In the Heat of the Night (10 page)

“What is your security clearance, Mr. Gottschalk?” Tibbs asked.

“Secret and Q.”

“Then you have done, or are doing, nuclear work.”

“Yes, that’s right. Our company has several contracts in the field.”

“To clear up a point, may I ask why you were driving at that hour instead of flying down or possibly taking the train?”

“That’s a reasonable question, Mr. Tibbs. I drove down this time because I hoped to have my wife join me and we would take a week on the Keys after the shoot. That is, if it went well. I can only say generally that after the shoot it was necessary for me to go back to the plant, which is why I am here now.”

“In other words, you drove down so you would have your car available in case Mrs. Gottschalk could join you for a week’s vacation?”

“Exactly.”

“And the reason for driving that late?”

“The heat. It was fierce. I don’t have air-conditioning in the car, so I chose to drive at night, at least as much as I safely could, in order to be a little more comfortable.”

“Then the
only thing left to ask you, sir, is whether or not, in driving through Wells, you noticed anything unusual in any way. I’m assuming you didn’t see a body in the road or you would have stopped. But did you see anything else that might be helpful? Any pedestrians? Any signs of any sort of activity?”

Gottschalk shook his head. “I’m not trying to hold out on you to avoid involvement, but I truthfully didn’t see anything at all. In fact, if you will excuse my saying so, the town appeared completely dead to me.”

Tibbs rose. “You have been very helpful, sir, and we appreciate your willingness to take the time on our behalf.”

Gottschalk swung to his feet. “Am I free to go now?”

“Of course, sir. Technically you were free to go at any time and did not need to come here. I hope it was made clear to you that this was strictly a request.”

“Frankly,” Gottschalk replied, “that wasn’t the impression I got. I thought I had fallen into one of those local speed traps or trick-ordinance gimmicks that you hear about. I fully expected to have to pay a fine.”

“Chief Gillespie and the other responsible leaders of this city don’t do things like that. Let me say officially that you are not under suspicion in any way.”

“That’s a relief; I wish all cops were like you. And if I may say so without offense, I’m glad to see that democracy has hit the South in something besides the political sense. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

The office cleared, but Gillespie motioned to Tibbs to remain. He did not invite him to sit down again, so Tibbs stood waiting until the others were well out of range. Then Gillespie picked up a pencil and began to roll it between his fingers. “Virgil, I let you go ahead with the interview since you are supposed to be handling this case, but do you think it was the smart thing to tell that man that he was officially clear of any suspicion? He works for a very important company. If he reports that back to them, and he might do just that, then what are you going to do if you find out he knows more than he told us just now?” Gillespie leaned back in his chair. “Consider this if you haven’t already. This man drove south through town, by his own admission right past the place where Sam found the body—I mean where Mr. Wood found the body. And no other car was seen to go either way after that. Sure he doesn’t
look
guilty on the face of it, but he was at the scene of the crime at approximately the time of the crime. You remember, don’t you, what the doctor said about the time of Mantoli’s death. He fixed the time at just about the very moment that your friend Gottschalk was driving through. And you told him he was officially cleared of all suspicion.”

If Tibbs was ruffled, he failed to show it. “Those are very reasonable points you raised, Chief Gillespie, and I would agree with you completely except for one thing.”

“And what’s that, Virgil?”

“The fact that Mantoli wasn’t killed where his body was found.”

A
T FOUR O’CLOCK
that afternoon, Sam Wood checked in at the station to see what was up. He caught a knowing look from Pete, now on day duty, as he walked in the door, so Sam headed for the washroom and in a few moments Pete joined him.

“Your friend Virgil put Gillespie over the barrel for good this morning,” Pete confided.

Sam bent over and made sure that the small toilet cubicles were empty. “What happened?” he asked.

“As near as I can get it, Gillespie dug up another suspect and Virgil sent him down the chute, too.”

“Another suspect?” Sam inquired.

“Yeah; some guy who was driving through that night just as the murder was taking place. Ralph, the kid out at the diner, spotted him and Gillespie had him brought in. Then he turned it over to Virgil and Virgil let him loose.”

