by John Ball
“Miss Purdy knew that Mr. Wood patrolled the city at night on the graveyard shift and therefore it could be believed that he had made one or more stops at her house during the year that the Purdys have lived in Wells. Secondly, she knew that he was unmarried and therefore might be trapped into marriage. Lastly, she was attracted to him, at least to a degree, as evidenced by the fact that she revealed herself to him at least once during his nightly rounds, probably in such a way as to make it appear an accident. It would be my guess that this had happened more than once, but not often enough to arouse the suspicion of a conscientious police officer.” Tibbs looked at Sam Wood. “I don’t want to embarrass you, Mr. Wood, especially in Miss Mantoli’s presence, but can you confirm that?”
Sam took a moment to find the words. Then all he said was, “Yes.”
“Now comes a matter of probability,” Tibbs went.on. “If Mr. Wood were guilty of accepting the attentions of such women, or inviting them, this tendency probably would have been visible at some time during the three preceding years that he has been guarding this city at night. This is not completely true, because people who have always led exemplary lives have been known to commit murder or run off with bank funds without warning. However, Mr. Wood is a bachelor, with the right, therefore, to invite young women out in as great a variety as he chooses; if he had been inclined to take advantage of an unschooled girl, he probably would not enjoy the very good personal reputation that he has in Wells. No one knows a man’s standing better than his bank, and the bank where he transacts business thinks very highly of Mr. Wood; they told me so.
“Summing up,” Virgil said, taking a deep breath, “concerning the charge Delores Purdy made against Mr. Wood, I think it’s a damn lie.”
“Could you make her admit it?” George Endicott asked.
The intercom buzzed.
Bill Gillespie flipped the switch. “Mr. Purdy and his daughter are here to see you,” the voice came through.
Gillespie carefully scanned the faces of the four people before him. “Bring them in,” he instructed, “and bring a couple of chairs with you.”
There was a tense quiet in the office while the footsteps of the Purdys could be heard coming down the hall. Everybody watched the doorway.
Delores came first. Her steps were short and slow. Her father’s face was as hatchet hard as before, and the lines around his mouth seemed to have been etched even deeper. Arnold, who was behind them, came through the doorway sideways, juggling two chairs, which he set in position. No one spoke until he had left.
“Sit down,” Gillespie invited.
Purdy nodded toward Tibbs. “Get him out of here,” he ordered.
Gillespie appeared to grow taller in his chair. “He stays,” he said, and motioned toward the chairs. The Purdys sat down.
“I ain’t gonna talk with no nigger in the room,” Delores announced.
Gillespie ignored her. “We have quite a bit of routine to put both of you through,” he told the Purdys. “The medical part of it may take some time. Is there anything you’d like to tell me before we get started?”
There was a long silence. Gillespie leaned back and his chair creaked under his weight. Then the room was quiet again.
Delores squirmed in her chair and smoothed her skirt with her hands. “I guess maybe I made a mistake,” she said finally.
“You told us about that last time,” Gillespie answered.
Delores waited for her slow mind to find the words she wanted. “I mean I guess maybe it wasn’t him.”
“You mean Mr. Wood?” Gillespie asked.
“Yeah, him.”
Purdy cleared his throat and took the floor. “You see, Delores, she don’t sleep so good at night sometimes. She seen the police car come past and she knowed who was in it. Then when she went to sleep after that she dreamed about him and that’s just what give her the idea.” ”You mean,” the chief said, “your daughter saw Mr. Wood in the patrol car and then just dreamed that he had had relations with her?”
The muscles of Purdy’s jaw worked before he answered. “Yeah, something like that,” he said.
Gillespie tilted forward. “I find it pretty hard to believe a girl like Delores would dream so vividly about a thing like that that she would come down here and file a formal complaint. If she’d been a few months younger she could have put a man in danger of his life.”
“Well, she ain’t,” Purdy snapped. “She’s old enough to do as she pleases.”
“Now I don’t have to be examined, huh?” Delores asked.
“No,” Gillespie answered. “If you and your father state here before witnesses that the charges you placed against Mr. Wood were in error, then there is no need for a physical examination.”
“You couldn’t now, anyway,” Delores added.
Duena Mantoli made a slight noise, then the room was quiet again.
It was Virgil Tibbs who broke it. “You showed great courage in coming here this evening,” he said to Delores. “Lots of girls wouldn’t have been willing to do it.”
“Paw made me,” Delores admitted candidly.
“There’s something you can do to help if you will,” Tibbs went on. “It’s more important than you might think. Could you tell us how you happened to dream about Mr. Wood?”
“I said she seen him come past and that put her mind to it,” Purdy said angrily.
Tibbs ignored the remark and kept his eyes on Delores. Finally she took notice. She smoothed her skirt again and for the first time showed the beginning signs of embarrassment.
