The Cool Cottontail

chapter 5

Whenever Virgil Tibbs spent a day, or a succession of days, of hard work without any fruitful result, he would refer to it as a “Yellow Face period.” He drew his reference from Sherlock Holmes’ famous adventure of The Yellow Face in which the immortal detective overreached himself, failed to come to the right conclusion, and ended up in humiliating defeat.

The next twenty-four hours constituted a Yellow Face period. Had the deceased been an itinerant-laborer type, he might never have been missed by anyone concerned enough to turn in a police report, but it was clear he had been a man of some substance and possibly even importance. Thus the normal expectation was that from some quarter an inquiry would come in concerning a missing person, who would turn out to be the body in the nudist-park pool. But no such person was reported missing.

Local fingerprint records were of no help, and the F.B.I. reported that it could not provide a make from its central files in Washington. Apparently the unknown man had never had his fingerprints taken, at least not in the United States.

Meanwhile Tibbs took another careful look at the four missing-person reports that he had already chosen as possibles. A little work eliminated two of them; one was a decided long shot; the fourth offered some slight hope.

Then, at ten in the morning, a woman, who from her appearance could have been the dead man’s wife, sailed with hesitant regality into the small lobby of the Pasadena police station and paused before the inquiry window.

“I would like to speak with a police officer,” she announced with thin-lipped determination.

The desk man, who had been alerted, sensed a good possibility and summoned Tibbs. When the investigator arrived, the woman looked coolly at him and repeated herself almost exactly. “I would like to see a police officer.”

“I am a police officer,” Tibbs replied. “May I help you?”

The woman continued to regard him coolly. “I would like to speak to one of your regular officers.”

“I am a regular officer, Ma’am.”

“Perhaps, then, I should ask to see a detective.”

At times, Tibbs’ patience wore thin. Normally he controlled himself well, but the early frustrations of the day were already beginning to tell on him. “Madam,” he said with enough firmness in his voice to convey authority, “I am a detective and am at your service. Now, what may I do for you?”

The woman stared at him for a moment, turned without a word, and walked out through the lobby doorway.

Tibbs bent over the drinking fountain to regain his self-control. He took hold of the sides of the fixture for a moment and the muscles of his fingers locked tight. When he straightened up, he was himself once more.

“Call me if anything else comes up, Harry,” he said to the man on duty. “If she comes back, try to find out what it’s all about. If not, to hell with her.”

Harry understood and nodded; things like this had happened before.

The morning mail brought a letter from Officer Sam Wood, of the Wells Police Department. With pardonable pride he informed Tibbs that his advancement to sergeant had been approved and would shortly take effect. Despite the fact that he had lived all his life in the South and was a Caucasian, Wood’s was a very friendly letter. He reported that the music festival had been a definite success in Wells and that even the diehards now admitted that it had been a good idea. The town showed some few signs of reviving life due to the influx of tourist money. Miss Duena Mantoli, whom he had an engagement to see that evening, had specifically asked to be remembered, and sent her warm regards.

Tibbs slipped the letter into his pocket and felt infinitely better.

Missing person Number 4 on Tibbs’ list was the possible. The subject had been a local resident and a personal call might be helpful. Tibbs called a number in the Eagle Rock area, reached the missing man’s wife, and requested an appointment. Since it was only a short distance down the Colorado Freeway, he said he would be right over, fully aware that if the call resulted in anything positive, it would be his unfortunate duty to break the news to this woman that her husband was dead.

Mrs. Sean McCarthy, mother of five, confronted Tibbs through a hooked screen door and announced, “We’re not in the market for anything.”

“I’m the police officer who phoned you a few minutes ago, Mrs. McCarthy,” Tibbs explained.

Very dubiously the woman unhooked the door and held it open to let him in. She was not tall-Tibbs guessed that she weighed about a hundred and sixty pounds. From the set of her jaw, he sensed that she could be a terror and that her temper probably lay just under the surface. Her eyes had a glittering hardness, though when she was young they might have been lovely. Her face was largely still smooth, but there were lines around her mouth already permanently sculptured into outlines of disapproval.

She made a cursory effort to be polite and motioned Tibbs to a vacant chair in the small living room. The furniture was pure borax, cheaply made with an effort to give it the appearance of massiveness. The upholstery was heavily studded with cloth-covered buttons intended to suggest elegance; when Tibbs sat down, the slight appearance of comfort dissolved.

Although he carefully tried to keep from jumping to unwarranted conclusions, he was already prepared for a disappointment. This home and this woman did not fit with the man whose body he had examined.

