Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

John Ball Virgil Tibbs and the Cocktail Napkin

The 134 freeway is reasonably well lit as it passes through Glendale so that Mrs. Robert Shozinsky had no difficulty as she drove carefully only a little over the legal limit of 55 miles per hour. Because she was alone in her car, she had the doors locked. As soon as she passed the city limits the roadway became much darker, particularly when it began the long climb up toward the Arroyo Seco bridge that led into Pasadena.

The freeway had been carved out of the side of a substantial hill, one that would have been called a mountain in many other places; consequently it was both isolated and very dark at two o’clock in the morning. Since the only illumination Mrs. Shozinsky had was provided by her own headlights, she did not see the body until she was almost on it.

Her fingers locked with sudden panic as she swerved her car; her knuckles went white against the steering wheel. For the first few seconds she was unable to realize exactly where she was, then she saw that she had reached the top of the long grade, and the first lights of Pasadena were visible ahead. Although the freeway was almost deserted at that hour on Monday night, she used her turn signal as she pulled off to the right. She was a knowledgeable woman and she remembered there were emergency telephones approximately every quarter mile along the right of way.

She saw one about 200 feet ahead. She let her car come to a stop beside it, and seconds later she was in communication with the operator at the Zone Five headquarters of the California Highway Patrol.

“There’s a man lying on the freeway,” she reported, “on his face, all sprawled out. I–I almost ran over him. Please come quickly!”

“Right now,” the operator assured her. He made note of the phone number she was calling from and popped the slip on the conveyor belt.

The dispatcher put the call on the air promptly and also notified the Fire Department paramedics. Four minutes later Mrs. Shozinsky had company — a one-man CHP unit arrived at almost the same moment the red paramedic unit rolled up, silently but with lights flashing. No one used sirens on the freeway system; they had proved to be too dangerous.

The body was spreadeagled on the concrete pavement in the Number Four lane, lying almost directly opposite the sign that marked the city limits of Pasadena. The paramedics went to work immediately while the highway patrolman set out emergency flares. It did not take them long. The taller of the two men gave the verdict. “Dead,” he said simply. Then he asked, “Whose jurisdiction is it?”

The patrolman couldn’t answer that immediately. Instead he went on the air with the suggestion that both Pasadena and LAPD be notified. Meanwhile, the paramedics covered the body and informed the coroner’s office. By the time they had finished and were ready to pull away, a white Matador patrol car from Pasadena was just rolling up. The two officers were getting out of their vehicle when a Los Angeles black and white appeared.

The highway patrol officer thanked his informer for her cooperation and sent her on her way after he had taken her name and address.

The four newly arrived officers surveyed the situation and mutually determined what they had. One man from each team radioed in, at almost the same time. “Homicide,” the Pasadena officer reported to his dispatcher. “Possible 187. Request full backup.”

The dispatcher alerted the watch commander, Lieutenant Robenson, who wanted to know the exact location. “Is that in our jurisdiction?” he asked.

“I think so, but Bob Watson also asked for a full backup.”

Code 187 meant murder, so Robenson did not hesitate. He called out a homicide team that would respond with its specially equipped vehicle, then he dialed an unlisted number on his personnel index. Virgil Tibbs answered the third ring.

“Good morning, Virg,” Robenson said. “Rise and shine. Apologize to the young lady, I assume there is one, and come on in. We have a nice dead body for you.”

“I don’t want a dead body,” Tibbs replied, “I want to get some sleep.”

He hung up after that, because any further conversation would be pointless, and dressed quickly. He ran his hand across the skin of his face, but despite the stubble, he decided not to take time to shave.

The black detective found a small mob scene when he arrived at the point on the freeway, close to Malcolm Street, where the body had been found. The Pasadena Police had put a full homicide team into action and the LAPD had sent an even larger contingent. Obviously, the question of jurisdiction had not been clarified. Both teams were busy taking photographs and making the usual measurements while two men from the coroner’s office waited patiently to remove the body.

Virgil went quietly to the place where the body lay, removed the cover, and began a swift careful examination. He had barely started when a tall, powerfully built man in plainclothes appeared at his side. “May I see your ID, please,” he asked.

A uniformed Pasadena sergeant answered for Virgil. “He’s with us — our top homicide man.”

The Los Angeles man remembered what he had heard about Pasadena’s specialist. “Virgil Tibbs?” he asked.

