In the Heat of the Night (13 page)

“Thank you, sir,” Tibbs said. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”

Gillespie pondered. He tried to find offense in Tibbs’s reply, but if there was any, it did not show on the surface. “No, that’s all.”

As the Negro left the office, the chief slumped in his chair. A sudden idea had occurred to him, which he didn’t like at all. But he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. The idea was a startling one, but it
could
be the answer.

He shut his eyes and visualized someone holding a piece of wood, swinging it through the air in a vicious, utterly merciless blow that would land on and crush the skull of a little Italian. And the man he now saw swinging the crude club and destroying the life of a fellow human being was Sam Wood.

Sam had had the opportunity, there was no doubt of that. For Sam it would have been easy, for anyone else a tremendous risk. If Sam had walked up to the little man even in the small hours of the night, his victim would not have been on his guard, thinking he had nothing to fear from a policeman in uniform. On a sudden hunch Gillespie picked up the telephone, called the bank, and asked to speak to Mr. Jennings.

“I want to ask you something in strict confidence concerning one of our men here,” Gillespie began. “Do you know Sam Wood?”

“I know Mr. Wood very well,” Jennings replied promptly.

“What I want to know is this,” Gillespie said. “Within the last two months or so has there been any unusual activity in his account? Any unusual deposits or withdrawals? Has he had to borrow money?”

“Ordinarily we try to keep information concerning our depositors confidential,” Jennings replied, obviously stalling. “In any event, we don’t like to give it out over the telephone. You can appreciate why.”

Gillespie’s temper shortened again. “All right, all right! You are being cautious and I don’t blame you, you’re doing your job. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Let me understand clearly, Mr. Gillespie,” Jennings retorted. “Is this an official request for information?”

“You can consider it that.”

“Then of course we’ll cooperate. If you will come to my office whenever you find it convenient, I will allow you to look at the records.”

“Can’t you deliver them to me here?”

“If you get a court order for us to do so, we gladly will,” Jennings answered evenly. “Otherwise it would be much better if you could call here, since obviously we don’t want to let our records out, and we try to avoid making copies whenever possible.”

Satisfied that he could do no better, Gillespie hung up. He was annoyed that the conversation had given him no hint one way or the other. Robbery did not appear to be the motive, but Kaufmann had mentioned that Mantoli habitually carried large sums of money on his person. Sam Wood might have killed and robbed him, leaving enough money behind to divert suspicion. That sort of thing had been done before.

Arnold appeared in the doorway; he had a few sheets of paper in his hand. “Virgil says you want to see his report on Mantoli’s body.”

“Of course I want to see it,” Gillespie snapped. “What have you been sitting on it for?”

“I didn’t think you wanted it,” Arnold replied. He shrugged and left.

Bill Gillespie looked over the report. As he read from paragraph to paragraph, he began to hate the document. He hated it because it was the work of an inferior and at the same time better than he himself could have done or had done. But it would save him from possible serious embarrassment later on the witness stand if it came to that. He also learned a lot about the late Maestro Mantoli which he had not previously known. Try as he would, however, he could not escape being irritated by the fact that the report was the work of a Negro. They had no right to be smart.

The telephone rang.

Frank Schubert was on the line. “Bill, I hate to bother you but my phone has been going like mad all day. Can you tell me any more than you could yesterday about our case? The council is getting very restless and everybody I know in town has been calling up asking when the murderer will be caught.”

“Damn it, Frank, I wish you’d tell these people to get out of your hair and mine and let me run this murder investigation. Pressure doesn’t help, you ought to know that.”

Mayor Schubert hesitated. “All right, Bill. I understand how you feel. Ah … about one other matter, that colored boy from California: did you get rid of him yet?”

“No, and I’m not going to.” Gillespie kept his voice under control with an effort.

“I think it would be a good idea, Bill.”

“For personal reasons I’ll be damned if I will.” Gillespie’s voice rose in spite of him. “Frank, I’ve got to go now. I promise you I’ll call as soon as I have anything to report.”

“Oh. All right, Bill,” Schubert said, and hung up. Gillespie realized that the mayor’s patience, too, was beginning to wear thin. And if Frank Schubert got too angry, that was the end of the chief-of-police job.