“The room isn’t properly picked up yet,” the woman said. “When you have five kids to look after and no man to help, you can’t get everything done.”

Tibbs felt a twinge of sympathy for her and approached the matter at hand as carefully as he could. “Mrs. McCarthy, something has come to our attention that might cast some light on your husband’s disappearance.” He decided to stretch the truth a little. “I take it from the appearance of your home that he is a man of some importance.”

Mrs. McCarthy nodded firmly. “That he is,” she agreed. “What have you discovered?”

Tibbs went on as delicately as possible, “We have a matter under investigation, and while there is very little chance it pertains to your husband, we don’t want to overlook anything that might help to solve Mr. McCarthy’s disappearance.”

At last the woman showed a slight sign of approval. “Yes,” she said.

Tibbs took the plunge. “Yesterday a distinguished-looking man was found, apparently the victim of an accident. He had no identification on his person, and so far we have not been able to establish who he was.”

“He was dead, then?”

Tibbs nodded. “I fear so, Mrs. McCarthy, but I repeat, we have no real reason at all to believe that he was your husband.”

The morning paper lay on the floor next to the chair Tibbs was sitting in. He picked it up, folded it to the story concerning the discovery of the body in the swimming pool, and silently handed it to his hostess. She took the paper and read the account without expression. When she was through, she laid it down as though it were something unclean. “That is not my husband,” she announced, and the lines around her mouth set themselves firmly.

“May I ask how you know?” Tibbs inquired quietly.

Mrs. McCarthy took a deep breath, let it go, and clasped her arms in front of her generous bosom. “That body is not Mr. McCarthy,” she reiterated, leaving no room whatever for question.

Tibbs framed his next words carefully and paced them slowly, knowing that many people close their thoughts to lock out grief. “I’m sure that your opinion is correct, Mrs. McCarthy,” he said, for the second time deliberately enlarging on the truth. “But for the sake of our official records it would be of great help if you would give me the reason for your conclusion.”

If he had read her rightly, she was not the kind to be sparing of her advice. The desire to offer guidance might overcome her manifest unwillingness to discuss the body found in the pool. He watched while she struggled within herself, and knew the result before she spoke again.

“My husband,” she said with unsinkable firmness, “would never be found, under any circumstances, in a place like that. We are respectable people here, Mr. Tibbett.” She dropped her hands into her lap as though she were driving a pile.

Tibbs let a few seconds pass; then he made his voice flat and unemotional. “The people at the nudist resort made it very clear they didn’t know the man who was found on their premises. He was neither a member nor a guest there.”

“That is beside the point,” Mrs. McCarthy said.

“What I am trying to say,” Tibbs added, taking the blame upon himself, “is that the man obviously did not belong where he was found. Someone carried him there and put him into the pool.”

The woman refused to yield. “I told you, and I see no need to repeat it, that we are an upright family and have nothing to do with places of public immorality. We are church people and we live our faith. My husband would never set foot in a nudist colony, dead or alive.”

Tibbs knew better than to challenge a fixation head-on. He rose to his feet with the air that he was entirely convinced and satisfied. As he did so, the substantial housewife noted his apparent surrender and relaxed her guard.

Tibbs said, “While you are being so helpful, Mrs. McCarthy, there is one other thing that might assist us to resolve the matter of your husband’s disappearance. Can you tell me if he had had his appendix removed?”

She shook her head. “No, he did not. He has never had surgery of any kind, unless it’s been since he left home.”

That nailed it down. “Thank you again for your cooperation, Mrs. McCarthy,” Tibbs said in leaving. “From what you have told me, I am certain that the man we found is not your husband.” This time, at least, he could speak the strict truth.

When he got back to his office, there was a preliminary phoned-in report from the San Bernardino medical examiner. It supplied the cause of death, a matter to which Tibbs gave his immediate full attention.

According to this first information, the unknown man had died as a result of a physical beating. All indications were that it had been a skilled assault; externally the body showed almost no signs of the abuse it had taken. A massive blow just below the breastbone, which had ruptured the aorta, was in all probability the major contributing cause of death. The deceased having been a good-sized man apparently in better-than-average physical condition, the person or persons who had caused his death had almost certainly been both powerful and well trained.

That put a fresh light on the matter. Any lingering thoughts of a morbid prank went out of Tibbs’ mind. He swung his feet up onto the corner of the well-worn desk that had served many others before him, stared unseeing at the ceiling, and thought hard.

He was still in his position of deep concentration when his office mate came in. Tibbs was so fiercely involved in his thoughts that it was a good five minutes before he noticed his unofficial partner.

