The Cool Cottontail

chapter 14

The Wednesday-morning mail brought the final autopsy report from San Bernardino, just in time to suit Virgil’s purposes. He tore open the thick official envelope and studied the grim contents thoroughly.

When he had been over the report twice, he picked up a pad of paper and sketched the outlines of a human figure in both front and profile views. Then he carefully shaded in the areas where, according to the autopsy, the body had received blows. When he had finished, he had a reasonably accurate picture of the beating the dead chemist had received, with those particular areas that had contributed specifically to his death outlined in red.

Satisfied with his work, he phoned Michael Wolfram, the attorney. When he had the lawyer on the line, he came right to the point.

“Mr. Wolfram, knowing that you represent Walter McCormack, and that he and the late Dr. Roussel were both close friends and business associates, it occurred to me that you might also have handled Dr. Roussel’s legal business in this country.”

“You’re quite right,” Wolfram acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”

Tibbs made an appointment for eleven-thirty and hung up. After glancing through the rest of his mail, which was unimportant, he left the office and picked up one of the official cars that carry the special equipment used by the Investigative Division and drove it southward from the Pasadena civic center.

On the way down the Arroyo Seco toward the freeway, an ancient car with the front end dipped significantly down pulled illegally close behind him. Virgil glanced into the mirror and saw that the two occupants were boys, neither of whom appeared old enough to have a driving license. In a few seconds the car whipped out, drew alongside him, and then pulled to a stop at a red light. The boy on the right leaned out and slapped the side of the door.

“Come on, black boy!” he shouted. “Let’s see if you can go.”

When the light changed, the old car jumped forward, burning rubber on the dry concrete. As soon as it was ahead, the driver swung it recklessly close in front of the unmarked police car and hit the brakes. Virgil knew the maneuver and was ready; having already checked that there was no other traffic, he cut sharply to the left and then, reaching down, touched the control for the concealed siren under the hood. He did not allow it to come up to speed; he sounded it only enough so that the other driver would recognize what it was.

At once the dragsters became ultra-respectable; their old car moved into the right-hand lane and sedately held to the legal speed limit. As Virgil drove past, he looked carefully at the driver and checked the license plate against the hot sheet that is issued daily by the Los Angeles Police Department. Then he picked up the radio mike.

Within four blocks a motorcycle officer appeared at a traffic light and fell in behind the modified car. The situation under control, Virgil cleared the green light at the beginning of the freeway and came up to speed. He relaxed during the fifteen minutes it took him to reach the four-level interchange, and then continued on straight through down the Harbor Freeway until he reached Olympic, where he turned off and headed westward. Within a minute or two he pulled up across the street from a sign that read “ALL AMERICA KARATE FEDERATION” and flipped down the visor that would identify the car to any police officer. He got out and walked into the building.

The Nisei at the front counter looked up and registered mild surprise. “Hello, Virgil, didn’t expect you.”

“Is Sensei^* here?” Tibbs asked.

“Just changing. You can catch him in the locker room.”

Virgil walked down the short corridor past the exercise rooms and the main training area and turned into the dressing room. In his hand he held the sketches he had made before leaving his office.

In the Spartan but efficient locker room there were two men, both of whom were knotting black belts as Tibbs came in. The one nearer to him was a Japanese of medium height and apparently light build, although the white training gi he was wearing concealed the outlines of his physique. He was in his mid-thirties and obviously charged with a high level of controlled nervous energy. As Virgil walked in, he looked up and flashed a smile.

“Good morning, Virgil,” he said with a perceptible accent.

“Good morning, Sensei.” Tibbs shook hands with both men and produced his sketches. Then he hesitated. The man to whom he wanted to speak had a limited command of English, and he did not wish to risk giving offense. Since the second man was a Nisei, he solved the problem by explaining the problem to them both. He gave a brief account of the murder and pointed out the significant areas in the drawings.

His diplomacy was successful. The man he had addressed as Sensei examined the drawings carefully and asked several questions of his companion in rapid staccato Japanese. They were answered just as fluently, and what was clearly a technical discussion continued for some time. Then the Nisei turned to Tibbs.

“Nishiyama Sensei would like to know the exact height and weight of the dead man, if you have that information.”

Virgil supplied the figures from memory; Nishiyama nodded again quickly and once more consulted the drawings. Then the karate master shook his head.

