by John Ball
When they reached the lodge, he pulled up under the deep shade of the trees and set the parking brake. He was in no hurry to leave her, and obviously she was willing to let their evening together last a few more moments. They sat listening to the sounds of the night and watching the faint light of the waxing moon filter down through the few places where it could penetrate to the ground. Then, for a frightening instant, George was startled by the thought that something might be lurking, even at that moment, shielded by the blackness of the night, waiting to strike. He deliberately banished the thought. He had been theatrical just a few minutes before and he did not want to repeat the blunder, even in his mind.
He turned to Ellen and looked at her. She gazed back at him with a steadiness that, even in the night darkness, sent a welcome shiver down his backbone. He reached out his right arm, gathered her in gently, and kissed her once, long and tenderly. Then he opened the door, walked around the car, and helped her out. As he saw her to her door, he reflected that he’d meant it when he said he would kill with his bare hands, if need be, to protect her.
Inside her room Ellen shut her eyes for a moment as though to black out her thoughts; then she shook her head and slowly began to undress. George had kissed her and she knew she had wanted him to.
Quietly she slipped out of her clothes. For just a moment, before she put on her nightgown, she paused to look at herself in the mirror. Her figure was certainly not spectacular in any way, but it was presentable. That was an odd word, she thought—presentable. What was it like, she wondered, to be a nudist? She could not answer her own question as she slipped the gown over her head and climbed into bed.
Monday was an exceptionally busy day for Virgil Tibbs. He visited several banks and talked with senior officers concerning the accounts of certain people in whom he was interested. At one of them he was shown to a vacant booth next to the safe-deposit vault and, because of his standing as a police officer and the gravity of the matter he was investigating, he was allowed to go over a series of canceled checks that had not yet been mailed back to the client. One of these checks interested him very much; he arranged to have it photostated on both sides and took the print with him when he left.
The next stop was the county recorder’s office in Los Angeles, where he looked up an item in the real-estate records. From the center he walked over to the Times building and arrived in time for an appointment he had made to talk with the art critic. This turned into a fairly extended conversation. From the Times building he phoned the Retail Credit Bureau and obtained some further information. With these three things accomplished, he reclaimed his car and took the freeway back to Pasadena, where Bob Nakamura was waiting for him. Bob had done his part and had a reasonably full report on the background and activities of Oswald Peterson, the broker.
In accordance with his usual habit, Virgil made individual notes on each piece of information he had learned and laid the slips out in a geometric pattern on top of his desk. With the other notes he already had, he began a process of shifting that looked like a new form of solitaire. In this manner he grouped related facts together and determined where there were blanks that needed to be filled.
Presently he noted a gap in the parade of data before him and picked up the telephone; in a few moments he had the records section of the Los Angeles Police Department on the line. He identified himself and then asked a question, waited while the necessary information was looked up, and received a negative answer. That suited him entirely; he made out another three-by-five card and fitted it neatly into place. When a teletype came up from the first floor about thumbprints on driving licenses, one more card was added to Virgil’s careful accumulation.
The phone interrupted him. When he answered, it was the secretary of the Japanese-American Gardeners Association returning his earlier call. A short conversation clarified another point and allowed one of the few remaining gaps in the maze-like pattern on his desk to be filled.
At this point he picked up the phone once more, dialed the operator, and asked to speak with Miss Ellen Boardman at Pine Shadows Lodge. “How did your evening go with Mrs. Pratt?” he asked her when she came on the wire.
“Oh, quite well. Over dinner she made a considerable point about her business experience and pointed out all the evidence of her success.”
“She did that to me, too,” Virgil said.
“After that she carefully patronized me quite a lot. I was the sweet young thing not yet quite awake in the world. She offered to become my guide and mentor and explain everything to me.”
“Did she mention your stockholding?” Tibbs asked.
“Oh, only indirectly. She knew about it, of course. She did ask me if I planned to attend the stockholders’ meeting and said she would talk with me about it later. Of course that’s almost two weeks away.”
“Not any more it isn’t,” Tibbs said grimly. “Mr. McCormack has moved it up to this weekend.”
“Oh? I remember hearing something about that. Why did he do it?”
“Because I asked him to. How was the concert?”
“Oh, it was very nice. I love the Bowl, although I don’t get there very often. And we had coffee afterward.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do? How?” Ellen asked.
“You had a police officer with you most of the evening. He enjoyed the concert, too.”
“Goodness, did he follow me home? I thought there was a car behind me most of the way.”
“He did part of the way, then someone else took over. Which reminds me, could you accommodate another couple for a few days beginning tomorrow?”
“Yes. Why? Are they–friends of yours?”
“In a way of speaking. Mr. and Mrs. Mooney will be arriving tomorrow morning for a week’s stay. Mr. Mooney is the officer who stopped by a few days ago to ask if anyone who’d had a reservation had failed to appear.”
“Oh–I remember.”
“Good. Of course the fact that he is a police officer is something you don’t discuss, but if anyone asks you about it, don’t deny it. In that case let him know immediately.”
