The Cool Cottontail

by John Ball

  “Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,” Linda said.

  “Perhaps that would not have driven her all the way to murder,” Tibbs went on, “but other things piled up. She was well aware that her appeal to men as a prospective bride was all but gone. She was desperate for more money. And, despite the fact that Albert Roussel had declined to marry her, she was still firmly convinced she was his heir, at least in part. When the company was organized, he was grateful for her support and told her that she would never lose by backing him. He offered to put up what assets he had at the time. She suggested to him that a legacy might be more appropriate, just in case something happened to him. This information came to me from his lawyer, who convinced him not to follow that suggestion.”

  “I understood that a client’s conversations with his attorney were privileged,” Forrest said, making it a question.

  “That’s correct,” Tibbs agreed. “But this was not the same thing. In this case the client had been murdered and I appealed to Mr. Wolfram to help me bring the persons responsible to justice. He was not required to answer me, but he chose to do so.”

  “I see,” Forrest acknowledged. “One more thing, Virgil: do people ordinarily go to the extreme of murder just for revenge? In Italian operas, yes, but I find it hard to believe.”

  “That’s because you’re a decent and well-adjusted person,” Virgil answered him. “But how many times have you picked up a newspaper and seen something that began with the words ‘estranged husband’? Unfortunately it’s a too familiar pattern. A husband and wife break up; after the separation the woman starts seeing another man. The estranged husband bursts in on them, does some shooting, and often ends up by killing himself.”

  “Of course!” Linda interjected.

  “As far as money went, she still owned the stock,” George pointed out.

  “Yes, she did. But she couldn’t sell it. Dr. Roussel opposed the sale of the company and had told her so.”

  “I’m beginning to see,” Emily said. “With Dr. Roussel out of the way, she might be able to force the sale. She probably knew about Peterson and his troubles.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ellen said. “Suppose she believed that the money in the estate would go to Mother—that is, the cash and assets like that—but that Uncle Albert would have left her the stock-for what she did for him. It would be very logical. In that case she could force the sale and take in twice as much.”

  Tibbs nodded slowly. “I had the same thought. I can’t prove it’s right—not without a confession—but I’m sure of it just the same.”

  Linda took over. “She knew McCormack’s chauffeur and got him—somehow—to do her dirty work for her.”

  “That’s a little too fast,” Tibbs said. “Basically you’re right, but it isn’t that simple. It begins with the fact that Brown at one time was a decent enough man. He worked for Mr. McCormack for a considerable time. I learned that when he described the late Mrs. McCormack to me and said that she had died some time before. He was much better off than he realized; despite a limited education he had steady employment, a comfortable place on the estate to live, and, like all the members of Mr. McCormack’s household, he had been generously remembered in his employer’s will. He was to have received a legacy of two thousand dollars for each year of continuous service, which is a lot more than most people are able to save. He didn’t know that, but he should have realized that since his employer had no visible heirs, he would very likely be liberal toward those who had served him faithfully. But he didn’t reason this out and I guess McCormack’s attitude toward his staff was not encouraging.”

  “Do you know what got him off the track?” Forrest asked.

  Tibbs hesitated. “Unfortunately I do. Part of it is due to the fact that he is a Negro and part of it is due directly to the scheming of Mrs. Pratt. Like myself, Brown came originally from the Deep South and his people are still down there. When the racial demonstrations first hit the place where he had lived, his only sister took an active part in a local biracial committee which was working toward peaceful equality—that is, until she was seized by some local white degenerates and raped. When Brown learned of this, he promptly joined one of the most militant of the Negro radical groups, and within a short time he built up a considerable hatred of Caucasians. He went so far as to take the club’s full course in street fighting—and, believe me, it’s a good one.”

  Virgil shook his head; when he went on, his voice was in a lower key, and flatter. He was simply reciting facts.

  “Mrs. Pratt knew Brown because Mr. McCormack, who is handicapped, seldom leaves his home and he frequently sent his car for her when there was business to discuss.”

  “I can verify that,” Holt-Rymers contributed.

  “Once or twice Brown had invited out Mrs. Pratt’s maid, who is a most respectable young lady. In telling me about it she informed me that Brown was among those arrested in the Watts riots which took place in the summer of 1965 in Los Angeles. She learned of it through a Negro newspaper; when she saw Brown’s name and photograph, she told her mistress about it to caution her. That’s what actually started things off.”

  Virgil stopped and finished his iced tea. Linda promptly refilled his glass and then looked at him with lifted eyebrows.

  “Knowing what she did about Brown, Mrs. Pratt dealt one off the bottom of the deck,” he said. “She told him that her people had once lived in the South and that she herself was one-sixteenth Negro—which, thank heavens for my people, was a lie—and that when she had told Dr. Roussel of this, he had broken their engagement and refused to marry her.”