Bob Nakamura was ten pounds overweight and wore his thick black hair in a crew cut that emphasized the slight roundness of his face and figure. He did not have the buck teeth so commonly supposed to be a mark of Japanese ancestry, but he did wear glasses and with them a perpetual look of bland, innocent happiness. No one would have guessed he was a police detective, which added greatly to his value.

“How is it going?” Bob asked.

Tibbs pursed his lips before answering. “I think,” he answered slowly, “I’ve just been able to figure out one thing that has been bothering me. Otherwise not so good. It’s not as simple as I thought it was going to be.”

Bob swung his chair around to face his colleague. “All right, unload. Give me all you’ve got and I’ll see what I can make of it.”

Tibbs got up, shut the door, and returned to his desk. “You know the basic facts. From these I put a few things together. First, the deceased had very distinct bathing-trunk marks, which substantiates the statement of the nudist-park people that he was not one of their members. This makes me think that the nudist angle is either purely accidental or else a deliberate red herring.”

“I’d say the latter,” Bob decided. “The coincidence of the nude body and the place where it was found is a little too strong.”

“I’m inclined to agree, but don’t forget that quite often dead bodies are found nude. Marilyn Monroe for example.”

“Go on. I’m still listening.”

“All right. Now, the swimming trunks he had been wearing were minimum briefs. Does that mean anything to you?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, as you know, that kind of thing just isn’t worn in this country, not even down on Muscle Beach. They are quite popular abroad, though, and are usually accepted over there. That makes me think that our man had been living overseas. The marks were so sharp and distinct I would infer a reasonably warm and sunny climate.”

“Also that he was out a lot, on the beach or somewhere similar.”

“Exactly, and since non-swimmers don’t usually go in for that kind of brief, our man was probably well at home in the water. Either that or he was trying to show off, and he didn’t look that type to me. No beard and none shaved off recently-no spectacular haircut, no tattoos, nothing of that sort at all.”

“So he probably didn’t drown.”

“No, that’s definite. He was expertly beaten to death. A blow in the solar plexus got him.”

“Karate?” Bob suggested.

“Based on what I know of the art, I doubt it. The injuries apparently weren’t that type. Just to be sure, when I get the detailed report, I’m going to see Nishiyama and ask him for an opinion.”

“Good idea. Anything else to go on?”

“Mostly just guessing from here on out. He was well fed and apparently prosperous and successful. That combined with the deep suntan marks, which suggested a lot of leisure time, gave me the idea he might have been either a part-time high-salaried person like a movie director or else someone who had retired relatively young. That would add up if he were, say, an electronics engineer who had hit one or two good patents and was able to retire on the royalties.”

“Problem,” Bob interjected. “If he had been living abroad, then he could have been a Frenchman, a German, almost anyone.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Tibbs agreed. “The only solid fact I have to go on here is that his body was found in this country, which increases the chances that he was an American. Also his general appearance did not suggest a foreigner, except for the trunks. When we hit a trail, we can keep in mind that he may have had a foreign accent. But we can’t tell that now.”

“So you come back to the contact lenses.”

“Right. I’ve been praying that someone would raise a howl about a missing person and we would have an answer the easy way. That could still happen, but I’m not banking on it.”

Bob Nakamura folded his hands behind his head and took his turn at staring at the ceiling. “Obviously somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to hide this man’s identity. The missing dental plates, and all that.”

“No argument.”

“The body was put into the pool at the nudist camp because it was-shall we say-appropriate. It would excite less comment being found there.”

“No sale,” Tibbs answered. “The club managers could prove fairly easily he wasn’t theirs. Temporarily, at least, they have.”

“They wanted the body to be found in a ridiculous place.”

“No.”

“The idea was to embarrass the camp-put it out of business.”

“Possible, but doubtful. Too expert a murder job, for one thing.”

“How’s this: Suppose there were two people, which could well be: the actual murderer who dumped the body and someone else who found it. Say one man killed him and left the body on someone else’s property. He didn’t want to get involved, so he moved it to the nudist camp and left it there.”

“Why not just drop it off a cliff in the first place?” Tibbs asked. “That whole area is loaded with wild canyons where disposal would be easy. After a few weeks, identification would have been even harder-a lot harder.”

Bob tried a new tack. “You know, Virgil, there’s something here that doesn’t add up. On one hand, we agree there was a clear effort to make the body difficult to identify. On the other, it was left in a highly conspicuous place where it was sure to be found promptly.”

