In the Heat of the Night

CHAPTER 10

As a boy Bill Gillespie had been, from the first, considerably bigger than his classmates and the other children with whom he associated. Because of this fact he could dictate the terms of the games that were played and impose his will on others who were not physically his equal. To his credit, Gillespie did not use his size to become a bully and he did not deliberately “pick on” those who might have wanted to disagree with him. But his automatic leadership deprived him of an early education in one of the most important accomplishments he could have had-diplomacy. He was aware of this and it bothered him occasionally.

It bothered him mightily the night after he arrested Sam Wood on suspicion of murder. He thrashed about in his bed, turning from side to side and pounding the pillows, which remained completely docile but gave him not the slightest cooperation. He then got up and made himself some coffee. In his mind he kept reliving the scene in his office; no man had ever stood up to him as Sam Wood had and he admired him for it. Gillespie had won, of course, as he always won, but now plaguing doubts began to parade before him until they seemed to be forming ranks like a Roman phalanx. One large contributing factor was Virgil Tibbs’s insistence that Sam Wood was innocent. Gillespie did not want to think much of the Negro investigator, as he had made completely clear, but he knew that the man from Pasadena had an impressive record of being right.

Gillespie hoped, and nearly prayed, for one good, solid, concrete piece of evidence to back his judgment. He liked Sam Wood, apart from the fact that he didn’t think he was much of a cop, but he detested murderers, and Sam Wood, he was sure, was a murderer.

Only Sam had denied the charge to the limit of his power and then Virgil Tibbs had backed him up. Gillespie went back to bed and slept the uneasy sleep of the guilty. He felt no better in the morning and went to his office wishing, for the first time, he had not accepted the appointment for a job he was not properly qualified to fill.

He could feel the strain in the air as he walked through the lobby. Pete greeted him respectfully as always, but the words were as empty as blown eggshells. Gillespie sat down in a businesslike way behind his desk and began to go through the pile of mail that was waiting for his attention. Even as he read, an idea shaped in his mind: he would check further into the evidence he had and if it could be satisfactorily explained away, he would consider releasing Sam. He knew he wouldn’t actually do it without a “break” one way or the other, but it eased his conscience to feel that he was being fair.

Presently he became aware that something was taking place out in the lobby. He heard voices and he thought he caught the mention of his own name. He would have liked to go out to see what was happening, but the dignity of his office required him to wait to be asked.

He didn’t wait long. Arnold appeared in the doorway and paused to be recognized.

“Sir,” he said, “we’re receiving a complaint out here that I think you should hear. I mean I’m sure of it. Shall I bring the people in?”

The chief nodded his agreement. There were confusing footsteps in the corridor and then two people were ushered into his office. The first was a rawboned man with an extremely lean face which had been weathered into a maze of hairline wrinkles. He was dressed in work clothing and stood with his shoulders forward in an attitude of perpetual suspicion. He wore steel-rimmed glasses, which gave his face an added hardness. He held the corners of his mouth tight from force of habit; Gillespie’s first reaction to him was that he would be a mean one if he got drunk.

The other person was a girl, in her mid-teens as far as Gillespie could tell. She wore a sweater-and-skirt combination that emphasized the round ripeness of her body. She was slightly overweight, a fact which her flat-heeled shoes emphasized, but there was no mistaking the significance of every part of her body. Her clothes were much too tight and thrust her breasts upward and out in an exaggerated, unavoidable display. Gillespie thought she was headed for trouble if she had not already arrived.

“You Chief Gillespie?” the narrow man asked. The three words were enough to show his lack of schooling and to reassure Gillespie that he was this man’s master.

“That’s right,” Gillespie said. “What’s your problem?”

“My name’s Purdy this here is my daughter Delores.” Upon being in roduced, Delores turned on a wide smile that was clearly designed to be captivating and significant. Gillespie looked back at the father.

“She’s been got into trouble, Chief, and that’s why we came down here.”

“The usual kind of trouble?”

“I mean she’s gonna have a baby. That’s the kind of trouble I mean.”