Tibbs rose and shook hands. “Tim Yost,” the tall man introduced himself. “That whitehead over there is Vince Scott, my partner.”

“Nice to know you,” Tibbs said.

“I don’t know why they called you out, Virgil. The body is in Los Angeles and it’s our headache.”

“Assuming the sign is accurately placed,” Tibbs countered, “from the hips down it’s in Pasadena.”

“Look, Virgil, the guy was shot in the head — one neat hole right in the forehead. On this side of the freeway he had to be coming from Los Angeles. Somebody made the hit in a car, then dumped him out. It’s ours all the way.”

“Suppose,” Virgil suggested, “that the car stopped and he got out. Not a likely place, but I’m assuming he wasn’t given any choice. Then he was shot. The hole in the forehead fits and that would keep any blood out of the car.”

“Remote, but possible,” Yost conceded.

“The man fell where he was found. I didn’t get very far with my examination, but if he had been thrown from a moving vehicle, there would be abrasion marks, particularly on his exposed skin. There don’t seem to be any. That points to his having been put out, and then shot.”

“So?” Yost asked.

“Notice the position of the feet. He was standing in Pasadena when shot — from the hips down he’s clearly on the left side of the sign. He fell forward, partly into Los Angeles, after he was fatally wounded. It’s our case.”

It was an impasse which for the moment no one was in a position to resolve. “Have you IDed the victim?” Tibbs asked.

“Yes, there were some things in his pockets — nothing very significant. Look, the powers that be will settle whether you’ll be handling this one or Vince and me, so for the moment why don’t we avoid duplication of effort?”

“I’ll agree to that,” Virgil said. “But I’d still like to know exactly what was in his pockets.”

“Just the usual things — a wallet, pocket comb, ballpoint pen, some change, a key case, a handkerchief, and a cocktail napkin.”

Tibbs made a swift decision. “You take the body and all the personal effects. Let me have the napkin. I’ll work on that.”

Yost looked at his partner for a moment of silence, then the two men seemed to agree by telepathy. “It’s a deal,” Yost declared.

The napkin had the name of a bar printed across one corner. Apart from that it was very ordinary, exactly like tens of thousands of others produced in quantity by the same supplier. It was relatively fresh and clean; the only marking was a faint ring on the middle of the printed side where a cocktail or some other drink had once stood. The ring was a light reddish color, and apart from that, the napkin was entirely unmarked.

Knowing the ways of bars, Virgil Tibbs spent the morning in his office preparing for a court appearance coming up later in the week. Then, after his usual lunch of a sandwich and a large glass of milk, he took a plain car off the police lot and headed into Los Angeles. Halfway down the Pasadena Freeway he picked up the microphone clipped to the dash and advised the LAPD that he was coming into their jurisdiction. He gave no reason and he was not asked for one.

Locating the bar had been a simple matter of checking the phone book; it was on the west side of the city in a respectable neighborhood.

At a little after two Kitty and Sam’s Bar was open for the early-afternoon trade. As Tibbs walked inside he saw that the place was almost deserted, a situation that suited him perfectly. He sat down on a bar stool and noted that the napkin the bartender placed before him was an exact duplicate of the one he had in his pocket.

“I’m a police officer,” Tibbs said quietly. “I came by for a little information.”

“I’d like to see some ID,” the bartender said.

Virgil opened the thin leather folder he carried and displayed his badge. The barman nodded.

Virgil produced the cocktail napkin he had and laid it carefully on the bar. “I believe that a man was in here last night who took this away with him,” he said.

“That’s possible, it’s one of ours. What time last night?”

“I don’t know, perhaps around midnight. It was probably last night because the napkin isn’t crumpled or pocket-worn. If he’d had it for two or three days, it wouldn’t look this fresh.”

The bartender nodded again. “I’ll buy that. Can you describe him?”

“Possibly, but something else first. You noticed the ring on the napkin?”

“Sure, of course. Nothing unusual about that.”

“What I’d like,” Tibbs continued, “is to have you show me the glass that fits that ring. It would be a tall one without a stem, because a stemmed glass wouldn’t leave that kind of ring.”

“It might. A stemmed glass could have been standing on the bare bar and then set on the napkin. That would do it.” The bartender was beginning to enjoy himself.