“And Gillespie let him get away with it?” ”Yep. Virgil and Gillespie had a little talk afterward ….

“I’ll bet they did.”

“No, you don’t get me—a real nice
friendly
talk. Virgil told Gillespie something; when Arnold went past the door, there was Gillespie, as meek as Moses, listening to Virgil explain it to him. Arnold didn’t get the drift, but it must have been something good.”

“Maybe we could ask Virgil about it. Ask him if there are any developments. Show interest in his work.”

“Is he here?”

“No, he’s been out all day. Took that old car he’s got and left. No one knows where he is.”

“Maybe he got lonesome and went down to find some nice black girl to shack up with him.” As soon as he had uttered the words, Sam was ashamed of himself. He wished he hadn’t said them.

“I don’t know,” Pete answered slowly. “He’s awful smart for a black boy. I bet he’s working on the case somehow.”

Sam made amends, and was glad he could. “I was just kiddin’. Virgil’s all right. It wouldn’t fool me if he came out on top on this thing.”

“If he does, Gillespie’ll take it away from him.”

“Well, anyway, he’s no dope.”

“Smartest black I ever saw,” Pete concluded; then he added a remarkable tribute. “He oughta been a white man.”

Sam nodded his agreement.

Reverend Amos Whiteburn, despite the heat of the day and the presumed informality of his own home, wore clerical black. The parlor was poor and dingy; what furniture there was had not been new for decades. The cheap rug was threadbare and the window curtains totally disillusioned. Nevertheless the tiny room was clean and was as presentable as its furnishings would permit.

“As long as I have been in this community,” Reverend Whiteburn said in a commanding bass voice, “this is the first time that I have ever been consulted by the police. I take it as an honor.”

“Perhaps,” Virgil Tibbs suggested, “your spiritual leadership has been such that there has never been any need.”

“Extremely kind of you, Mr. Tibbs, but I’m afraid I know to the contrary. Have you spent much time in the South?”

“No more than I have to,” Tibbs admitted. “My mother lives here. I’m trying to persuade her to move to California, where I can give her a better home, but she is elderly and has other children on the East Coast.”

“I understand,” the minister agreed, his big voice almost booming in the little room. “For some of our people who have lived here all of their lives, the shock of entering a different climate of opinion would be considerable.”

Tibbs went on: “Two nights ago, a man was murdered here; you must know about it. I’m investigating that murder—with official approval. Right now I want to discover two things: the place where the murder was done and, if I can, the weapon used.”

Reverend Whiteburn leaned forward so that his chair strained under his bulk. “It was my understanding that the poor man met his fate in the middle of the highway.”

“He didn’t,” Tibbs replied.

The minister rubbed his big chin. “Are you at liberty to go any further?” he asked.

“This is an official conversation,” Tibbs told him, “and is not to be repeated to anyone.”

“It will not be,” the minister assured him gravely.

“Maestro Mantoli was killed somewhere on the outskirts or in this general area.”

The minister shifted once more in his uncomfortable chair. “How did you determine that?” he interrupted.

“By examining the body, plus a reasonable deduction, that’s all.”

The minister hesitated and then spoke most carefully. “Mr. Tibbs, are any of our people suspect, either directly or indirecttly, in this case?”

“To the best of my knowledge,” Tibbs answered with equal care, “no one has suggested that the murderer is necessarily a Negro.”

“That,” the minister replied, “is in itself a small miracle. But I interrupted you; please go on.”

Tibbs studied the big man, who looked like a retired heavyweight boxer, and then took the plunge. “Mantoli was killed with a piece of unfinished wood—pine, I think, but I won’t know for sure until I hear from the Forest Products Laboratory. I recovered a sliver from the corpse and sent it to them. I want to find that piece of wood. To try to do so alone would be almost impossible. I came to you because I hear that you are very active in Negro youth programs.”

The forehead of Reverend Whiteburn corrugated in thought. He put his fingertips together and then bounced them very gently. “If it was used as a club, it could not be too large. It would have to be a fairly short piece of wood.”

“Something like that, perhaps two feet long.”