“It was not a karate man,” he explained. Continuing in English, he began a technical description that Tibbs listened to attentively. Although he was himself highly trained in the art, he knew that he could not match his knowledge against that of a world authority. The essence of Nishiyama’s opinion was that the killer had been well schooled in no-holds-barred street fighting and had attained reasonable proficiency, but he did not know karate. The master based his conclusions not only on the nature of the blows the body had received but also on the number. A competent karate man would not have required the quantity shown.

Tibbs thanked him warmly and declined an invitation to remain and train for a period of what Nishiyama chose to call light sparring. He had sparred with Nishiyama before, and despite what he had learned from the session, he was in no immediate hurry to repeat the experience.

Armed with the information, which had confirmed his own opinion, Virgil returned to his car and set out for his appointment with the attorney. His case was now very nearly complete, but for that very reason he was determined to overlook no detail that might later prove to be significant.

When he reached the attorney’s office, Wolfram received him and motioned him to a chair. He proved to be an unexpectedly small man whose immaculate, expensive suit contrasted with his bushy, undisciplined hair. Tibbs noted that all the furniture in the office was scaled down to minimize the slight stature of Wolfram, who looked more like a successful retired jockey than a power in the courtroom.

After the amenities, Virgil outlined the case, concerning which the attorney was already partially informed. As he neared the end of his recital, Wolfram interrupted. “Mr. Tibbs,” he asked, “are you coming to the point of telling me that one of my clients is in jeopardy?”

“No,” Virgil answered. “At least not at this time. Of course, I don’t know your client roster, so I couldn’t answer that question in any event. Actually I’m here for information.”

Wolfram nodded. “Please go on.”

“When are you going to submit Dr. Roussel’s will for probate?”

“Almost immediately-in fact, today.”

“Would you have any serious objection if I asked you to postpone doing so for, say, twenty-four hours?”

Wolfram leaned back and suddenly, despite his small size, looked remarkably shrewd and responsible. “Would you care to give me a reason?” he asked.

“I’m after someone. Delaying the publication of the will might help me to get him.”

“I see. In that case I’ll go along with you. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Virgil answered. “I’d like to read the will, if I may. One provision it may contain would interest me very much.”

“Is this an official request?”

“Definitely.”

Wolfram drew his legs up and hung his heels on the edge of his chair. “If it will help to pin the guilt on Al Roussel’s murderer, I’m for it,” he said. “On general principles I’d suggest that you keep it to yourself as much as you can.”

“Agreed,” Tibbs answered.

Wolfram pressed a button. When a secretary responded, he said simply, “The Roussel will,” and then they waited. As soon as the document arrived, he handed it to Tibbs.

As Virgil turned the long legal pages with the numbered lines, only the rustling of the paper broke the silence. In five minutes he had finished and handed the will back. “Thank you,” he said.

“Any time.” The lawyer looked at him. “Are you getting at all close? Or can’t you tell me?”

Tibbs got to his feet. “It shouldn’t be too long,” he answered.

Returning downtown, he stopped at the Los Angeles Police Department, but the man he wanted to see had gone to lunch. While he waited, he had his usual sandwich and a malted at a lunch counter and pondered what he had learned that morning.

Having built up his case, he tried to tear it down again in his own mind, but this time it appeared to hold water. He realized that he would have to take a calculated risk and play for a break, since he had no witnesses and the concrete evidence he had assembled might or might not be enough to convince a jury. Before the day was over, he would either have it made or be in deep trouble. He refused to worry. If he did his part properly, as he had planned, the rest should take care of itself.

By the time he had finished his eating and his mental review, the police expert in rough-and-tumble street fighting was back and available. Once more Virgil produced his sketches and asked some very specific questions. After making detailed notes he knew that an additional important piece had been fitted into place. For the first time he was confident that he knew almost the whole story.

At that point another thought crossed his mind and he phoned the home of Mrs. Joyce Pratt. The owner was not there, but the intelligent Negro maid he had met on his first visit was quite willing to talk to him. She apologized for the unfortunate tea episode, and Tibbs reassured her with the information that hot tea was something he disliked. The conversation continued for some time, during which the maid succeeded in learning that Tibbs was unmarried and Virgil in turn picked up a few pieces of information he found equally interesting.

While he was thus engaged, certain other events began to shape themselves without his knowledge. George Nunn called Pine Shadows Lodge to repeat his invitation for that evening; better prepared this time, Ellen Boardman accepted.

Officer Dick Mooney privately phoned headquarters and reported that everything was quiet at the lodge and that there was no evidence of any kind of trouble.

Oswald Peterson, the broker, was served with formal papers informing him that his estranged wife was upping her demands for alimony in connection with her suit for divorce on the grounds of adultery.