“I will.”
Ellen hung up slightly confused. Obviously she was being given a bodyguard, which was a new experience for her. In a way she welcomed it, but in a way it was distressing.
The following morning Dick and Elaine Mooney checked in at Pine Shadows and proved to be thoroughly agreeable. Ellen found that it was a considerable comfort to have the young officer there—a person she could definitely trust who would be on hand if he was needed. But she was still off balance when George Nunn called her and suggested a date on Wednesday; she hedged and asked him to call back again.
Later that afternoon Virgil Tibbs had a conference with Captain Lindholm and outlined his plan of action to the senior officer for approval. When that meeting was over, he returned to his apartment, showered, and ate a fairly light dinner, in view of what he had planned for the evening. An hour later, clad in a white training gi tied with the black belt that it had taken him so many years of hard work to earn, he began a two-hour training session in the karate dojo with the few present who were his equals and the two who were his betters.
When it was all over, he showered once more and stepped on the scales; the pointer stopped at a hundred and sixty-one pounds, six more than when he had first joined the force. At that time he had barely made the hundred-and-fifty-five-pound minimum. His abdomen was still hard and flat, and despite the fact that he was naturally slender in build, the muscles that rippled under his dark skin understood their functions and had been conditioned by constant training.
Virgil Tibbs dressed and returned to his apartment with a sense of well-being. He was relaxed as he turned on his stereo and stacked the changer with Ravel’s Introduction and Allegro, Falla’s Nights in the Gardens of Spain, and a performance recording of Duke Ellington at Newport. He mixed himself a drink and leaned back to listen. He needed the atmosphere that the music provided and the chance to let his thoug
hts wander away from the hard realities they would have to face in the morning.
The next day would be Wednesday, two days before the board meeting. More than that, it was to be the day of decision. The moment of truth was at hand.
chapter 14
The Wednesday-morning mail brought the final autopsy report from San Bernardino, just in time to suit Virgil’s purposes. He tore open the thick official envelope and studied the grim contents thoroughly.
When he had been over the report twice, he picked up a pad of paper and sketched the outlines of a human figure in both front and profile views. Then he carefully shaded in the areas where, according to the autopsy, the body had received blows. When he had finished, he had a reasonably accurate picture of the beating the dead chemist had received, with those particular areas that had contributed specifically to his death outlined in red.
Satisfied with his work, he phoned Michael Wolfram, the attorney. When he had the lawyer on the line, he came right to the point.
“Mr. Wolfram, knowing that you represent Walter McCormack, and that he and the late Dr. Roussel were both close friends and business associates, it occurred to me that you might also have handled Dr. Roussel’s legal business in this country.”
“You’re quite right,” Wolfram acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”
Tibbs made an appointment for eleven-thirty and hung up. After glancing through the rest of his mail, which was unimportant, he left the office and picked up one of the official cars that carry the special equipment used by the Investigative Division and drove it southward from the Pasadena civic center.
On the way down the Arroyo Seco toward the freeway, an ancient car with the front end dipped significantly down pulled illegally close behind him. Virgil glanced into the mirror and saw that the two occupants were boys, neither of whom appeared old enough to have a driving license. In a few seconds the car whipped out, drew alongside him, and then pulled to a stop at a red light. The boy on the right leaned out and slapped the side of the door.
“Come on, black boy!” he shouted. “Let’s see if you can go.”
When the light changed, the old car jumped forward, burning rubber on the dry concrete. As soon as it was ahead, the driver swung it recklessly close in front of the unmarked police car and hit the brakes. Virgil knew the maneuver and was ready; having already checked that there was no other traffic, he cut sharply to the left and then, reaching down, touched the control for the concealed siren under the hood. He did not allow it to come up to speed; he sounded it only enough so that the other driver would recognize what it was.
At once the dragsters became ultra-respectable; their old car moved into the right-hand lane and sedately held to the legal speed limit. As Virgil drove past, he looked carefully at the driver and checked the license plate against the hot sheet that is issued daily by the Los Angeles Police Department. Then he picked up the radio mike.
Within four blocks a motorcycle officer appeared at a traffic light and fell in behind the modified car. The situation under control, Virgil cleared the green light at the beginning of the freeway and came up to speed. He relaxed during the fifteen minutes it took him to reach the four-level interchange, and then continued on straight through down the Harbor Freeway until he reached Olympic, where he turned off and headed westward. Within a minute or two he pulled up across the street from a sign that read “ALL AMERICA KARATE FEDERATION” and flipped down the visor that would identify the car to any police officer. He got out and walked into the building.
The Nisei at the front counter looked up and registered mild surprise. “Hello, Virgil, didn’t expect you.”
“Is Sensei* here?” Tibbs asked.
“Just changing. You can catch him in the locker room.”
Virgil walked down the short corridor past the exercise rooms and the main training area and turned into the dressing room. In his hand he held the sketches he had made before leaving his office.