“Hmm. That sounds as if it could be a piece of firewood.” When he fell silent once more, Tibbs waited patiently. After several seconds the big man spoke again. “You know … how does this sound, Mr. Tibbs: I will tell our young people—I mean the boys and girls who belong to our club for ten-to fifteen-year-olds—that I want to put in a stock of firewood for the church. I will send them out for suitable pieces, but I’ll insist that they take nothing from anyone’s woodpile, even if it is freely offered. Ill make a game out of it. As they bring in their findings, and they will bring in plenty, I’ll try to find what you’re looking for, that is if there is any way to tell.”

“Some brownish dried blood on the end. It wouldn’t look like blood, not to children, anyway. It’s a very long chance at the best.”

Reverend Whiteburn regarded the problem as solved. “We’ll get on this right away. I can’t promise results, of course, but we will gather in a good percentage of the loose wood around this area. And the children need never know the real purpose of the project.”

“We could use you in California,” Tibbs said admiringly.

His host answered him simply. “I’m needed here.”

Bill Gillespie picked up his phone when it rang, and barked, “Yes?”

“Bill, if you can get away for a few minutes, I wish you would step over to my office. Several councilmen are here and you ought to be in on this.”

Gillespie recognized the mayor’s voice without comment. “I’ll be right over, Frank,” he replied, and hung up. As he passed through the lobby, he gave the desk man a piercing glance and noted with satisfaction a slight flicker of fear in the man’s eyes when he looked back. Then he walked out into the bright sunshine, feeling pretty good, and reflected that whatever Frank Schubert had on his mind, he would be able to handle it without trouble.

It wasn’t quite that easy. Schubert welcomed him into his office and waved his arm toward the three other men who were waiting. “You know Mr. Dennis, Mr. Shubie, and Mr. Watkins, Bill.”

“Certainly. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Gillespie sat down with the air of a highly placed executive who has been called upon to testify. At least that was the effect he tried for. And he intended to remain quiet and courteous no matter what lay ahead, for the four men facing him had enough votes on the Council to oust him from his job.

“Bill, the boys asked me to invite you over to discuss the Mantoli murder. Naturally we’re all quite concerned about it.”

Watkins interrupted. “Coming to the point, Mr. Gillespie, we want to know what’s being done and also what’s going on.”

“Isn’t that the same question?” Gillespie asked.

“I mean we want to know what’s being done to clear up the murder and what all the rumors are about you having a nigger cop in the station.”

Gillespie straightened his shoulders. “I’ll take your questions in reverse order, Mr. Watkins. One of our men rushed ahead too fast and picked up a black boy in the station. He had a lot of money on him and so my man ran him in.”

“Right thing to do,” Watkins clipped.

“When I questioned him, he said he was a cop out in California. I checked up, of course, and he was.”

“This isn’t California,” Shubie contributed.

“I know that,” Gillespie snapped, and then checked himself quickly. “I’m sorry, just thinking about him makes me mad.” He looked at Shubie and saw that the explanation was satisfactory. “Anyway, George Endicott stuck in his oar. I don’t mean to be disrespectful to a councilman, but I don’t think he knows how to run a police department. Well, Mr. Endicott got hold of the chief of police that this black boy Virgil works for and found out that Virgil was a homicide specialist. So he up and borrowed him to help us out here.”

“That’s this nigger,” Watkins said.

“That’s the one,” Gillespie agreed. “Without passing the buck, Mr. Schubert told me to use him and he’s the boss; I did what he asked me to.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Watkins exclaimed, and half rose to his feet. “I don’t want no nigger running around this town asking questions of white people like he thought he was somebody. He wanted to talk to my night man, Ralph, at the diner, but Ralph wouldn’t let him in. And he was down at the bank acting like he was a white man. A few of the boys are getting ready to teach him his place, and they will, too, if you don’t get him out of here.”

Gillespie looked at Frank Schubert and waited for the mayor to pick up the ball. When he found he was the center of attention, Schubert reached into his desk and produced a small bundle of newspapers. “Mantoli wasn’t so much of a big shot, but when he got himself murdered it made news. It made more news when a colored cop came on the job. If you haven’t seen all of these, you better take a look. You know we’re getting a lot of press attention. So far it’s all been to the good and a lot of free publicity for the music festival.”