  “Of all things!” Linda exploded.

  Tibbs drank some tea and continued. “When she had Brown thoroughly enraged at this supposed insult, she offered him a substantial sum of money to arrange some sort of ‘accident.’ Each time Dr. Roussel had visited the States in recent years, Mr. McCormack had sent his car to the airport to meet him, since they were very close friends. She gave Brown five hundred dollars in advance, by check, and wrote on it ‘for landscaping.’

  “Wasn’t that plain stupid?” George asked.

  “Of course it was, but she had the idea that when the check came back from the bank, she would be able to hold it over Brown’s head forever. She didn’t know, or had forgotten, that all checks which go through the clearinghouse are photographed. Anyway, I saw it before it was returned to her. It surprised me very much, so I got in touch with the gardeners’ association and found out who takes care of her place. I have a statement from him that no one else has worked on the property for some time.

  “I’ll make the rest brief, if I may. Brown’s recent hatred of Caucasians, which was prejudice in direct reverse, was inflamed by the Watts affair and fanned even more by his belief that Dr. Roussel had refused to marry Mrs. Pratt because of her supposed Negro blood. He was well trained in violence and ready to act. Then Mrs. Pratt pushed him even farther, and it was her undoing. I have explained that she was a woman scorned—a vicious, arrogantly egotistical, totally undisciplined, and spiteful woman—who wanted revenge and demanded it in spades. When the Western Sunbathing Association held its annual convention here, you got a great deal of publicity, as you know. That gave Mrs. Pratt her idea. She not only wanted Dr. Roussel killed; she wanted his body specifically left on your grounds.”

  A look of comprehension came over Linda’s face. “The other possibility!” she exclaimed. “It wasn’t to embarrass us; it was to reflect on him!”

  “Yes, but it took me quite some time to figure that one out. Brown went along with it because he thought that in a nudist resort any unwanted bodies would be disposed of without a word said. He supposed that you lived on the wrong side of the law.”

  Forrest slowly shook his head. “That’s one of the things Comstock did to this country,” he said quietly.

  George had been thinking. “The body being nude, it took a lot longer to identify, which probably cut down the risk. I’l
l bet he got rid of the clothing and whatever luggage there was in one of the canyons. If he’d done the same thing with the body, we might not have found it yet.”

  “I agree,” Tibbs said. “If we obtain a confession—and I think we will—then we’ll get Brown to show us the spot so we can recover the evidence.”

  “One question more,” Linda cut in. “How did he explain Dr. Roussel’s non-arrival to Mr. McCormack?”

  “That’s a very good point,” Virgil complimented her. “Brown had planned a simple story. He had been directed to pick up Dr. Roussel at the airport and to drive him to his sister’s lodge in the mountains. Since the plane was due in from Europe at a very late hour, he decided to say that the doctor had hesitated to disturb his sister and her family after midnight and had asked instead to be dropped in front of a hotel in San Bernardino. Of course Brown would have been expected to obey any such instructions. He planned to say that he had done as requested—had dropped the doctor in front of the hotel and had then returned home. At that hour there would be no doorman; he was quite sure of that. It could not be held against him that there were no witnesses. Certainly it was not a very good fabrication, but its simplicity gave it some merit and it would have been very difficult to disprove. He would be interrogated very closely, but he’d had experience with the law and he was confident that nothing could be proved against him.”

  “Lie detector?” Holt-Rymers asked.

  “The subject has to volunteer and the evidence obtained can’t be admitted in court if it tends to establish guilt. Which is something to remember: if you are ever wrongly accused of a crime, ask at once for a polygraph test. Most police departments have one. We do. A suspect who does this is almost always innocent. If the machine establishes that he is speaking the truth, then for all practical purposes his worries are over.”

  “Thank you. That’s useful to know. But go on.”

  “As it worked out, Brown never told his story. The flight was delayed and came in after Mr. McCormack had retired. Brown took the call from the airport and, as instructed, went down. After his return he had the car refilled with gas, put it away, and was never asked for an explanation. I suppose McCormack thought Dr. Roussel was at his sister’s. Brown debated telling his employer that he had picked up Dr. Roussel, but since he seemed to have got an unexpectedly good break, he decided to say nothing. He could always claim later that he had assumed Mr. McCormack knew. He sensed his proposed explanation was a little thin, and not having to use it seemed a good deal safer. In that he was right.”

  Ellen sat still, her hands in her lap. She was quiet for a long time; then she sighed and looked up.

  “Thank you—Virgil,” she said.

  “You’re very welcome,” he answered. “It was only my job.”

  In a few minutes the atmosphere began to clear. The dark shadows of murder yielded to the intense California sunlight that seemed almost to be burning sharp designs through the windowpanes and onto the floor. The singing of birds penetrated into the kitchen and Carole, somehow aware that she was now permitted, slipped quietly back into the room.