In the Spartan but efficient locker room there were two men, both of whom were knotting black belts as Tibbs came in. The one nearer to him was a Japanese of medium height and apparently light build, although the white training gi he was wearing concealed the outlines of his physique. He was in his mid-thirties and obviously charged with a high level of controlled nervous energy. As Virgil walked in, he looked up and flashed a smile.
“Good morning, Virgil,” he said with a perceptible accent.
“Good morning, Sensei.” Tibbs shook hands with both men and produced his sketches. Then he hesitated. The man to whom he wanted to speak had a limited command of English, and he did not wish to risk giving offense. Since the second man was a Nisei, he solved the problem by explaining the problem to them both. He gave a brief account of the murder and pointed out the significant areas in the drawings.
His diplomacy was successful. The man he had addressed as Sensei examined the drawings carefully and asked several questions of his companion in rapid staccato Japanese. They were answered just as fluently, and what was clearly a technical discussion continued for some time. Then the Nisei turned to Tibbs.
“Nishiyama Sensei would like to know the exact height and weight of the dead man, if you have that information.”
Virgil supplied the figures from memory; Nishiyama nodded again quickly and once more consulted the drawings. Then the karate master shook his head.
“It was not a karate man,” he explained. Continuing in English, he began a technical description that Tibbs listened to attentively. Although he was himself highly trained in the art, he knew that he could not match his knowledge against that of a world authority. The essence of Nishiyama’s opinion was that the killer had been well schooled in no-holds-barred street fighting and had attained reasonable proficiency, but he did not know karate. The master based his conclusions not only on the nature of the blows the body had received but also on the number. A competent karate man would not have required the quantity shown.
Tibbs thanked him warmly and declined an invitation to remain and train for a period of what Nishiyama chose to call light sparring. He had sparred with Nishiyama before, and despite what he had learned from the session, he was in no immediate hurry to repeat the experience.
Armed with the information, which had confirmed his own opinion, Virgil returned to his car and set out for his appointment with the attorney. His case was now very nearly complete, but for that very reason he was determined to overlook no detail that might later prove to be significant.
When he reached the attorney’s office, Wolfram received him and motioned him to a chair. He proved to be an unexpectedly small man whose immaculate, expensive suit contrasted with his bushy, undisciplined hair. Tibbs noted that all the furniture in the office was scaled down to minimize the slight stature of Wolfram, who looked more like a successful retired jockey than a power in the courtroom.
After the amenities, Virgil outlined the case, concerning which the attorney was already partially informed. As he neared the end of his recital, Wolfram interrupted. “Mr. Tibbs,” he asked, “are you coming to the point of telling me that one of my clients is in jeopardy?”
“No,” Virgil answered. “At least not at this time. Of course, I don’t know your client roster, so I couldn’t answer that question in any event. Actually I’m here for information.”
Wolfram nodded. “Please go on.”
“When are you going to submit Dr. Roussel’s will for probate?”
“Almost immediately—in fact, today.”
“Would you have any serious objection if I asked you to postpone doing so for, say, twenty-four hours?”
Wolfram leaned back and suddenly, despite his small size, looked remarkably shrewd and responsible. “Would you care to give me a reason?” he asked.
“I’m after someone. Delaying the publication of the will might help me to get him.”
“I see. In that case I’ll go along with you. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Virgil answered. “I’d like to read the w
ill, if I may. One provision it may contain would interest me very much.”
“Is this an official request?”
“Definitely.”
Wolfram drew his legs up and hung his heels on the edge of his chair. “If it will help to pin the guilt on Al Roussel’s murderer, I’m for it,” he said. “On general principles I’d suggest that you keep it to yourself as much as you can.”
“Agreed,” Tibbs answered.
Wolfram pressed a button. When a secretary responded, he said simply, “The Roussel will,” and then they waited. As soon as the document arrived, he handed it to Tibbs.
As Virgil turned the long legal pages with the numbered lines, only the rustling of the paper broke the silence. In five minutes he had finished and handed the will back. “Thank you,” he said.
“Any time.” The lawyer looked at him. “Are you getting at all close? Or can’t you tell me?”
Tibbs got to his feet. “It shouldn’t be too long,” he answered.
Returning downtown, he stopped at the Los Angeles Police Department, but the man he wanted to see had gone to lunch. While he waited, he had his usual sandwich and a malted at a lunch counter and pondered what he had learned that morning.
Having built up his case, he tried to tear it down again in his own mind, but this time it appeared to hold water. He realized that he would have to take a calculated risk and play for a break, since he had no witnesses and the concrete evidence he had assembled might or might not be enough to convince a jury. Before the day was over, he would either have it made or be in deep trouble. He refused to worry. If he did his part properly, as he had planned, the rest should take care of itself.
By the time he had finished his eating and his mental review, the police expert in rough-and-tumble street fighting was back and available. Once more Virgil produced his sketches and asked some very specific questions. After making detailed notes he knew that an additional important piece had been fitted into place. For the first time he was confident that he knew almost the whole story.