.”
“No argument.”
“The body was put into the pool at the nudist camp because it was—shall we say—appropriate. It would excite less comment being found there.”
“No sale,” Tibbs answered. “The club managers could prove fairly easily he wasn’t theirs. Temporarily, at least, they have.”
“They wanted the body to be found in a ridiculous place.”
“No.”
“The idea was to embarrass the camp—put it out of business.”
“Possible, but doubtful. Too expert a murder job, for one thing.”
“How’s this: Suppose there were two people, which could well be: the actual murderer who dumped the body and someone else who found it. Say one man killed him and left the body on someone else’s property. He didn’t want to get involved, so he moved it to the nudist camp and left it there.”
“Why not just drop it off a cliff in the first place?” Tibbs asked. “That whole area is loaded with wild canyons where disposal would be easy. After a few weeks, identification would have been even harder—a lot harder.”
Bob tried a new tack. “You know, Virgil, there’s something here that doesn’t add up. On one hand, we agree there was a clear effort to make the body difficult to identify. On the other, it was left in a highly conspicuous place where it was sure to be found promptly.”
Tibbs smiled with grim satisfaction. “That one stopped me cold on the scene,” he admitted. “I tried to put it out of my mind, but it wouldn’t go away. I’ve just been thinking about it.”
“Any light?”
“Maybe.” Tibbs got up and walked over to the window. “If an unidentified nude body is found on the premises of a nudist park, what is sure to result?”
“A police investigation.”
“And what else?”
“A certain amount of publicity,” Bob suggested.
Tibbs turned and faced him. “Exactly! In the Los Angeles area a lot of people die violently—largely in traffic, but in other ways, too. A single isolated death of an unknown person isn’t going to get much play in the papers unless the circumstances are unusual—in short, unless it adds up to a good story.”
“And a body found floating in the pool at a nudist camp would definitely be unusual.”
“I’d say spectacular,” Tibbs added. “In most papers it would guarantee a good press coverage—perhaps even photos.”
Bob thought that one over. “So the way you see it,” he said after a good half minute, “there were two purposes here: to delay identification of the body as long as possible and, at the same time, to publicize the matter so that some person, or persons, would know what had happened.”
Tibbs seated himself on the edge of Bob’s desk. “It’s the only way I can see it making sense. The man was killed for a purpose—obviously. Through the papers, someone somewhere is being told what happened, someone who knows who he was and why he died.”
“When we find out who the dead man was, we may have a lead on finding that person. Until then, we’re down to the contact lenses.”
“Right.” Tibbs locked his fingers together and stared at his hands—a characteristic gesture of his. “If it hadn’t been for that oversight, we’d be waiting for something to come to us. Let’s hope it pays off.”
At two that afternoon Virgil Tibbs parked his inconspicuous black car in a space marked “VISITORS” adjacent to the plant of the Greenwood Optical Company. He showed his credentials to the receptionist and was ushered in promptly to see Arthur Greenwood, the sales manager, one of the three Greenwood brothers who owned and operated the company. That gentleman carefully examined the tiny lenses that Tibbs had brought with him, and became curious.
“How did you happen to come to us?” he asked.
“I know an optometrist in Pasadena,” Tibbs explained. “He looked at the lenses and thought they might have been made by you.”
Greenwood turned one of the small bits of plastic in his fingers. “Do you know anything about contact lenses?” he inquired.
“No,” Tibbs answered. “I’ll have to rely on you for help.”
The executive leaned back in his swivel chair and prepared to lecture. “Today practically all lenses are taken from stock,” he began. “Individual prescriptions seldom if ever need to be ground. In conventional eyeglasses every type of lens likely to be required is a stock item in all the shapes needed to fit various styles of frames. In contact lenses the field is much narrower. The number of different lenses available is much more restricted, and
only a relatively limited range of prescriptions can be filled.”
“In other words contact lenses aren’t as distinctive as regular eyeglasses.”
“Right. So your chance of tracing your man through these lenses is slim. However, you may have one advantage here: these are the vented type. There are a number of contact-lens makers, but the vented ones are relatively uncommon. We are one of the better sources in this country.”
“Are there many abroad?”
