The Cool Cottontail

by John Ball

Holt-Rymers got up from his chair, went to the refrigerator, and came back with two more beers. He handed one to Virgil, took a swallow of his own, and then asked, “As a lever to get in to see McCormack?”

  “If I had the option, he might invite me over—just to tell me I can’t use it,” Virgil added.

  “You might make him mad.”

  “Then we’d be even. He irritated me.”

  Holt-Rymers took a moment to think. “I’ll trade you,” he said after drinking more beer. “You get the option, provided you give me a proper safeguard against its use, if you’ll do a favor for me.”

  “Traffic ticket?” Tibbs asked.

  The artist looked at him. “You call that a trade? No, something else entirely. I want you to introduce me at the nudist camp—that is, if you’ve been there and know the people.”

  “I’ve been there, all right, but you don’t need me for that.”

  “In a way I do.” Holt-Rymers tipped back his head and drank deeply from the can. “Suppose I hire a model and she reports to me here. I put her on a stand and go to work, but what kind of feeling do I get? Closed in, restricted—with the shutters down to keep people from peeking in while I’m at work. Results—one bad picture. If I could arrange with the nudist-camp people to paint there occasionally, it could make all the difference. I’d provide my own model, but if there are people out there who might be willing to work for me for a fee, so much the better. With real outdoor light and space around me, I could create some things worth looking at. Do you think they would go for it?”

  Virgil reflected on it for a few seconds. “I’ll give it a try,” he offered. “They are intelligent, reasonable people and I think they’ll buy it. And I can think of one possible subject for you—their daughter. About eighteen and quite attractive. You might even call her beautiful.”

  Holt-Rymers pointed to the telephone. Virgil crossed the room, and picked up the phone. When Forrest answered, he outlined the proposition, listened, and waited while Linda was consulted. After five minutes on the line he hung up and, with a sense of satisfaction, turned back to his host.

  “You’re in,” he announced.

  The artist got to his feet. “Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed; then we can go over to the bank building and have the option drawn up in proper legal style. That will give you something to show McCormack, and he’ll want to see it. How do you plan to convince him that you can afford to buy in?”

  “By keeping my mouth shut. If I act as though I have the money, it will be up to him to challenge it.”

  “I’d give a lot to be there,” Holt-Rymers said as he left the room.

  chapter 11

  The office of O. W. Peterson, investment securities, was in Beverly Hills; as he drove there, Tibbs allowed himself a little self-satisfaction. A completely legal option permitting him to buy the stock in Roussel Rights, Inc., held by William Holt-Rymers crackled in his pocket. That ought to take care of Mr. Walter McCormack, who had no time to see busy policemen charged with, among other things, the responsibility for protecting him and his property. And without his property, Tibbs guessed, the austere Mr. McCormack might find the world a tough place to live in.

  Traffic was crowded and slow on Wilshire Boulevard, particularly after Tibbs passed the Beverly Hilton headed east. He entered the colony of new high-rise buildings and searched for a parking lot without a full sign. With his license number he could have made use of a red-curb zone, but he was a firm believer in the principle that police powers carried with them police obligations. Two blocks past his destination he found a lot open, parked, and walked back.

  Peterson was in and expecting him when he arrived. In contrast to the artist he had left a short time ago, Tibbs sensed an immediate hostility—in the office girl, who raised her too-plucked eyebrows before she announced him, and in the broker when Virgil met him. He felt that he was in the camp of the enemy.

  Peterson weighed about two hundred plus, with much of the plus concentrated around his middle. His frame was big and rugged, typical of the ex-football star, but he had obviously been neglecting himself and his stomach protruded. The athletic look was preserved in his crew cut, but denied by the network of tiny red veins that traced a discernible pattern across his broad, florid face. He held out a hamlike hand and shook hands as briefly as possible with no show of cordiality. He waved toward a chair as though he did not care whether Tibbs took it or not.

  Peterson then seated himself behind his desk in a massive posture chair that would have held Nero Wolfe and spoke with a rasp in his voice uncommon in a salesman. “Please be brief,” he directed. “I have an appointment.”

  Tibbs looked at him coolly as he sat down. “You have one with me,” he reminded him. “This morning a man named Albert Roussel was buried in San Bernardino. He had been murdered. If you can tell me right now who killed him, and supply me with enough evidence to secure a conviction, I’ll be glad to leave your office. Otherwise we have some things to talk over.”

  “I have nothing to tell you,” Peterson snapped. “I knew the man and had business dealings with him. You know all this or you wouldn’t have called me. But I have no evidence to give you. I hadn’t seen Roussel for a long time—didn’t even know he was in the country.”

  Tibbs took out his notebook. “You said you hadn’t seen Dr. Roussel for a long time. How long would you estimate that to be?”

  Peterson rocked back and forth, as though he were making a mighty effort to control himself. “Is that germane?” he asked. “I can’t really see that it’s any of your business.”

  Instead of flashing anger, Tibbs settled back and seemed to compose himself even more. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and controlled. “Mr. Peterson, a statement like that addressed to a police officer investigating a murder is asinine, and you know it. If you are trying to put yourself under suspicion, you are succeeding.”