“Well,” she said slowly, “he’s a real OK guy. I never got to meet him, but I heard talk. He’s got a real good job, steady, and a car, and I thought about him. I thought maybe he’d like me, especially ‘cause I heard he didn’t have no girl.”
“I’m his girl,” Duena said.
Sam Wood looked at her with wonder and disbelief.
Delores, too, looked at Duena. When she had finished, she turned listlessly back to face Bill Gillespie. She was inert, ready to topple whichever way she was pushed.
“He can’t have my girl, he’s too old for her,” Purdy said.
Bill Gillespie made a decision. “Since you both came forward with a statement that clears Mr. Wood, as far as my department is concerned, we’ll call it a closed incident. That doesn’t mean that Mr. Wood won’t sue you for defamation of character; I imagine he probably will.”
“I don’t want to sue anybody,” Sam said.
Purdy turned toward his daughter. “We’ll go home,” he said, and rose. Delores got up after him. Then she turned and tried hard to smile at Sam. “I’m real sorry,” she said.
Sam remembered he was a gentleman and got to his feet. So did Virgil Tibbs. George Endicott remained seated. With no further remarks, the Purdys filed out. It took a few moments after they had gone for the atmosphere to clear.
“Now what happens?” Gillespie asked.
Virgil Tibbs answered him. “We finish clearing Mr. Wood. Is there any other point you want settled before you release him?”
“Yes,” Gillespie replied. “I want him to tell me how come he had six hundred dollars plus in cash to use in paying off his mortgage.”
Tibbs spoke before Sam could. “I think I can answer that. The bank told you he had that amount in cash, but they didn’t tell you what kind of cash.”
“Cash is cash,” Gillespie said.
“Not in this case,” Tibbs replied. “When I asked about it, they told me the money was largely in coins—quarters, halves, and even nickels and dimes. There were some bills, too, but the largest one was five dollars.”
The light dawned. “You mean he’d been hoarding it?” Gillespie asked.
“That’s right,” Virgil replied. “It wasn’t the smart way because he could have deposited it at interest and earned around eighteen dollars a year. And his money would have been a lot safer. I am inclined to believe he has been saving what he could this way ever since he has been on the force in order to pay off
his mortgage. Probably on the basis of a quota he set for himself.”
“I tried to make it fifty cents a day,” Sam explained.
“Actually you did a little better than that,” Tibbs told him, “closer to four dollars a week. But why didn’t you put it in the bank?”
“I didn’t want to spend it. That was my mortgage money. I kept it by itself and I never took a nickel out of it until I paid for my home.”
“Anyhow, I think that clears that one up,” Tibbs said, speaking to Gillespie. “Is he a free man now?”
Gillespie looked at George Endicott before he answered. The spirit seemed gone out of him. “I guess so,” he said.
“Then,” Virgil said, “I want to ask you to restore him to duty immediately so he can make his regular patrol tonight.”
“I’d like to spend a night at home first,” Sam said.
“I think it’s important that you drive tonight,” Tibbs answered. “And if you don’t mind, I’m coming with you.” Tibbs turned to face Gillespie. “I’m going to give you a guarantee,” he said. “Unless something radical happens, before morning Mr. Wood will arrest the murderer of Enrico Mantoli.”
CHAPTER
13
WHEN SAM WOOD WALKED through the lobby of the police station and out into the open air, he had the strong feeling that he had just lived through a bad dream. The extremes of anger, outrage, and hopelessness he had felt were all spent now and he was back exactly where he had been before it had all started. Except for one thing: he had held Duena Mantoli in his arms and she had kissed him. And in the presence of witnesses she had stated she was his girl.
Of course she wasn’t, Sam knew that. She had said that simply to embarrass Delores Purdy and she had succeeded. For a few precious moments, Sam allowed himself to imagine that she had meant it. Then he snapped out of it and remembered it was time for dinner.
He drove to the café that offered the only acceptable steaks in town and ordered one. He felt he had it coming.
The manager came over to exchange a word with him. “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Wood,” he said.
Sam knew exactly what he meant. “I’m glad to be here,” he answered in the same vein. “Tell the cook to make that a good steak, will you?”
“I did,” the manager said. “Say, I wanted to ask you something. Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to, but the whole town is wondering. What goes with this black cop you got working?”
“Virgil?” Sam asked. “What about him?”
“Well, how come?”
“He’s a murder expert,” Sam said. “He happened to be on hand and the chief put him to work. That’s all.”
“Must be pretty hard on you,” the manager ventured.
“Not on me, it isn’t,” Sam answered shortly. “He’s smart as hell and he got me out of a jam.” Sam was instantly proud of himself for standing up for the man who had stood up for him.