Tibbs smiled with grim satisfaction. “That one stopped me cold on the scene,” he admitted. “I tried to put it out of my mind, but it wouldn’t go away. I’ve just been thinking about it.”

“Any light?”

“Maybe.” Tibbs got up and walked over to the window. “If an unidentified nude body is found on the premises of a nudist park, what is sure to result?”

“A police investigation.”

“And what else?”

“A certain amount of publicity,” Bob suggested.

Tibbs turned and faced him. “Exactly! In the Los Angeles area a lot of people die violently-largely in traffic, but in other ways, too. A single isolated death of an unknown person isn’t going to get much play in the papers unless the circumstances are unusual-in short, unless it adds up to a good story.”

“And a body found floating in the pool at a nudist camp would definitely be unusual.”

“I’d say spectacular,” Tibbs added. “In most papers it would guarantee a good press coverage-perhaps even photos.”

Bob thought that one over. “So the way you see it,” he said after a good half minute, “there were two purposes here: to delay identification of the body as long as possible and, at the same time, to publicize the matter so that some person, or persons, would know what had happened.”

Tibbs seated himself on the edge of Bob’s desk. “It’s the only way I can see it making sense. The man was killed for a purpose-obviously. Through the papers, someone somewhere is being told what happened, someone who knows who he was and why he died.”

“When we find out who the dead man was, we may have a lead on finding that person. Until then, we’re down to the contact lenses.”

“Right.” Tibbs locked his fingers together and stared at his hands-a characteristic gesture of his. “If it hadn’t been for that oversight, we’d be waiting for something to come to us. Let’s hope it pays off.”

At two that afternoon Virgil Tibbs parked his inconspicuous black car in a space marked “VISITORS” adjacent to the plant of the Greenwood Optical Company. He showed his credentials to the receptionist and was ushered in promptly to see Arthur Greenwood, the sales manager, one of the three Greenwood brothers who owned and operated the company. That gentleman carefully examined the tiny lenses that Tibbs had brought with him, and became curious.

“How did you happen to come to us?” he asked.

“I know an optometrist in Pasadena,” Tibbs explained. “He looked at the lenses and thought they might have been made by you.”

Greenwood turned one of the small bits of plastic in his fingers. “Do you know anything about contact lenses?” he inquired.

“No,” Tibbs answered. “I’ll have to rely on you for help.”

The executive leaned back in his swivel chair and prepared to lecture. “Today practically all lenses are taken from stock,” he began. “Individual prescriptions seldom if ever need to be ground. In conventional eyeglasses every type of lens likely to be required is a stock item in all the shapes needed to fit various styles of frames. In contact lenses the field is much narrower. The number of different lenses available is much more restricted, and only a relatively limited range of prescriptions can be filled.”

“In other words contact lenses aren’t as distinctive as regular eyeglasses.”

“Right. So your chance of tracing your man through these lenses is slim. However, you may have one advantage here: these are the vented type. There are a number of contact-lens makers, but the vented ones are relatively uncommon. We are one of the better sources in this country.”

“Are there many abroad?”

“Oh, yes, some of course-mainly in Europe and in Japan, where contact lenses were invented. From these I can’t tell you for certain whether we made them or not.”

“Assuming that you did,” Tibbs pursued patiently, “would you have any way of determining for whom they were made? Or would they be simply a stock item, as you said?”

Greenwood pondered the question. “We might-and I stress might-be able to tell you who prescribed them, but our records normally are confidential.”

“I can obtain a court order if you need one,” Virgil answered. “However, since this is a murder investigation and time is an important element, I would like to ask for your cooperation.”

His ego and conscience satisfied, Greenwood buzzed for his secretary. “Have these lenses checked in the shop,” he directed. “Find out if you can who we made them for. If you can’t do that, find out about how many similar sets we have made in this style.”

The girl took the box with the lenses and closed the door behind her. Greenwood made small talk until she returned a few minutes later. She put the box on his desk and with it a slip of paper.

Greenwood read it and nodded. “We are very fortunate,” he said. “The lenses are quite distinctive; one eye is very different from the other and that isn’t too common. Now, understand that I can’t guarantee we made these lenses. However …” He picked up the paper and studied it again for a second or two, clearly for dramatic effect. “We did manufacture a set of lenses to this exact prescription within the last two years. I don’t have the patient’s name, of course, but the order came from Dr. Nathan Shapiro. He’s very well known here in the contact-lens field.”

Virgil Tibbs had an almost uncontrollable desire to stand up and shout. Instead he rose, expressed his thanks, praised the company’s efficiency, and escaped to his car. He stopped at the first phone booth, consulted the yellow pages, and was on his way.