  Peterson leaned forward and rose slightly to emphasize his bulk. “Are you here to pass judgment on me?” he barked.

  Virgil maintained his calm. “I’m here to find out who killed Albert Roussel, and why. If, in the course of this conversation, you convince me that you are the person responsible, then I will arrest you and you will stand trial for your life.”

  The broker wiped his thick hand across his wide face. “I saw Roussel in Europe about three months ago. I was over there on other business and ran into him. We talked a little, but not to any great degree. Does that answer your question?”

  “At that time did you discuss the Roussel Rights company?”

  “Casually, very casually.”

  “Speaking of the company, how do you feel about the pending offer to purchase its assets?”

  The broker leaned back and assumed the proper position for giving advice; his voice became more relaxed and impressive. “We have a very good offer and I am recommending that we take it. Particularly now with our inventive genius gone. Sooner or later some bright young man in a lab somewhere will come up with something new, and what we have now will be obsolete overnight. In the investment field, hanging on to something too long can be a bad mistake. Take a good profit when you can get it and then go for something else.”

  “That sounds logical,” Virgil acknowledged. “Did Dr. Roussel agree with your advice? I say ‘advice’ since you are a professional in the field.”

  The touch of flattery had a clear effect. “Frankly we didn’t discuss that. I’m not sure that the offer had been made at that time. It was largely a social call.”

  Tibbs’ next question came as a surprise, as he intended it to. “Mr. Peterson, how long have you employed your present secretary?”

  The muscles in the broker’s big body went tight and he gripped the arms of his chair. “May I ask the reason for that question?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice under control.

  Tibbs parried the question with an inconclusive answer. “I had the impression she was new,” he replied with a degree of truth. “If she had been here for some time, I mi
ght have wanted to talk to her, too.”

  A shadow of relief crossed Peterson’s face and the muscles of his shoulders relaxed. “You’re quite right. She is new-joined me a little more than two months ago. But she has nothing whatever to do with my personal business arrangements.”

  Tibbs nodded that the answer was satisfactory and stood up. “Thank you for your time,” he said, and left so promptly that Peterson was not required to stand up and shake hands once more.

  On the way back to his office Virgil fought the traffic automatically while he turned the day’s happenings over in his mind, sorting out the information he had been given from the lies he had been told. As he slowed down for the abrupt curves of the Pasadena Freeway, he gave most careful attention to three important facts that people had told him without intending to do so. For the first time he began to see a pattern emerging, but there were still too many gaps to permit him to draw even a tentative conclusion without more data.

  For the next two days he would be unable to do anything further on the problem; he was scheduled to appear in court on a robbery case that would probably drag out while the due processes of law were employed to protect a man whose guilt was certain. Instead of bearding the hostile Walter McCormack, he would have to concentrate his attention on countering an attorney whose entire purpose would be to trap him in a single mistake.

  Bob Nakamura was in when Virgil arrived, which was a break. “I need a hand again,” Tibbs informed him. “It would help a lot.”

  Bob reached for a block of paper and a pencil. “Go ahead.”

  “In Beverly Hills there is a stockbroker I’m interested in—Oswald Peterson.”

  “The football star?”

  “He was. I want a rundown on him—his financial standing and his personal life. If he has a family, I’d like an idea on how stable it is. Check also, if you can, on why he changed secretaries after he came back from Europe about ten weeks ago. I don’t believe you can pin down what took him off to Europe, but get what you can.”

  “What sort of a guy is he?” Bob asked.

  “Well, for one thing he’s a bad liar,” Virgil answered. “Possibly from lack of practice. He took me for an imbecile and I’m afraid I resented it.”

  “Don’t blame you. I’ll see what I can get. You’re in court tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  Virgil nodded. “At least tomorrow, possibly longer.”

  Normally Tibbs did not mind giving evidence; it was part of his job and he was an experienced professional. This time he did mind, because he knew what the angle of attack would be. The accused was guilty and his lawyer would know it—as he would need to. Consequently he had asked for a jury trial, which was his legal right. With twelve citizens sitting in the box, most of whom had probably come from some other part of the country, there might be one or two who could be persuaded that the chief prosecution witness was not reliable because he was a Negro. Most defense attorneys would not attack in this manner; this particular one had no such reservations.

  Before calling it a day, Virgil typed out a short note on plain paper to Walter McCormack, informing him that a stock option had been granted by William Holt-Rymers and that he would call concerning the matter. He signed it, dropped it into the outgoing mail, and then went home to prepare himself for the next day’s ordeal.

  It was a rough one. After the usual delays and motions, he gave his evidence clearly and concisely, aware that the whole case hung on his eyewitness report. When the defense attorney arose, he had a patronizing smile on his lips and the tough part began.

  Since he had qualified as a police officer, it was a proper subject for cross-examination.

  “Mr. Tibbs, how did you happen to be, ah—selected—as a member of the police department?” …

  “Have you always lived in California, Mr. Tibbs?” …

  “I’m interested in your boyhood in the Deep South, Officer Tibbs. I imagine it had a lot to do with forming the opinions you now hold.”