Virgil shook his head. “The man wasn’t sitting at the bar. He was at one of the tables. As a wild guess, I’d say somewhere in the back.”

“Because he didn’t want to be seen?”

“Possibly, but the napkin gave me the idea.”

“How?”

“First, it’s almost impossible to keep a bar constantly clean and dry — some moisture is almost inevitable when the bar is in heavy use. Did you have a good crowd?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Then the bar was probably moist if not wet, but the back of the napkin hasn’t been dampened; you can see that.”

The bartender turned the napkin over and studied its reverse side. As Tibbs had said, it showed no trace of ever having been wet. “So you figure that your man wasn’t at the bar, but was at a table that had been wiped dry.”

“Exactly. And if you had a good crowd, and he came in late as I think he might have, he would have most likely taken a rear table — one that hadn’t been used and therefore was still dry.”

“That’s kinda far-fetched, isn’t it?” the barman asked.

“Maybe, but the table part is worth a bet, I think. Now, will you see about matching a tall glass onto the ring on the napkin?”

The man behind the bar found the right one on his second try. It matched the stain perfectly.

Virgil set the glass to one side on the bar. “Now that we know the kind of glass, it narrows the number of possible drinks. You notice the color of the ring — it has a reddish tinge.”

The bartender thought for a few seconds, then he snapped his fingers. “I just remembered,” he said. “It might be it. Every bar gets some strange orders now and then, but last night somebody ordered a Harvey Wallbanger without the vodka — just the orange juice and the Galliano.”

“Which could leave a ring of about that color?”

“I’d say so, yes. That is, if the drink ran over a little, and that happens all the time.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Tibbs said. “Tell me about the customer with the odd taste in drinks.”

The man behind the bar shook his head. “I didn’t even see him. One of the girls served him. I think it was Elsie.”

That was a setback, but only a minor one. Elsie was due in within the half hour and patience being one of Tibbs’s virtues, he was willing to wait. A few customers drifted in, but they settled themselves in booths and closed out the rest of the world. The bartender came back to Virgil once more. “Have one on the house while you’re waiting?” he asked.

“On duty,” Tibbs answered.

The barman filled a tall glass with ice and ran some Coke inside. He added a few drops of something and dropped in a cherry. “A little specialty of my own,” he said. “No voltage at all, but nice.”

There was no way that could be refused. Virgil tried it and found the drink unexpectedly pleasant. He sipped it and then downed half of it in a burst of thirst-quenching satisfaction. Ten minutes later the bartender made him another.

Elsie arrived a few minutes late — a tall leggy girl with a costume cut low enough to stir the customers’ interest, but not low enough to gratify it to any measurable degree. She was a cocktail waitress with just the right manner to keep her clear of unwanted involvements and still earn her the maximum in tips.

After introductions, she settled down in a booth with Tibbs for a few minutes of conversation. Fortunately she was intelligent and had a good memory. “I know the man you want,” she said after she had been briefed. “He came in last night about eleven or so, I don’t remember the exact time. He was alone. When he ordered that unusual drink, I was certain he was waiting to meet someone. Nobody would come in here to pay a dollar and a half for four ounces of orange juice and a little Galliano — the solitary drinkers go for the heavy stuff, straight doubles and things like that.”

“Where did he sit?”

Elsie gestured toward the back. “One of those tables, I can’t say definitely which one. He sat where he could see everyone who came in and out.”

“How did he treat you?”

“Very nicely. He was polite, gentlemanly, easy to deal with.”

“Under the influence at all?”

The girl shook her head. “Not at all — stone-cold sober, and believe me, I know.”

“And did someone join him?”

“Yes, a man did after a while, I can’t say just when because it was quite busy at that time.”

“Do you remember anything about the man?”

“Somewhat, I’d never seen him in here before. Not a very big man. Dark complexion, olive skin, but that’s a guess with the lights we have in here.” She hesitated.

“But not a black man,” Tibbs finished for her.

She nodded. “That’s right. One more thing I can tell you about him — he had a very odd nose. It was big and had two or three ridges or bumps on it. It was almost funny.”

Virgil got up. “That ought to do it. Did you notice if they went out together?”

“Yes, they did. Funny nose had a drink, a quick one, and then they left.”

Virgil gave a brief description of the man who had been found dead on the freeway and mentioned how he had been dressed. The girl nodded promptly. “That’s him,” she said. “The nice guy who was waiting, the one who drank the Wallbangers without the vodka.”