Gillespie flipped a key on the intercom. “Where’s Virgil?” he asked.

“He went out,” Pete answered. “Got a call from a Reverend Somebody and lit out of here on the double. Do you want him?”

“Later,” Gillespie said, and killed the circuit. A dozen different emotions were tearing at him, all pulling in different directions. He got up, clapped on his hat, and headed for his car. One thing was going to be settled anyway; he was off to the bank to see Jennings.

The bank manager received him courteously and sent immediately for Sam Wood’s file. Gillespie was pleased to note that his word, and his presence, carried
some
weight in this city he was beginning cordially to dislike. When the file was delivered, Jennings looked it over in silence and then kept it in his hands while he spoke.

“Mr. Wood has had an account with us for several years. It has never been more than a few hundred dollars. Twice he has been overdrawn but covered the checks in question promptly enough to protect his credit standing. Deposits and withdrawals have been consistent for some time.”

“Is there any more?” Gillespie asked impatiently.

“I was coming to that,” Jennings replied, unruffled. “Two days ago, Mr. Wood came in and paid off the mortgage on his home. It is a small place and not very much was due. He deposited a check which he stated was a legacy he had received in the mail, and a little over six hundred dollars in cash.”

“Six hundred dollars in cash!” Gillespie repeated. “That sounds very unusual to me.”

“Yes and no,” the banker replied. “Many people still hoard their savings in mattresses and cookie jars despite the amount that is lost each year that way.”

“But not when they have bank accounts and have had them for several years,” Gillespie said. The weight of the evidence that he had just received was beginning to sink in; he had called for a long forward pass and it was just falling securely into his arms on the five-yard line.

Sam Wood made it a point to check in at the station around four o’clock each day. On this particular day he did not want to do so but felt that he should in order to keep up appearances. During the latter part of the night, when he had been alone, he had come to realize the injustice he had done his uninvited companion. He had spent considerable time trying to figure out how his simple deception had been detected. But since it had been, Sam did not want to run into Virgil Tibbs.

When he walked into the lobby, Sam saw Eric Kaufmann talking with Pete at the desk. Kaufmann was displaying a small gun and Pete was apparently taking down the make and serial number.

Kaufmann looked around, saw Sam, and came over to speak to him. “Can you spare me a moment?” Kaufmann asked. “I’ll be through here right away.”

“Of course.” Sam sat down on a bench against the wall, where there was at least a small measure of privacy. In a minute or two Kaufmann slid the little gun into his pocket and came over to sit beside Sam.

“First of all,” he began, “I want to square things with you. I’m damn sorry I got hairy with you the other night. I was very worried and upset, but that’s still no excuse.”

“Forget it,” Sam said gallantly.

“When I stopped to think about it, I realized how thoughtful of you it was to drive all the way up to Endicotts’ just to look after all of us up there. Duena and I want you to know we appreciate it a great deal.”

The last sentence made Sam feel as though he had been solidly hit in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he made no reply.

“When I thought it over,” Kaufmann continued, “I came in and got a permit to carry a gun.”

“Do you know how to use one?” Sam asked.

“Not very well. But I don’t ever want to use it, really. It’s enough to have it to point at somebody if I have to. That’s all I want it for, until this thing is over. I presume you’re making some progress.”

“I can’t talk about that,” Sam replied. He was sure that was a safe answer.

“I understand. And, oh, yes, before I forget it, Duena asked me to thank you for your kindness to her the day her father was killed. She still isn’t herself, but she’s coming around better than could be expected. If you knew her as I do, you’d know she’s a wonderful girl.”

“I’m sure she is,” Sam said, meaning every word of it. Then he decided he might as well take the plunge. “I’m surprised you haven’t married her.”

“I want to very much,” Kaufmann replied. “I think all might have gone well, but then this dreadful thing happened. When it is all behind us, and we can leave here, then she may come around.”

“You should stand a good chance,” Sam said, deliberately torturing himself.

“I hope so.”

“Well, I sure wish you the best of luck,” Sam lied cordially, and held out his hand. He liked Kaufmann better today in spite of everything. It was nice to like people and to have them like you. Sam looked about him to see if Virgil Tibbs might be there.

