In the Heat of the Night (2 page)

“Yeah. What about that. I don’t care about music neither, at least not that long-hair kind,” Ralph agreed, “but I say if it can put us on the map like they say it can, and bring in tourists with money to spend, maybe they’ll get this joint fixed up and we’ll all live a little higher on the hog.”

Sam got up. “How much?” he asked.

“Fifteen cents, the cake’s on the house, it was the last piece. Have a nice night, Mr. Wood.”

Sam laid down a quarter and turned away. Once the counterman had dared to call him Sam. He had given a cold stare of disapproval and it had done the job. It was “Mr. Wood” now, and that was the way Sam wanted it. He climbed back into his car and reported briefly by radio before starting down the highway back into town. He settled in his seat, ready for the monotony that would make up the last part of the night.

The air was thick again as the car gained speed. For the first time since he had come on duty, Sam allowed himself to damn the pressing heat that promised a scorching day to follow. And that meant another hot night tomorrow, and perhaps another one after that. Sam slowed the car as the central area loomed ahead. The night was still deserted, but Sam drove slowly through the small downtown district as a matter of habit. He thought again of Delores Purdy. She would get married pretty young, he decided, and somebody would have plenty of fun rolling in the hay with her. It was then, a full block ahead, that he saw something lying in the road.

Sam touched the gas pedal and the car spurted ahead. In the path of the four headlamps the object grew larger until Sam braked the car to a stop in the middle of the street a few feet in front of what he could now see was a man sprawled on the pavement.

He snapped the red warning lights on and swung quickly out of the car. Before he bent over the man, he first looked quickly about him, his hand on his holstered .38, ready for instant action. He saw nothing but the silent buildings and the hard pavement stretching out in both directions. Satisfied momentarily, Sam dropped down on one knee beside the man in the street.

He was lying on his stomach, his arms above his head, his legs sprawled apart, and his face turned to the left so that his right cheek was pressed against the heavily worn concrete. He had abnormally long hair, which covered the back of his neck and then curled where it brushed the collar of his coat. Beside him, five or six feet away, a silver-handled walking stick looked strangely helpless on the hard roadway.

Sam slipped his left hand under the fallen man and tried to feel for a heartbeat. Despite the sweltering heat, the man was wearing a vest tightly buttoned; through it Sam could detect no evidence that the man was alive. Then he remembered what he had read about apparently dead bodies. Sam had not had any special course of training for his job; he had simply been put on the payroll, had been briefed for a day on his new duties, and then had gone to work. But as instructed, he had studied the civic, county, and state codes and had read the two or three textbooks made available at the small headquarters building. Sam had a good memory and the information he had absorbed came back to him now in the moment of need.

Sam moved quickly back to his car and picked up the radio microphone. At this hour he did not bother to use official language, but spoke quickly and clearly as soon as his call had been acknowledged.

“At the corner of Piney and the highway, approximately, man in the road, appears to be dead. No evidence of anyone else nearby, no traffic for several minutes. Send the doctor and the ambulance right away.”

As he paused, Sam wondered for an instant if he had used the proper language in reporting in. This was something new to him and he wanted to handle it properly. Then the voice of the night operator snapped him out of it. “Stand by. Any identification of the victim?”

Sam thought quickly. “No, not yet,” he replied. “I never saw this man before to my knowledge. However, I think I know who he is. He has long hair, wears a vest, carries a cane. A small man, not over five feet five.”

“That’s Mantoli,” the operator exclaimed. “The conductor. The man in charge of the festival. If that’s him, and if he’s dead, this could be one awful mess. Repeat, stand by.”

Sam pressed the mike onto its clip and walked quickly back to the fallen man. It was only nine blocks to the hospital and the ambulance would be on the scene within five minutes. As Sam bent over the man once more, he remembered the rundown dog, but this was infinitely worse.

Sam reached out his hand and laid it very gently on the back of the man’s head, as though by his touch he could comfort him and tell him that help was coming quickly, that he would only have to lie on the harsh pavement for two or three minutes more, and that in the meantime he was not alone. It was while these thoughts were running through his mind that Sam became aware that something thick and sticky was oozing against his fingers. With a quick involuntary motion he jerked his hand away. The pity he had felt evaporated and a growing red anger surged up in its place.

A
T FOUR MINUTES AFTER FOUR
in the morning, the phone rang at the bedside of Bill Gillespie, chief of police of the city of Wells. Gillespie took a few seconds to shake himself partially awake before he answered. As he reached for the instrument he already knew that it was trouble, and probably big trouble, otherwise the night desk man would have handled it. The night man was on the line.

“Chief, I hate to wake you, but if Sam Wood is right, we may have a first-class murder on our hands.”

Gillespie forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Tourist?”

“No, not exactly. Sam has tentatively identified the body as that of Enrico Mantoli—you know, the fellow who was going to set up a music festival here. Understand, Chief, that we aren’t even sure yet that the man is dead, but if he is, and if Sam’s identification is correct, then somebody has knocked off our local celebrity and our whole music-festival deal probably has gone to pot.”

Bill Gillespie was fully awake now. While he felt automatically for his slippers with his feet, he knew that he was expected to take command. The schooling in his profession he had had back in Texas told him what to say. “All right, listen to me. I’ll come right down. Get a doctor and the ambulance there right away, a photographer, and dig up a couple more men. Have Wood stay where he is until I get there. You know the routine?”

The night desk man, who never before had had to deal with a murder, answered that he did. As soon as he hung up, Gillespie rose to his full six feet four and began quickly to climb into his clothes, running over in his mind exactly what he would do when he reached the murder scene. He had been chief of police and a Wells resident for only nine weeks, and now he would have to prove himself. As he bent to tie his shoes, he knew that he could trust himself to do the right thing, but he still wished that the hurdles immediately before him had already been cleared.