Halfway home on the Pasadena Freeway, Tibbs received a radio call. On responding, he was asked to switch to tac. two. As soon as he had done so, he was told that Tim Yost of the LAPD wanted to meet him. Yost and his partner, Vince Scott, were at the West Valley station, which was a good distance away. Tibbs said he would be there in about forty-five minutes. Back came a reply that Yost and Scott would come to see him.

As soon as he returned to his own headquarters Virgil headed directly for the intelligence unit and sat down with Jim Larsh who worked that section. He produced his description of the man with the odd nose, supplied the m.o. of the homicide, and through Larsh let the computers go to work. Well before his colleagues from Los Angeles arrived, he had most of the information he wanted. He lacked a photograph, but that could be obtained as soon as it was needed. Meanwhile, the fingerprint classification was quite adequate.

Just off the executive offices on the fourth floor, the PPD had a small conference room. When Yost and Scott got there Tibbs took them up, then carefully shut the door. “Very nice of you guys to come by,” he said.

Yost, as the senior member of the team, took over. “Virgil, we want to thank you for responding to that homicide on the freeway. We’ve got a ruling that it’s our case, so you don’t have to worry about it anymore. It’s a little heavy and we’re laying on a maximum effort. We think we can crack it in forty-eight hours.”

“Fine,” Tibbs said. “Has the word been passed to our department that we’re out of it?”

“I think so,” Scott answered.

“Then I’m relieved.” Virgil took his time. “Do you mind telling me one thing?” he asked.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“When did the victim graduate from the academy?”

Yost and Scott exchanged quick glances that showed visible concern, then Yost became Firmer. “What do you know?” he asked.

Virgil relaxed. “Some facts, some conjectures. Mixing them up, I’d say the victim was an LAPD officer, recently out of the academy, never on the street, and pulling his first undercover assignment. He had been put in against the big boys and that was a mistake, because he wasn’t ready for that yet. Somewhere along the line they made him, just about the time something fairly big was about to go down. They didn’t play around; they set him up for a meet, got him in a car, then terminated him. Putting him right on the line between two jurisdictions was deliberate. Would you care for a description of the man who suckered him in?”

“Damn it!” Yost muttered.

“Who’ve you been talking to?” Scott asked tightly.

Yost leaned forward. “Right now I want to know how you got all that — and in so little time. This operation was supposed to be totally leakproof — we’ve been on it for weeks. If I’ve got to see your chief, I want to know who opened the door, even to another department.”

“Would you guys care for some coffee or a cold drink?” Tibbs asked. “Nothing fancy, but we have some machines that put out the usual stuff.”

“You said that you have a description,” Scott said. “We’d be very interested in that.”

The black detective allowed himself to smile. “Courtesy of the Pasadena Police Department, I can give you a fairly hot suspect. Description: five feet seven and a half, olive complexion, dark hair, slight scar on the back of his right hand, and a large nose broken at least twice and badly reset, if at all.”

Scott responded with sudden interest. “Right — we know him.”

“So do we,” Tibbs continued. “Rafael Monza, sometimes known as Nosey. A specialist in the use of small-caliber arms and also good with a knife. Two convictions for 211, two for assault with a deadly weapon. Out on parole as a reformed and now valuable member of society.”

Yost was deadly serious. “Virgil, if you can establish a positive link between Monza and our boy — any evidence at all that they had ever even met — you’ve done us a helluva service.”

Virgil put the cocktail napkin onto the table. “There’s your lead,” he said. “It’s all you gave me, but fortunately all I needed. I’ve got two witnesses for you and both, I’m sure, will cooperate, since they’ve already talked to me. Respectable people, no record — I checked them out. They’ll make a good impression on the grand jury.”

Yost and Scott were silent for a moment. There was communication between them, but none of it had to be spoken. Then Scott looked up. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Just one thing. After you left the place where the body was discovered, I went back for another look. You know how the freeways are landscaped — it’s a very nice job most of the time. That shallow hillside was covered by an eight-inch-high growth that left a few traces.”

“Just what are you telling us?” Yost inquired.

“Your man was shot in Pasadena, just over the line. Then the body was dragged back a few feet and put under the sign deliberately to create a police problem. But if you don’t choose to tell anyone that, I don’t think I will either.”