  Ellen stood up and looked down at the others. “You’ve all been a comfort,” she said. Bill Holt-Rymers, who had been watching her for some time, grinned and then made an announcement.

  “I shall paint you,” he declared in a voice that allowed of no discussion.

  Ellen glanced at the portrait of Linda and hesitated. “Can you do pictures—with clothes on?” she asked.

  “I can,” Holt-Rymers replied. “But my heart isn’t in it. Still-”

  Virgil glanced at his watch. “Since we have an appointment with Captain Lindholm—” he began.

  “I’ll take Ellen in my car,” George volunteered. “You’ll have a full load.”

  “I’m staying, if you don’t mind,” Holt-Rymers said as he rose to his feet. “I’m getting allergic to clothes on hot days, and I have work to do.”

  He walked to the easel and took down the portrait. Carrying it carefully by the edges, he handed it to Virgil. “Yours,” he said.

  “I can’t accept—” Tibbs began.

  “Yes, you can. This time I got the drop on you. I phoned Chief Addis, and he approved. Your picture, as a token of my appreciation.”

  Virgil took the valuable canvas between his hands and looked at it unbelievingly.

  “It’s not an accident,” Linda said. “We wanted you to have it. I sat for it and Bill painted it. Of course what he did was far more than I could do, but it’s for you anyway.”

  “I …” Virgil Tibbs ran out of words.

  “It might look quite nice in your office,” Holt-Rymers suggested. His face gave no clue as to whether he was serious or not.

  Virgil assumed that he was. “It’s to your credit that you don’t know much about police stations,” he said. “At the office I’m supposed to get some work done. With this wonderful picture on the wall, I’d have no privacy. If it’s really mine, then please may I put it in my apartment.”

  “Then it’s for your apartment. You pay for the frame. Cheers.”

  Carrying the exquisite portrait, Virgil walked with the Nunns to the parking lot. He put Emily and Linda in the back of the official car and entrusted the picture to their care. Then he assigned Carole to the middle of the front seat and asked Forrest to sit on the right. George took Ellen in his own car and prepared to follow.

  Tibbs started the engine, drove out of the grounds, and turned westward toward Pasadena. “This won’t be an ordeal,” he assured his guests. “There will be a few formalities and that’s all.”

  “I want to ask something,” Forrest said from across the seat. “Now that Ellen isn’t here, why was an attempt made on her life? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  Virgil glanced in the mirror and saw that George and Ellen were following at a safe distance. “Because she was due to inherit the estate Mrs. Pratt was after. Brown learned all about it when he drove Mr. McCormack out to see her. If something happened to Ellen before she formally inherited, then Mrs. Pratt saw herself as next in line. Her vanity is such that she couldn’t believe Dr. Roussel wouldn’t remember her generously, and affectionately.

  “As for Brown,” Virgil said, “he wanted the money he had been promised, and what he thought was revenge against the whites who had insulted his people. So there you have it.”

  When they reached Highway 66, it amused Forrest to note how the motorists suddenly went on their good behavior as soon as they saw the police car. Virgil drove calmly, largely in the right-hand lane, and stayed carefully within the shifting speed limits. Soon he and Forrest dropped into a conversation about the final third of the baseball season, and Carole became excessively bored. In the back seat Emily and Linda rode in silence, the painting on the seat between them. The thing was over now, but the shadows it had cast refused to go away entirely. Emily looked out the window and lost herself in thought.

  They passed Santa Anita, moved along the foothills, and crossed Sierra Madre Villa. Then Virgil picked up the microphone, spoke with it close to his lips, and after a moment replaced it in the clip.

  Reaching under the dashboard, he flipped a switch; a red light on the panel went on. In the light traffic he picked up speed until the car was doing a little under forty. Then he hit the siren.

  Carole came immediately and fully to life. Ramrod straight she sat up in the seat, her eyes aglow. “Are the red lights on?” she demanded.

  “They are,” Tibbs answered. “When I make a promise, I keep it.”

  “Oh, golly!” Carole cried.

  “With permission,” Virgil answered, largely for her father’s benefit.

  A red traffic light loomed ahead. The commanding voice of the siren held traffic motionless while Tibbs expectly cut to the left around the stopped cars and then pulled back onto the right side. In full Code 3 condition the police car moved down Colorado Boulevard.

  Linda leaned forward and looked at her little sister’s glowing face. “Can we do this again
sometime?” Carole asked.

  “The next time you help me catch a murderer,” Virgil answered her.

  “I’ll try,” she promised eagerly.

  For her the shock of all that had happened was over.

  Virgil smiled a little grimly. With sharp professional skill he swung around a minor street excavation, straightened out the car once more, and headed down the famous street into the center of the city he called home.