Gillespie turned to the girl. “How old are you, Delores?” he asked.

“Sixteen,” she drawled brightly.

Her father laid a hand on her shoulder. “That ain’t exactly right. You see, Delores, she was sick for a while and got behind in school. Kids is awful hard on somebody who ain’t as far as she ought to be, so we let it out Delores was fifteen when we moved here a year past. Actually she was seventeen then, so that makes her just eighteen now.”

“That makes a lot of difference,” Gillespie explained. “In this state if a girl of sixteen gets in a family way, that’s statutory rape even though she gives her consent.”

“Unless she’s married,” Purdy put in.

“That’s right, unless she’s married. But if she’s eighteen or over, and gives her consent, then it’s fornication, which is a lot less serious offense.”

Purdy’s face grew harder still. He looked as though he were listening for some sound he expected to hear in the far distance. “Well, what is it if some guy takes an innocent girl like my Delores here and smooth-talks her into doing what she hadn’t oughter. Ain’t that rape?”

Gillespie shook his head. “That’s seduction, and while it’s a serious offense, it isn’t as bad as rape. Rape belongs with murder, armed robbery, and other offenses that are the most serious in the book. Suppose you both sit down and tell me just what happened.”

Taking the cue, Arnold disappeared from the doorway. While Purdy and his daughter were still seating themselves, the intercom buzzed. Bill flipped the switch. “Virgil’s in the lobby, Chief. He wants to know if he can have your permission to come in. He says it’s important to the case he’s working on.”

Gillespie drew breath to turn the request down flat. Then a sadistic thought hit him; he wondered how Purdy would like to describe his daughter’s troubles with a Negro listening in. Purdy had interrupted him with a correction while he had been explaining the law and that Gillespie had not liked. “Let him come in,” he said.

Tibbs entered the room as quietly as possible and sat down on the bench as though he were there to await orders to do some job of work.

“Send him out of here,” Purdy said. “I ain’t gonna talk about this with no nigger in the room.”

“If I want him here, he stays,” Gillespie stated. “Now go on with your story and forget he’s here.”

Purdy refused to give up. “Get him out of here first,” he demanded.

To Gillespie’s surprise, Tibbs rose quietly to his feet and started for the door. Gillespie looked up in anger, and Tibbs spoke quickly. “I forgot something; I’ll be right back.” When Purdy looked away from him, Tibbs pointed at the intercom. Then he shut the door behind him on his way out.

Since the situation had been resolved without loss of face, Gillespie moved some papers on his desk, opened a drawer and looked inside, and then flipped a switch on his intercom. Then he leaned back in his chair. “All right, we’re alone,” he said. “Now tell me what you have to say.”

“Well, Delores, she’s a real good girl, never done nothin’ wrong except what kids always do. Then, without me knowing nothing about it, she meets this here guy who’s twice as old as she is. He ain’t married so he starts trying to go places with my girl here.”

“Why didn’t you stop it?” Gillespie demanded.

Purdy turned sour. “Mister, I work all night. I ain’t got no time to stay home and take care o’ the kids or see what they’s doin’ every minute. Besides, Delores didn’t tell me nothing about it until afterwards.”

“He was a real nice guy,” Delores contributed. “I couldn’t see nothing wrong in it. He was real nice to me.”

“Come to the point,” Gillespie said. “When did it happen?”

“Real late one night. The missis was asleep like she oughta be, when Delores got outa bed to see this guy, and that’s when he had her.”

Gillespie turned to the girl. “Tell me about it; exactly what happened.”

Delores did her best to look coy; it was a fair imitation. “Well, like Pa said, he was real nice to me. We talked and then we sat real close together and then …” She ran down only from lack of words.

The chief picked up a pencil and tapped it against the desk. “I want you to tell me one thing,” he demanded. “Did this man force himself on you so that you had to struggle against him, or did it just work out that he went farther than he should?”

Delores hesitated a long time, long enough to give Gillespie the answer he needed. “I didn’t rightly understand everything at the time,” she said at length.