William Holt-Rymers had a private telephone conversation with Walter McCormack during which Virgil Tibbs was freely discussed.

Joyce Pratt called Michael Wolfram and asked a number of questions to which she did not receive satisfactory answers; at least they did not satisfy her.

Arthur Greenberg, of the optical company, had a confidential discussion with Dr. Nathan Shapiro concerning a certain irregular prescription.

Mike Casella, the construction contractor, left his office on what he announced would be an inspection trip and added that he would not be back before the first of the following week.

One more item remained on Virgil’s list of things to do-a single last detail that he wanted to check. He called at the West Coast offices of a major corporation, glanced at the lobby board, and took the elevator to the executive offices. He stepped out into an aura of thick carpeting, rich wood paneling, and a studied quiet. A perfectly groomed and carefully detached receptionist looked up and awarded him an official meaningless smile, which implied that he was of course welcome, but only up to a point unless he had business of genuine importance.

Tibbs presented his card and stated that he would like to see Mr. Emil Weidler, the vice-president in charge.

The receptionist picked up a phone and dialed three digits.

“Mr. Virgil Tibbs, of the Pasadena Police Department, is here to see you,” she reported. “He is an investigator.”

She listened for a moment and replaced the instrument.

“Mr. Weidler suggests that you contact Mr. Hennessey in the legal department.” She penciled a number on a slip of paper and handed it to Tibbs. “You can take the elevator to your right.”

Virgil sighed inwardly. The moats and armor of medieval times had their counterpart in the modern industrial buffer-receptionist.

“Perhaps I failed to make myself clear,” he said without changing the level of his voice. “This is an official call. I wish to see Mr. Weidler and no one else.”

The girl looked at him, clearly trying to measure the amount of authority behind his words. Then, reluctantly, she once more picked up the phone; the official smile was gone. After a brief conversation she became cool and efficient.

“Mr. Weidler will see you-the second door on the right.”

That was better; Virgil went down the thickly carpeted corridor and opened the heavy wood door that had been designated. It was not marked.

Weidler was medium-height, in his late forties, and at least twenty pounds overweight. He wore his hair plastered back in a style that was wrong for his round, rather pushed-in face. He looked up, but did not rise, as Tibbs entered.

“Oh,” he said in some surprise. “Are you the police officer?”

“I am,” Virgil replied and sat down without waiting to be asked. He was suddenly tired of being looked at like some kind of freak; if people didn’t care to show him reasonable courtesy, then he saw no need to go out of his way to stand on ceremony with them.

“I believe you knew Dr. Albert Roussel.”

“I met him once,” Weidler replied. “But I knew his work certainly.”

“I’m investigating his murder,” Tibbs said, keeping the advantage. “It is most important that I know certain details concerning your company’s offer to buy out the holders of his patents. I assume you are fully acquainted with the facts.”

Weidler became cautious. “This is a very delicate and confidential matter-” he began.

Virgil cut him off. “Mr. Weidler, I don’t want to appear discourteous, but at this moment time is very important. I already know most of the facts, but I need a few more immediately. Let me remind you that this is a murder investigation. If you don’t care to confide in me now, you may have to do your talking later, publicly, on the witness stand.”

Weidler pulled out a handkerchief and wiped it across his flat face. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“Now that Dr. Roussel is dead, are you still interested in acquiring the rights to his patents?”

“Yes.”

“How valuable are they?”

Weidler hesitated briefly. “Very valuable. We’ve been paying royalties on them for years.”

“Without them would you be able to continue your basic color-film production as at present?”

“No.” The tone of Weidler’s voice changed. “May I see your credentials, please?”

Tibbs produced them.

“Is this confidential?” Weidler asked.

“As far as possible.”

“All right, then, it amounts to this. For a great many years we have maintained a very strong position in the amateur photography field. Now our principal competition has come up with a new film that has us beat. It’s faster, has better color definition, and an almost invisible grain. Amateurs can process it themselves fairly easily, and we lose both the revenue from the sale of the film and the laboratory work.”

Virgil nodded. “I know. I’ve used the film and it’s excellent.”

Weidler lowered his voice. “Before he died, Dr. Roussel came up with something that will allow us to compete. This is very sub rosa.” He paused to be sure the statement had sunk in. “Our competition found out about it and have been negotiating for the process. We must have it or we will lose our control of much of the market.”

“What if the Roussel stockholders decide not to sell?”

Weidler pursed his lips. “I think they will,” he said finally. “We have made a very attractive offer and they are not very big people.”

“But if they don’t?”