“Oh, yes, some of course—mainly in Europe and in Japan, where contact lenses were invented. From these I can’t tell you for certain whether we made them or not.”
“Assuming that you did,” Tibbs pursued patiently, “would you have any way of determining for whom they were made? Or would they be simply a stock item, as you said?”
Greenwood pondered the question. “We might—and I stress might—be able to tell you who prescribed them, but our records normally are confidential.”
“I can obtain a court order if you need one,” Virgil answered. “However, since this is a murder investigation and time is an important element, I would like to ask for your cooperation.”
His ego and conscience satisfied, Greenwood buzzed for his secretary. “Have these lenses checked in the shop,” he directed. “Find out if you can who we made them for. If you can’t do that, find out about how many similar sets we have made in this style.”
The girl took the box with the lenses and closed the door behind her. Greenwood made small talk until she returned a few minutes later. She put the box on his desk and with it a slip of paper.
Greenwood read it and nodded. “We are very fortunate,” he said. “The lenses are quite distinctive; one eye is very different from the other and that isn’t too common. Now, understand that I can’t guarantee we made these lenses. However …” He picked up the paper and studied it again for a second or two, clearly for dramatic effect. “We did manufacture a set of lenses to this exact prescription within the last two years. I don’t have the patient’s name, of course, but the order came from Dr. Nathan Shapiro. He’s very well known here in the contact-lens field.”
Virgil Tibbs had an almost uncontrollable desire to stand up and shout. Instead he rose, expressed his thanks, praised the company’s efficiency, and escaped to his car. He stopped at the first phone booth, consulted the yellow pages, and was on his way.
Dr. Shapiro’s white-frocked receptionist regarded him as a curiosity. “Doctor is very busy this afternoon,” she informed him. “I doubt very much he will be able to see you.” There were patients waiting who bore out her statement.
Tibbs reached into his wallet and produced a card, a considerably less conspicuous procedure than showing his badge. The girl looked at it, then back at him, and laid the card down. “You’ll have to wait,” she said.
Tibbs sat down and waited. He leafed through the outdated magazines, read a pamphlet on eye care, and noted the studied coolness of the receptionist, who was making an effort to pretend he was not there. Some time after the last of the waiting patients had been shown in, she picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button. When the answer came, she spoke in a tone so low Tibbs could not catch a sound. He did not need to; he knew without watching the words her lips were forming.
Ten minutes later Dr. Shapiro came into the waiting room. He was a big man with a round face and a sharply receding hairline that gave him the look of having been polished. He wore the customary white jacket, which set off a pair of big muscular hands the backs of which were almost covered with black hair. He walked directly to Tibbs with a brusqueness that allowed no time for casual talk.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to take time to see you,” he said directly. “I suggest you phone for an appointment. It may be some time. I seldom see anyone in less than thirty days.”
“I’m not a patient,” Tibbs answered. “I came on official police business.”
The doctor glanced at his receptionist; when he looked back, Tibbs was holding out his shield. “I didn’t understand,” the doctor said. “Come in. I’ll take a few minutes now.”
Once he grasped the situation, Dr. Shapiro listened carefully, looked at the lenses, and instructed his receptionist to check the records. She checked and supplied the name of Mr. Michael Casella, president of the Casella Construction Company. Mr. Casella had once sustained a minor eye injury that had required a later radical correction of his vision.
Although it was late in the day, Tibbs borrowed the office phone long enough to call the Casella Construction Company. Mr. Casella was not in; he had not been in for the past several days. His secretary was not certain where he was; she believed he was out in the field inspecting construction sites.
Struggling to keep his voice normal, Virgil made an appointment for nine the following morning. Then he went home to enjoy the fruits of his labors.
Precisely on time the next morning, he drove into the yard of the Casella Construction Company and parked his car on the unpaved area before the white clapboard building that was the office. There were several large pieces of earth-moving equipment standing in the yard and a small assortment of cars. Among them was a Lincoln Continental; when he saw it, Tibbs frowned.
Inside the door there was a railing that separated the working area from the few square feet set aside for a lobby. Tibbs presented himself to the receptionist-typist-switchboard operator and asked if Mr. Casella was in.