Gillespie let his body relax a little. “All right, Delores, this man did you wrong, of course, and we’ll arrest him for it. We can charge him with seduction and that’s plenty. Now what can you tell me about him?”

Purdy refused to remain silent any longer. “You know him right enough,” he exploded. “That’s why we wanted to see you personal. It’s that night cop you got out supposin’ to be protectin’ the women all the time. I know his name, too-it’s Sam Wood.”

When Bill Gillespie was once more alone, he pushed the intercom and gave an order. “Send Virgil in here,” he instructed.

“Virgil isn’t here,” Pete’s voice came back.

“Well, where in hell is he?” Gillespie demanded. “I thought he was listening on the intercom.”

“Yes, sir, he was. Just as the interview ended, he said something about having been the biggest fool in the country, and beat it.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, sir, except for the fact that he made a very brief phone call on the way out.” In that statement Pete lied to his chief. It was not a very serious lie and it was, in fact, Pete thought, an act of mercy. As he had rushed out of the lobby, the Negro detective had paused just a moment to say quickly, “Tell Sam Wood not to worry.” Pete required only a fraction of a second to decide not to repeat that remark to Gillespie. It might go hard with the man who did.

The ancient car that Jess the mechanic had loaned to Virgil Tibbs had been designed with adequate but conservative power; consequently it labored somewhat as it steadily pushed its way up the winding curves of the road that led to the Endicott home. When at last it reached the top, the radiator was showing signs of strain. Tibbs parked it on the small level area beside the house, set the brake firmly, and climbed out. A moment later he pressed the bell.

George Endicott opened the door promptly. “Come in, Mr. Tibbs,” he invited. He was courteous without being cordial. He led the way to his spectacular living room, sat down, and waved his guest to a seat. “What did you want to see me about?” he asked.

“I want to ask you some questions which I should have thought of long ago,” Tibbs replied. “Due to some events which have just taken place down in the city, they are now quite urgent. That’s why I asked if I could see you right away.”

“All right then,” Endicott agreed. “You ask them and I’ll do my best to answer you.”

“All right, sir. On the night that Maestro Mantoli was killed, I believe he was up here earlier in the evening; is that right?”

Endicott nodded. “That’s right.”

“Who was the first person to leave the house?”

“Mr. Kaufmann.”

“At about what time did he leave?”

“I should say ten o’clock.” Endicott pondered for a moment. “I can’t be too exact about that; I don’t believe anyone was paying very close attention to the time. We were very much engaged with other things.”

“Exactly who was here that evening?”

“There was Enrico-that’s Maestro Mantoli-his daughter, Mrs. Endicott and myself, and Mr. Kaufmann.”

Virgil Tibbs leaned forward and laced his fingers tightly together. He stared hard at them as he asked the next question. “Can you estimate the time when Maestro Mantoli left here?”

“Eleven, eleven-thirty,” Endicott replied.

Tibbs waited a moment. “When he left, how did he get from here down to the city?”

This time Endicott paused before he replied. “I drove him,” he said finally.

“Were you two alone?”

“Yes, we were. As soon as we left, the ladies retired.”

“Thank you. And about what time did you arrive back here?”

“About an hour after I left. I can’t give you the exact time. I told you we were absorbed in other matters that night.”

“Where did you drop Maestro Mantoli?”

Endicott showed slight signs of impatience. “I dropped him at his hotel. We had offered to put him up here. He declined because he was a very considerate man and he knew that if he accepted, Mrs. Endicott and I would have had to move out of our room for him. We have a guest room but his daughter was occupying it. So he chose to stay at the hotel despite the fact that it is decidedly second rate.”

“From the time you left here together,” Tibbs went on, “did you meet anyone else or see anyone else until you returned?”

Endicott stared firmly at his guest. “Mr. Tibbs, I’m not sure I like the tone of that question. Are you asking me to prove an alibi? Are you suggesting that I killed a very close and dear friend?”

Virgil Tibbs pressed his fingers even tighter together. “Mr. Endicott, I’m not implying anything. I am after information, pure and simple. If you saw anyone at that hour when you were down in the city, that could offer a clue as to who might be guilty of the murder.”