“Then we will have to resort to other measures. Reluctantly, of course.”

Virgil left with a distaste for Weidler and for the company he represented, but he did not have time to concern himself with the maneuvers and power politics of big business. He had the information he wanted and he was almost ready to put it to use.

He phoned the home of Joyce Pratt and was told that madam would not be in until evening and then she would be entertaining. Walter McCormack was also out and his household did not know when he would return.

Oswald Peterson had not been in his office all day; his secretary reported he was out of town.

Stymied for the moment, Tibbs drove back to Pasadena, cleared his desk of several minor matters, and laid his plans for the evening. Then, to compose himself, he drove his own car to a nearby Japanese restaurant. Shoes off, he sat on a straw tatami mat before a low table and watched as the kimono-clad waitress knelt and prepared sukiyaki for him over an electric stove.

The quiet dignity of the restaurant and the change of atmosphere were exactly what he needed to relax the coiled springs he had carried within himself most of the day.

Just before eight, back at his office, he picked up the phone and called the Los Angeles Police Department.

“I’m coming into your jurisdiction,” he advised, and arranged for a Los Angeles plainclothes officer to meet him, as proper police courtesy required. It was the only way the several law-enforcement bodies in the Los Angeles basin could keep track of what was happening in their respective territories.

At a little after eight-thirty Tibbs pulled off the freeway and winked the lights of the official car he was driving as he came down the ramp. A black Chevrolet parked at the bottom winked in reply and Virgil pulled up alongside.

“Virgil Tibbs, Pasadena,” he introduced himself.

The Los Angeles officer was youngish, pleasant, but with the square-jawed look of a man who could handle himself. “Frank Sims, Mr. Tibbs. I’ve heard of you. What’s up?”

“I’m going to pick up a murder suspect. Remember the body that was found in the nudist park?”

“I sure do. How can I help?”

“I’m not certain yet, but it may get a little rough. The person I want to take may put up a pretty determined fight.”

“I’ve heard you’re a karate black belt.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. I’m not at that level yet, but I’m pretty well up in aikido. And, of course, in the rough-and-tumble stuff, if it comes to that.”

“Then you don’t mind? You see, I’d rather keep a show of guns out of this, if I can.”

“I’m with you.”

“Then let’s go. We have two stops to make.”

“Lead the way.”

Virgil swung his car around and headed west. The Chevrolet fell in behind him and followed smoothly with the sure control of an expert driver. The small procession moved into the exclusive residential area west of Beverly Hills, turned into the Bel Air entrance, and after a few blocks of winding drive pulled up before the residence of Mrs. Joyce Pratt. Virgil parked and joined Frank Sims on the curb.

“I don’t expect we will be especially welcome here,” he warned, “but I’d appreciate it if you would come along just the same.”

He looked at the house, which blazed with light on the lower floor; then with Sims beside him he walked quietly to the front door and pushed the bell.

The Negro maid answered, looked at him under the porch light, and said, “Good evening, Mr. Tibbs.”

Virgil gave her good marks for remembering his name. “Mr. Sims and I would like to see Mrs. Pratt,” he said. “I know that she is entertaining, but it is a matter of the greatest importance.”

The maid showed them into the small foyer and then went into the living room, where Virgil could see her as she bent over to speak quietly to her mistress. Joyce Pratt was out of his line of vision, but he heard her clearly when she spoke. “Impossible! He has no business here at this hour. Tell him I cannot be disturbed and that I do not appreciate his visit.”

Frank Sims nudged Virgil in the ribs. Resigning himself to what he had to do. Tibbs glanced toward the Los Angeles officer, motioned him to follow, and then walked uninvited into the living room.

He found himself more or less face to face with sixteen people seated around four bridge tables. Two of them were semi-elderly men; the rest were women. All of them stopped what they had been doing and silence gripped the room.

“Mr. Tibbs, you are not welcome. I must ask you to leave.” It was an angry command; her guests were watching with rapt attention.

Virgil spoke quietly, so quietly that not everyone present heard him. “Mrs. Pratt, I must have a word with you in private at once. It is urgent. I’m sure your guests will excuse you.”

“Mr. Tibbs, leave this house!” Her eyes blazed and the muscles of her small body tightened into rigidity.

“You leave me no choice; I had hoped to spare you.” Tibbs kept his own voice quiet and controlled. “Mrs. Pratt, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Albert Roussel. It will be necessary for you to come with me. Your maid will get your wrap.”

^* A Japanese term that combines the meanings of “teacher” and “master.” A corresponding word is the Italian “maestro.”