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained.”

  “I withdraw the question. Officer Tibbs, have you revisited the area commonly known as the Deep South recently?”

  “Yes, sir. I conducted a successful murder investigation down there a few weeks ago.”

  On it went, endless probing to find a weak spot—to make the jury wonder if racial considerations could be entirely ruled out of the evidence it had heard. Most police officers would not have to undergo this. Tibbs knew that it would be a long time before he would be free of this kind of harassment.

  William Holt-Rymers was in a much more comfortable position. He sat in the big glassed-in kitchen at Sun Valley Lodge, far from the enforced formalities of the courtroom, talking with the Nunns, drinking coffee, and studying the light that streamed in through the windows. He was completely at ease. The nudity of the people around him did not disconcert him in the least. He was much more interested in the fact that they shared a common opinion of Virgil Tibbs as a police officer and as a man.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit a nudist park,” he said, opening a new topic. “A tight atmosphere kills good pictures; here you have all the ingredients necessary for freer, much better work. Gauguin proved that, although under somewhat different circumstances.”

  “Such as in his Tahitian Mountain,” Forrest suggested.

  Bill Rymers cocked an eyebrow and nodded approvingly. “And a dozen others. Some of his models were gifts from heaven and he made the most of them.”

  He finished his coffee and accepted a refill. “Frankly, I consider myself nearly as fortunate right here. I’ve spent ten minutes and already I’ve found a model worthy of any artist’s attention.”

  Linda flushed with pleasure at the compliment. She had been photographed many times by excellent professional photographers, but had never seen herself through the medium of an artist’s colors and interpretation.

  “Would it upset your arrangements if I borrowed her for an hour or so?” Rymers asked his host.

  Forrest glanced at Linda, who nodded a quick assent.

  “Certainly not, Bill. That’s what you’re here for. And we know your reputation.”

  “Virgil briefed us,” George admitted candidly.

  “I may make a pest of myself,” Rymers warned. “I may want to do several.”

  “We’d be honored,” Emily said for the family. “How about a roll?”

  “No, thank you. Later, if I may. I want to get started.”

  “May I watch?” Carole asked.

  “If you promise to keep absolutely still and sit somewhere out of the way.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. Then as soon as you’re ready, Mrs. Nunn, we’ll find the right place and begin.”

  “Me?” Emily asked with doubt in her voice.

  “You,” Rymers said firmly.

  There was no respite for Tibbs the following day; the trial went on. Meanwhile George Nunn, after waiting somewhat impatiently for what he hoped was a decent interval, called Ellen Boardman and asked her for a date. Hesitatingly she had accepted—hesitating perhaps because of her recent grief, or their short acquaintance, or—quite possibly—because he helped to manage a nudist resort.

  Determined to make a good impression, he chose a dark-brown sports coat, a pair of lighter slacks, and a lemon-colored tie suitable to the season. Upon his arrival he was presented to Ellen’s parents, who were pleasant people, and for an hour he sat with them. At their request he once more detailed the discovery of the body and his futile attempt to breathe life back into it, remembering as he spoke that he was describing the death of the mother’s brother. When it was over for what he hoped would be the last time, he had found a certain quiet understanding with these people who were trying to recover the normal pattern of their lives. He liked them and hoped earnestly that they liked him as well.

  Finally he excused himself and, with Ellen beside him, drove with extra care down the mountain road toward San Bernardino. He and his date played miniature golf, had d
inner, and saw a movie. When the evening was over, he regretfully turned his car back toward the Big Bear Lake area and the long climb up the mountain. Tonight he did not mind the distance or the time it would take; he felt a sense of mild excitement when Ellen leaned back and let the air play with her hair. She had her eyes shut and George slowed the car down slightly in order to suit her mood.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked suddenly.

  “Do? With my life, is that what you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  George guided the car around a curve and bit into the first grade. “I’m planning to be a marine architect; I studied it in college. I love the sea and I love boats. Because they go places, I guess, instead of just standing still. Even if it’s only out to Catalina and back every weekend, it’s still movement—something dynamic that isn’t cut and dried.”

  Ellen opened her eyes and looked at him. “When I was a little girl, I used to daydream about taking a fine oceangoing yacht and sailing out over the Pacific to see the world.”

  “That’s a wonderful dream,” George said. “Don’t lose it. A lot of people feel the same way. The only thing that stops them is the cost—it takes time and money. But then so does everything else.”

  “I’ve never had any money and I don’t particularly want any,” Ellen answered. “Some of the moneyed people who come to our place aren’t very nice. We have our problems now and then.”

  “So do we. The usual ones and a few more, because ours is a nudist resort. A few people still think it’s some kind of an open-air—” He stopped in embarrassment.

  “I understand,” Ellen said. She fell silent briefly and George wondered if he had offended her. Then she asked, “George, how did you and your family become involved in—the kind of business you operate?”

  “Personal conviction—I think that’s the best answer. I know you probably don’t see it the way we do, but there are things to consider. You might remember the bathing suits of a couple of generations ago. Now gradually we’re coming to the point of admitting ourselves to be human, and without somehow being ashamed of it.”