Dr. Shapiro’s white-frocked receptionist regarded him as a curiosity. “Doctor is very busy this afternoon,” she informed him. “I doubt very much he will be able to see you.” There were patients waiting who bore out her statement.

Tibbs reached into his wallet and produced a card, a considerably less conspicuous procedure than showing his badge. The girl looked at it, then back at him, and laid the card down. “You’ll have to wait,” she said.

Tibbs sat down and waited. He leafed through the outdated magazines, read a pamphlet on eye care, and noted the studied coolness of the receptionist, who was making an effort to pretend he was not there. Some time after the last of the waiting patients had been shown in, she picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button. When the answer came, she spoke in a tone so low Tibbs could not catch a sound. He did not need to; he knew without watching the words her lips were forming.

Ten minutes later Dr. Shapiro came into the waiting room. He was a big man with a round face and a sharply receding hairline that gave him the look of having been polished. He wore the customary white jacket, which set off a pair of big muscular hands the backs of which were almost covered with black hair. He walked directly to Tibbs with a brusqueness that allowed no time for casual talk.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to take time to see you,” he said directly. “I suggest you phone for an appointment. It may be some time. I seldom see anyone in less than thirty days.”

“I’m not a patient,” Tibbs answered. “I came on official police business.”

The doctor glanced at his receptionist; when he looked back, Tibbs was holding out his shield. “I didn’t understand,” the doctor said. “Come in. I’ll take a few minutes now.”

Once he grasped the situation, Dr. Shapiro listened carefully, looked at the lenses, and instructed his receptionist to check the records. She checked and supplied the name of Mr. Michael Casella, president of the Casella Construction Company. Mr. Casella had once sustained a minor eye injury that had required a later radical correction of his vision.

Although it was late in the day, Tibbs borrowed the office phone long enough to call the Casella Construction Company. Mr. Casella was not in; he had not been in for the past several days. His secretary was not certain where he was; she believed he was out in the field inspecting construction sites.

Struggling to keep his voice normal, Virgil made an appointment for nine the following morning. Then he went home to enjoy the fruits of his labors.

Precisely on time the next morning, he drove into the yard of the Casella Construction Company and parked his car on the unpaved area before the white clapboard building that was the office. There were several large pieces of earth-moving equipment standing in the yard and a small assortment of cars. Among them was a Lincoln Continental; when he saw it, Tibbs frowned.

Inside the door there was a railing that separated the working area from the few square feet set aside for a lobby. Tibbs presented himself to the receptionist-typist-switchboard operator and asked if Mr. Casella was in.

Without replying the girl plugged in a cord and said, “Someone to see Mike.”

A middle-aged and ample woman, who looked as if she might be a bookkeeper, appeared and asked, “Are you the man who phoned last night?”

After Tibbs replied, she opened the railing gate for him and showed him into the single corner office. From behind the desk, a powerful man with a thick tangle of black hair on his head offered a fast handshake and motioned toward a wooden chair. “I didn’t get your name,” he said.

“Tibbs. Virgil Tibbs.”

“Mike Casella, Virgil. What’s your line?”

Tibbs produced his card.

“Cop, heh? O.K., what’s the beef?”

“No beef, just two fast questions. One-do you wear contact lenses?”

“Yep, love ’em to death. If you want some, I can give you the name of a damn good doctor-Nat Shapiro. Really knows his stuff.”

“Thanks. One more-have you lost or misplaced a set of lenses recently?”

Casella pulled two cigars from his pocket and offered one to Tibbs, who declined. “Nope. I only have one set and I’ve got them on now. I know you can’t see ’em-nobody can. Great invention. What’s it all about?”

He was entitled to an answer. “We found a man dead with lenses similar to yours. We wanted to be sure you were O.K., that’s all.”

“Well, fine,” Casella answered. “About those kids that were hanging around the yard. If you catch ’em, give ’em a good scare and then let them go. They can’t hurt the equipment, but they can hurt themselves and then we’re in trouble.” He stopped. “And thanks for the protection. Stop around before Christmas. We like to keep in touch with our friends.”

Tibbs shook hands and left. Halfway across the yard he saw a golf-ball-sized stone in his path, drew back his right foot, and kicked at it with vicious power. He missed a square-on kick; the stone skidded a few feet to the side and stopped.

He got into his car and sat motionless for a moment, his frustration settling in him like a huge leaden lump. “Damn,” he said between his teeth. He was in no fit mood for anything as he drove toward the civic center and his waiting office.