Without replying the girl plugged in a cord and said, “Someone to see Mike.”
A middle-aged and ample woman, who looked as if she might be a bookkeeper, appeared and asked, “Are you the man who phoned last night?”
After Tibbs replied, she opened the railing gate for him and showed him into the single corner office. From behind the desk, a powerful man with a thick tangle of black hair on his head offered a fast handshake and motioned toward a wooden chair. “I didn’t get your name,” he said.
“Tibbs. Virgil Tibbs.”
“Mike Casella, Virgil. What’s your line?”
Tibbs produced his card.
“Cop, heh? O.K., what’s the beef?”
“No beef, just two fast questions. One—do you wear contact lenses?”
“Yep, love ’em to death. If you want some, I can give you the name of a damn good doctor—Nat Shapiro. Really knows his stuff.”
“Thanks. One more—have you lost or misplaced a set of lenses recently?”
Casella pulled two cigars from his pocket and offered one to Tibbs, who declined. “Nope. I only have one set and I’ve got them on now. I know you can’t see ’em—nobody can. Great invention. What’s it all about?”
He was entitled to an answer. “We found a man dead with lenses similar to yours. We wanted to be sure you were O.K., that’s all.”
“Well, fine,” Casella answered. “About those kids that were hanging around the yard. If you catch ’em, give ’em a good scare and then let them go. They can’t hurt the equipment, but they can hurt themselves and then we’re in trouble.” He stopped. “And thanks for the protection. Stop around before Christmas. We like to keep in touch with our friends.”
Tibbs shook hands and left. Halfway across the yard he saw a golf-ball-sized stone in his path, drew back his right foot, and kicked at it with vicious power. He missed a square-on kick; the stone skidded a few feet to the side and stopped.
He got into his car and sat motionless for a moment, his frustration settling in him like a huge leaden lump. “Damn,” he said between his teeth. He was in no fit mood for anything as he drove toward the civic center and his waiting office.
chapter 6
For the next twenty-four hours Virgil Tibbs lived in a world of hope. He kept a close and continuous vigil over all sources of information concerning missing persons and reviewed crime reports in the hope of finding some faint connection with the body in the pool. He checked with other law-enforcement agencies throughout California, Nevada, and Arizona. At the end of another day of concentrated effort he
drew a complete and absolute blank.
Meanwhile in the morgue in San Bernardino the body of an unknown man rested on a slab, unclaimed and yielding no clue that might lead to an identification. The most frustrating thing about the whole stalemate was that no one seemed to care. No anxious wife phoned in anywhere to ask about a missing husband; no business associates made inquiry. The man, whoever he had been, seemed to have lived in a vacuum.
People, Tibbs decided, seldom gave a damn about one another. Landlords weren’t concerned about their tenants so long as the rent was paid. Neighbors were not much inclined to be neighborly any more. Most car drivers had little sympathy for others on the road. And often when a serious crime had been committed, few citizens would come forward to help the police; they were too afraid of getting involved.
Tibbs thrust the image of such cases out of his mind. When things went against him, his brain seemed to delight in torturing him by exhuming every awkward and wretched incident he had ever known in his lifetime. They paraded in front of him, the zombies of things long since dead come back to haunt him. The mistakes be had made, the breaks that had gone against him, and the countless times he had been forced to accept humiliation he did not deserve simply because he was a Negro.
Inaction was killing him; he had to do something. The longer he sat in his office, the more likely it was that Captain Lindholm would drop in to ask how soon he would have the case closed. Finally, with no clear idea of what good would come of it, he got out his car, stopped for gas, and then turned eastward on Highway 66. He cleared the outskirts of Pasadena, passed the Santa Anita race track, and worked his way through Azusa. Then he picked up speed and rolled along the foothills of the mountains. The sun, which had been obscured by a low overcast, broke through when he passed Claremont and his spirits responded to the opening cheerfulness of the sky.
He turned off at the secondary road, drove another ten miles on the hardtop, and turned in at the entrance of Sun Valley Lodge. The chain was not up and he was able to negotiate the S turn through the shrubbery directly to the parking lot. Today several other cars were there; when he shut the engine off, he could hear the unmistakable sounds of children at play coming from the direction of the pool area.