“Yes, but he’s a nigger,” the manager persisted.
Sam put his hands flat on the table and looked up. “Virgil isn’t a nigger. He’s colored, he’s black, and he’s a Negro, but he isn’t a nigger. I’ve known a lot of white men who weren’t as smart as he is.”
The manager made peace at once. “Some of ‘em are smart, I know. One of them even wrote a book. Here comes your steak.” The manager saw to it that it was served with gestures. He even personally brought the bottle of catsup. Then he told himself that Sam Wood should be excused for anything he said because he had just been through a hell of an experience.
When he had finished eating, Sam drove home and threw up the windows to clear out the musty air inside. He got out his uniform and checked it over. Then he took a shower, ran over his chin with an electric razor, and lay down to get some rest.
He remembered briefly Virgil’s promise that he was to arrest a murderer that night. It seemed a little unreal as the desire for sleep grew on him. His mind went blank and he slept deeply until his alarm jangled at eleven.
Virgil Tibbs was waiting for him in the lobby of the police station when he got there. Sam checked in as he always did; the desk man struggled to pretend that nothing had happened. With his report sheet under his arm, and the keys to his patrol car in his hand, he nodded to Tibbs. “Let’s go,” he invited.
They set out together as they had once before. “Where to, Virgil?” Sam asked.
“You’re doing the driving,” Tibbs answered. “Anywhere you like. It doesn’t make any difference to me. Only let’s stay away from the Purdy place tonight. I don’t want to go through that again.”
Sam asked the question that had been in his mind for the last hour. “Do you think the murderer of old man Mantoli will be out tonight?”
“I’m almost sure of it,” Tibbs replied.
“Then maybe we had better check up on the Endicotts, see that everything is all right.”
“I’m sure she is,” Virgil answered. “Go up if you like, but there is better reason to stay down here.”
“Do you want to tell me about it now? I’m supposed to arrest the guy, you said.”
“I’d rather not, Sam. If I did, you might betray something at the wrong time. Keeping something to yourself to the point where everything you say, every movement you make, is still just the same as though you didn’t have that knowledge is very hard to do. Until the time comes, the fewer who know the better.”
“Can’t we do something about it now?”
Tibbs looked out the window. “Sam, without giving offense, would you trust me and let me handle it? I promise you you’ll be there when it happens. In fact, I’m trying to arrange it so you will make the arrest.”
“OK, Virgil.” Sam was disappointed.
The night had never seemed so long. They talked of California and what it was like on the Pacific Coast, where Sam had never been. They discussed baseball and prizefighting. “It’s a tough way to earn a living,” Tibbs commented. “I know some fighters and what they have to take is pretty rugged. It isn’t all over when the last bell rings. When the cheering stops, if there is any, it’s down to the dressing room, where the doctor is waiting. And when he has to sew up cuts over the eyes or in the mouth, it hurts like hell.”
“Virgil, I’ve wondered how come there are so many colored fighters? Are they just better, or is it maybe easier for them?”
“If it’s any easier I don’t know how. I talked to a fighter once who had had a bout in Texas. He took an awful whipping although he fought hard; he was overmatched. Anyhow, when the doc came around to fix him up, the needle in his bruised flesh hurt so much he let out a yell. Then the doctor told him he’d presumed it didn’t hurt him because he was a Negro.”
Sam flashed back mentally to a conversation he had had with Ralph, the night man at the diner. It seemed to him it had been weeks ago. Actually it had been the night of the murder. “How about those two guys who jumped you?” Sam asked after a while. “I didn’t hear what happened to them.”
“A guy named Watkins, a councilman, got them off. He told me if I knew what was good for me I’d shut up about it, otherwise I would be booked for breaking the man’s arm.”
“Do you think Watkins hired them?”
“I hope so, because if he did, he’ll have to foot the medical expenses for the guy who got hurt. There are supposed to be some others out looking for me now.” Tibbs said it calmly, as though he were commenting that it might rain in the next day or two.
“I just hope they try it when I’m along,” Sam offered.
“So do I,” Virgil admitted quickly. “It won’t be so easy next time. Judo is a good system but it can only go so far. After that you’re licked and there’s nothing you can do about it but take one or two out on the way down.”
“Does anything beat judo?” Sam asked.
“Aikido is very good, especially for handling belligerent suspects when you don’t want to do them any physical harm. The Los Angeles police use it extensively. In a real fight when the chips are down, then Karate is the last
word. A good Karate man is a deadly weapon.”
“Are there any in this country?”
Tibbs paused before answering. “Yes, I know some of them. A lot of the things you hear about Karate aren’t true, it doesn’t ruin your hands, for instance. But as a method of protecting yourself, Karate is the best thing there is in the way of unarmed combat technique. The training is severe, but it’s worth it.”