Despite the fact that he was only thirty-two, Bill Gillespie had abundant confidence in his own ability to meet whatever challenges were thrown at him. His size made it possible for him to look down literally on most men. His forcefulness, which had cost him the girl he had wanted to marry, swept away many normal obstacles as though they had never existed. If he had a murder on his hands he would solve it, and no one would dare to question him while he was in the process.

Then he remembered that he had not been told where the murder was. He picked up the phone angrily and misdialed in his haste. He slammed the instrument back into its cradle before what he knew would be a wrong number could ring, and then, forcing himself to be calm, tried again.

The night police desk man, who had been expecting the call, answered immediately. “Where is it?” Gillespie demanded.

“On the highway, Chief, just below Piney. The ambulance is there and the doctor has pronounced the victim dead. No positive identification yet.”

“All right,” the chief acknowledged, and dropped the instrument into position. He didn’t like having to admit that he had had to call back to know where to go. He should have been told the body’s position the first time.

Bill Gillespie’s personal car was equipped with a siren, red lights in the rear window, and a police radio set. He jumped in, kicked the starter, and jerked the car away from the curb and up to speed without any regard whatever for the cold engine. In less than five minutes he saw ahead of him the police car, the ambulance, and a little knot of people gathered in the middle of the highway. Gillespie drove up quickly, set the brake, and was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop.

Without speaking to anyone, he strode rapidly to where the body still lay in the street, then squatted down and began to run his hands quickly over the fallen man. “Where’s his wallet?” he demanded.

Sam Wood stepped forward to reply. “It’s missing. At least I didn’t find it on the body.”

“Any positive identification?” Gillespie snapped.

The young doctor who had come with the ambulance answered that. “It’s Enrico Mantoli, the conductor. He was the spark plug behind the musical festival we’ve been planning here.”

“I know that,” Gillespie retorted curtly, and turned his attention again to the body. He had a strong desire to tell it to sit up, wipe the dirt off its face, and tell him what happened, who did it. But this was one man whom he could not command. All right then, it would have to be done some other way. Gillespie looked up.

“Sam, take your car, check the railroad station and the north end of town to see if anyone is crazy enough to try to hitchhike out of here. Wait a minute.” He turned his head quickly toward the doctor. “How long has this man been dead?”

“Less than an hour, I should say, possibly less than forty-five minutes. Whoever did it can’t be too far away.”

Gillespie allowed an expression of angry annoyance to cross his face. “All I asked you was how long he has been dead; you don’t have to tell me my job, I’ll tell you. I want
photo
graphs of the body from all angles, including some shots long enough to show its
position
relative to
the
curb and
the
buildings
on the
west side of
the
street. Then mark
the position
in chalk outline and barricade
the
area to keep traffic off
this spot
. After
that
you can take
the
body away.” He stood up and saw Sam standing quietly by.
“What
did I tell you to do?” he demanded.

“You told me to wait a minute,” Sam answered evenly.

“All right then, you can get going. Hop to it.”

Sam moved quickly to his patrol car, and drove away with enough speed to avoid any possible criticism later. As he headed toward the railroad station, for a brief moment he allowed himself to hope that Gillespie would somehow make a public fool of himself and bungle the case. Then he realized that such a thought was totally unworthy of a sworn peace officer and he resolved that no matter what happened, his part would be done promptly and well.

At the last moment, as he approached the silent railroad station, he slowed his car down to avoid giving any undue warning to a possible murderer lurking inside. Sam pulled up close to the wooden platform and climbed out without hesitation. The station was a small one which dated back at least fifty years; at night it was inadequately lighted by a few dusty bulbs which seemed as ageless as the worn hard benches or the unyielding tile floor. As Sam walked rapidly toward the main waiting-room door, he had a sudden desire to loosen the pressure of his uniform cap. He rejected the idea at once and entered the station every inch a police officer, his right hand on his gun. The waiting room was deserted.

Sam sniffed the air rapidly and detected nothing to suggest that anyone had been there recently. No fresh cigarette smoke, only the habitual aroma of all such railroad stations, the evidence of thousands of nameless people who had passed through and gone on.

The ticket window was closed; the glass panel was down. Posted inside was a square of cardboard with the arrival times of the night trains printed in heavy crayon. Sam looked carefully about the room once more while he thought. If the murderer was here, he probably did not have a gun. He had killed by hitting the dead man on the back of the head with a blunt instrument, and with a blunt instrument Sam was confident he could deal. He bent and checked the small area under the benches. It was clear except for dirt and a few bits of paper.

Striding through the room, Sam pushed open the door to the train platform and looked both ways. The platform, too, was deserted. Walking with firm, authoritative steps, Sam passed the locked baggage-room door, which he tested and found secure, and paused by the dingier door over which a white board sign specified
COLORED
. With his right hand once more on his sidearm, Sam pushed into the poorly lighted room and then drew a quick gulp of breath. There was someone there.

Sam sized him up at a glance, and knew at once that he did not belong in Wells. He was fairly slender and dressed up in city clothes, including a white shirt and a tie. Sam guessed that he might be about thirty, but it was always hard to tell about blacks. Instead of being stretched out on the bench, he was wide awake and sitting up straight as though he were expecting something to happen. His coat was off and laid neatly beside him. He had been reading a paperback book up to the moment Sam entered; when he looked up, Sam saw that his face lacked the broad nose and thick, heavy lips that characterized so many southern laborers. His nose was almost like a white man’s and the line of his mouth was straight and disciplined. If he had been a little lighter, Sam would have seen white blood in him, but his skin was too black for that.