Endicott stared out of the huge window at the remarkable view which extended for miles over the distant mountains. “All right, I’m sorry,” he said. “You have to explore every possibility, of course.”

The two men were interrupted when Grace Endicott and Duena Mantoli came into the room. They rose and Tibbs exchanged proper greetings. He noted that the girl seemed to have recovered her composure; her eyes were clear and she looked at him as though she was no longer frightened.

When they were all seated, Grace Endicott asked a question. “Are you making any progress?”

“I believe so, Mrs. Endicott,” Tibbs answered, “particularly so today. But progress in any police investigation is a hard thing to define. You may work weeks on something and find it leads up a blind alley. You can never be sure until you have the last piece of evidence you need not only to identify your man, but also to prove his guilt beyond any question of doubt.”

“We all appreciate the theory,” George Endicott interrupted, “but right now we’re more interested in facts. Is there any indication when an arrest will be made?”

Virgil Tibbs studied his fingers. “An arrest has been made,” he said, “but it isn’t the right man. I know that for a fact.”

“Then why is he under arrest?” Endicott demanded.

Tibbs looked up. “Because Chief Gillespie doesn’t have sufficient confidence in my opinion to let his prisoner go.”

“Who is it?” Grace Endicott asked. “Anyone we know?”

“Yes, you know him, Mrs. Endicott. It’s Officer Wood; he was up here with me the last time I called.”

Duena Mantoli suddenly sat bolt upright. “Do you mean the fairly big man who was so nice to me the day …”

“That’s the man, Miss Mantoli.”

“He’s accused”-she hesitated and then forced herself to say the words-”of killing my father?”

“That and more,” Tibbs replied, “and while no one appears to agree with me at the moment, I am personally sure that he’s innocent.”

“If that’s the case, why don’t you prove it?” Endicott asked.

When Tibbs looked up, there was a subdued fire in his eyes. Endicott was startled to see the slender Negro show such a sign of inner vitality. “That is exactly what I am trying to do,” he said, “and that is why I am asking you these questions.”

Endicott stood up and walked over to the window. There was quiet in the room until he spoke.

“Will Gillespie let you prove it?” he asked, without looking around.

“My job right now,” Tibbs answered evenly, “is to protect him from his own mistakes. Sam Wood is one of them. After I do that, I will deliver the person who caused all this to him in such a manner that even he will finally know the truth. Then I’m going home, where I have the right to walk down the sidewalk.”

Endicott turned around. “From the time we left here, Mr. Tibbs, I saw no one and I don’t believe Maestro Mantoli did, either. That is, up until the time I left him at the door of his hotel. Then I wished him good night and came back here. There is no one, to my knowledge, who can prove what I say, but that is what happened.”

“Thank you,” Tibbs replied. “Now I want to ask you a very few more questions and I ask that you be particularly careful with the answers. A great deal depends on them. First, I have been told Mr. Mantoli often carried large sums of money. Do you know if he was doing so … the last time you saw him?”

“I have no idea. Actually Enrico did not carry what you would call large sums of money. Sometimes he had several hundred dollars on his person, but nothing beyond that, to my knowledge.”

“Was he in any way an impulsive person?”

“That’s hard to answer,” Endicott said.

“I think I can say he was,” Duena said unexpectedly. “He sometimes made up his mind on the spur of the minute on things, but he was usually right when he did. If you mean did he have a bad temper, the answer to that is no.”

Tibbs addressed his next question to her. “Miss Mantoli, was your father the sort of man who made friends easily?”

“Everyone liked him,” Duena replied.

In that grim moment, everyone in the room realized at the same time that there had been one person who did not. But no one voiced the thought.

“One last question,” Tibbs said, addressing himself to the girl. “If I had had the honor of meeting your father, do you think he would have liked me?”

The girl lifted her chin and accepted the challenge. “Yes, I am sure of it. I have never known anyone so free of prejudice.”