Pete saw him looking and called him over to the desk. “The boss wants to see you.”

“Right away,” Sam acknowledged. He turned toward the corridor that led to Gillespie’s office. On the way he stepped in the washroom for a moment to smooth his hair and tuck in his shirt. Even though he had little respect for Gillespie, when he walked into his chief’s office he wanted to look, and to be, every inch a competent and reliable police officer. He walked the rest of the way down the corridor and knocked respectfully on the closed door.

It was nearly six when Virgil Tibbs drove his borrowed car onto the official parking lot and climbed wearily from the driver’s seat. Before closing the door he reached back inside, then he climbed the steps into the lobby.

The early night man on the desk looked up as Tibbs walked in.

“Well?” he asked.

“Is Chief Gillespie still here, by any chance?” Tibbs asked.

“Yes, he’s here, but I don’t think he wants to be disturbed right now.”

“He has someone with him?” Tibbs inquired.

“No, he’s alone. But it had better be pretty important if you want to see him now.”

“Please tell him that I’m here and I want to see him,” Tibbs said.

The night man took ample time to reach over and flip the intercom key. “Virgil’s here,” he reported. “I told him not to disturb you, but he insists on coming in.”

“All right,” Gillespie’s voice came out.

“Go on in,” the night man said, and returned to the paper he had been reading.

Tibbs walked down the corridor and knocked on Gillespie’s door.

Gillespie’s voice came through the panel. “I said you could come in.”

Virgil Tibbs opened the door and walked quietly into Gillespie’s office. When he looked at the big man behind the desk, he saw at once that in some manner he had been badly shaken. “Well? What is it that’s so important, Virgil?” Gillespie asked. There was no fire in his words. He spoke with the voice of a man who had made a strong and bold move and who was now asking himself if he had done the right thing.

Tibbs laid a piece of wood on Gillespie’s desk. It was a rough, round section of a limb about two inches in diameter and twenty-two inches long. Gillespie looked at it without speaking. “What do you want me to do with that?” he asked.

“It’s the murder weapon,” Tibbs told him.

Gillespie picked up the fatal piece of wood and examined it curiously. There were unmistakable stains at one end which gave grisly proof of what it probably had done. The chief turned it around in his fingers and then sighted down its length to see how straight it was. “How did you find it?” he asked.

“I had some help,” Tibbs acknowledged. He waited for further questions.

Gillespie continued to turn the piece of wood in his fingers. When he didn’t speak, Tibbs did. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I told you once we could run our own business down here, not that I don’t appreciate your bringing this in to me. And your report on Mantoli’s body was satisfactory. And I’d better tell you—I arrested Mantoli’s murderer personally about an hour ago.”

Tibbs audibly drew a quick breath. “Can you tell me—” he began.

“Who he is?” Gillespie supplied.

“ … whether you got a confession?” Tibbs finished.

“No, I didn’t. He protested, of course.” Gillespie stopped and picked up the deadly piece of wood once more. “But he did it. I know.” He continued to examine the implement in his hands and then hefted it for weight. “What did this tell you, Virgil?” he asked.

“It would be more accurate to say that it confirmed what I already knew, Chief Gillespie.”

“Exactly what would that be?”

“Who the murderer is,” Tibbs answered.

Gillespie put the piece of wood back on his desk. “Hmm. Well, I beat you to it. And now if you want to see your friend Sam, you’ll find him in the first cell down the hall.”

Virgil Tibbs looked at Gillespie with wonder and disbelief and then looked out the window a moment while he collected his thoughts. “Sam Wood?” he asked, as though the idea was beyond him.

“That’s right,” Gillespie answered. “Sam Wood.”

Tibbs sank silently into a chair before Gillespie’s desk. “Sir,” he said finally, with great care, “I know you won’t want to hear this, but I must tell you. Mr. Wood is definitely not guilty. You can see the implications toward your career if you don’t let him go.” He paused and looked very steadily at Gillespie with his deep-brown eyes. “You see, sir, I know it for a fact that you’ve got the wrong man.”