Tibbs rose to his feet. “Thank you. Whether you realize it or not, you have been a great “help to me. In a little while I believe you will know why.”

“That’s good to know,” Endicott said.

Then the girl stood up. “I want to go down to the city,” she announced. “Perhaps Mr. Tibbs will be kind enough to take me.”

“My car is very modest,” Tibbs said, “but you are welcome.”

“Please wait for me a moment,” she requested, and left without further explanation.

When she returned and they stood at the doorway ready to leave, George Endicott rubbed his chin in thought for a moment. “How will you get back?” he asked.

“If I don’t get a convenient ride, I’ll call you,” she promised.

“Do you think you will be safe enough?”

“If I feel I need any help, I’ll ask Mr. Tibbs.”

Tibbs ushered the girl into his temporary car, climbed in, and started the engine. In the brief time that she had excused herself, she had changed her dress and put on an especially feminine hat. Tibbs thought her quite devastating, but more than that, he sensed she had a firm purpose in mind. There was a set to her jaw, which she did not relax until they were well inside the city.

“Where would you like to go?” Tibbs asked.

“To the police station,” she said.

“Are you sure that is a good idea?” he asked her.

“Very sure.”

Tibbs drove on without comment until they reached the official parking lot. Then he escorted her up the steps into the lobby. She went straight to the desk. “I would like to see Mr. Wood,” she said.

Pete was caught entirely off balance. “Mr. Wood isn’t on duty right now,” he hedged.

“I know that,” Duena Mantoli replied. “He’s in jail. I want to see him.”

Pete reached for the intercom. “A lady is here to see Sam,” he reported. “And Virgil just came in, too.”

“Who is she?” Gillespie’s voice came out of the box.

“Duena Mantoli,” the girl supplied. “You can tell him Mr. Tibbs was kind enough to bring me at my request.”

Pete reported over the intercom.

“I’m sorry, she’d better not,” Gillespie answered.

“Who was that?” Duena demanded.

“That was Chief Gillespie.”

Duena’s chin grew very firm once more. “Take me in to see Mr. Gillespie, please,” she said. “If he won’t see me, I’ll call the mayor.”

Pete led her down the hall toward Gillespie’s office.

Sam Wood had reached the point where his mind had given up and refused, out of pure fatigue, to maintain the extremes of rage, frustration, hopelessness, and bitter disappointment which had racked him during the hours he had been sitting alone. Now he didn’t care anymore. He never permitted himself to consider that he might be found guilty, but his career as a police officer was over; he could never return to it now. Shortly before lunchtime, when Gillespie had been out of his office, Arnold had stopped by and brought him up to date. Sam now knew he stood accused of seduction as well as murder. His cup of misfortune and moral exhaustion was brimful.

Sam sat, his forearms resting on his knees, his head down. It was not a position of shame or defeat; he was simply bone tired. He had exhausted himself thinking and trying to control the impulses which attempted, one after the other, to take command of his mind and body. Pete came and stood beside the bars. “You’ve got a visitor,” he announced.

“My lawyer?” Sam asked.

“He’s still out of town, expected back this evening. This is a different visitor.” Pete fitted the key and swung the door halfway open. Sam watched him, mildly curious, then his heart gave a great leap. Duena Mantoli walked through the doorway and into the harsh, unyielding jail cell. Profoundly embarrassed, Sam got to his feet. He had not shaved that morning and his shirt collar was undone. He wore no tie. At that moment these things disturbed him more than the accusations which hung over his head.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wood. Please sit down,” Duena said calmly.

Mystified, Sam sat down on the hard board that served as a comfortless bunk. Duena seated herself, straight and graceful, four feet from him. Sam said nothing; he did not trust either his mind or his voice.

“Mr. Wood,” Duena said clearly and without emotion, “I have been told that you are accused of killing my father.” For a moment her lower lip quivered, then she regained control of herself; very slightly her voice softened in tone and the formality evaporated from her words. “I came here with Mr. Tibbs. He told me that you are not the man who did it.”

Sam gripped the edge of the bunk with all the strength of his fingers. His mind, rebelling once more against discipline, told him to turn, to seize this girl, and to hold her tight. So he hung on and wondered if he was supposed to say anything.

“I didn’t do it,” he said, looking at the concrete floor.

“Please tell me about the night you … found my father,” Duena said. She looked straight ahead at the hard blocks that formed the wall of the cell. “I want to know all about it.”

“Just …” The words would not come to Sam. “I just found him, that’s all. I’d been on patrol all night. I stopped at the diner like I always do and then came down the highway. That’s when I found him.”

Duena continued to look at the uncompromising wall. “Mr. Wood, I think Mr. Tibbs is right. I don’t believe you did it, either.” Then she turned and looked at him. “When I met you I was still in the first shock of … everything that happens at a time like that. But even then I felt you were a decent man. I think so now.”

Sam turned his head to look at her. “Do you mean you really think I’m innocent?”

“I have a way of telling,” Duena said, “a very simple test. Will you submit to it?”

A sense of new life began to flow into Sam. His weary mind came back to the alert. And then, in a burst, he felt he was a man again. He turned to face the giri fully. “You name it,” he said. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“All right, stand up,” Duena instructed.

Sam rose to his feet, resisting the desire to tuck in his shirt, wishing he could just have put on a tie. He felt self-conscious and awkward.

Then, to his utter confusion, the girl got up, walked to him, and stood inches away. He felt his heart quicken as some mysterious mechanism within his body released adrenalin into his bloodstream. And for the first time in many years he was suddenly frightened.

“Your first name is Sam, isn’t it?” she said.

“I want you to call me Duena. Say it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam answered, wondering.

“Duena,” Sam repeated obediently.

“Take hold of me, Sam,” the girl said. “I want you to hold me close to you.”

Sam’s mind, which had said no so many hundreds of times during the last twenty-four hours, refused to let him obey. When he didn’t move, the girl threw her head back. With her right hand she pulled the hat from her head. Then she shook her head quickly and let her dark-brown hair ripple down the back of her neck. “You said you would do it,” she challenged, “now do it.” As she spoke the last three words, she closed the gap between them and rested her hands on his shoulders.

Without thinking, without caring for anything else, Sam put his arms around the girl before him. In a confused instant he knew she was warm, and yielding, and beautiful. He never wanted to let her go. The bars of the cell vanished in the surge of manhood he felt within himself.

“Look at me,” Duena said.

Sam looked. Sam had held girls in his arms before, but nothing in his lifetime had approached the sensation that engulfed him now.

“Now,” the girl said, “I want you to look at me and say, ‘Duena, I did not kill your father.’ Do it,” she commanded.

Sam spoke through the lump that crowded his throat. “Duena …” He tried again. “Duena, I didn’t kill your father.” Sam’s arms let go. They fell to his sides, and strong and courageous as he was, he suddenly wanted to cry. The reaction had been too much.

While he stood there, fighting to regain his composure, he felt the pressure of her hands on his shoulders grow stronger. Then they moved and locked behind his neck. “I believe you,” she said. And then, before he realized what was happening to him, Sam felt his head being pulled downward, the warmth of Duena’s body against his own, and then a cool; electrifying pressure as she pressed her lips against his.

She was herself again before he could move. Quite calmly she picked her hat up off the floor, looked for a mirror in a quick glance around the bare cell, and then took her small handbag from the end of the bunk. “How do I get out?” she asked.

Sam filled his lungs with air and called for Pete.

All through the long afternoon, Sam sat quietly and lived over and over again the few brief minutes that had given him a new reason to live. He even permitted himself to hope that he would emerge from this whole experience exonerated and respected by everyone. He was immeasurably strengthened by the knowledge that she believed in him even though he stood accused of murdering her own father. And her faith would bring him through!

Then he remembered something else. The ripe figure of smirking Delores Purdy rose in his mind. The oceans of eternity separated her from the girl he had held that day. But Delores said he had seduced her. What would Duena think when she learned of that?

The dream castles which Sam had allowed himself to build split and crumbled into piles of arid and spiritless sand.