“Do you shave every day?” he asked.
Surprised, Oberst felt his chin. “Usually I do. I didn’t this morning; I been up all night.”
“How come?”
“I went up to Canville to see a guy I know there. We … had a couple of dates.”
“Then you got back here pretty late?”
“Sometime around two, maybe later. That’s when I found the guy in the road.”
“Exactly what did you do? Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear; just tell me what really happened.”
“Well, this here guy was lying on his face on the road. I stopped to see if I could help him. But he was dead.”
“How did you know?”
“Well, I just knew, that’s all.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I seen his wallet lying on the road, maybe four or five feet from him.”
Virgil Tibbs leaned forward. “That’s very important,” he emphasized. “I don’t care whether you found the wallet or whether you took it out of his pocket, it makes no difference. But are you absolutely sure you found it on the road beside him?”
“I swear I did,” Oberst answered.
“Then you did,” Tibbs conceded. “What happened after that?”
“I picked it up and looked quick inside. I seen a lot of money. I figured he couldn’t use it anymore, and if I left it there, whoever came along next would grab it.”
“That’s probably right,” Tibbs agreed. “Now how did you get caught with it on you?”
“Well, I got worried about it on account of the guy had been killed. If anybody found me with the wallet, I could be in awful bad trouble. So I went to see Mr. Jennings. He’s head man at the bank and I know him because I work for him weekends. I told him about it. He said it would have to be reported and he called the cops. So I got stuck in here anyway. Now I don’t know what I’ll get.”
Tibbs got to his feet. “Leave it to me,” he advised. “If your story holds up, you’re all right.” He called loudly enough to be heard and waited for Arnold to come and let him out.
Shortly thereafter Tibbs went to the weather bureau and checked the rainfall records for the last month.
Bill Gillespie looked up from his desk to see his new assistant from Pasadena standing in the doorway. He did not want to see Virgil Tibbs; he did not want to see anybody. He wanted to go home, wash up, get something to eat, and go to bed. It was late in the working day and he had been on duty since the very early hours of the morning.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded.
Tibbs walked in a short way, but did not sit down. “Since you put me in charge of the investigation of Mantoli’s death, Chief Gillespie, I’d like to ask you to release Harvey Oberst.”
“Why?” Gillespie made the question a challenge.
“He’s not guilty of the murder, I’m sure of that, and for more reasons than I gave you this morning. Technically you could hold him for grand theft for taking the wallet, but I checked with Mr. Jennings at the bank and he confirmed Oberst’s story that he turned the wallet in to him-at least he asked Jennings’ advice about it. With a responsible citizen to testify, you’d never get a conviction against Oberst.”
Gillespie waved one hand to show that he assumed no responsibility. “All right, let him go. It’s your responsibility. He looked like a good suspect to me.”
“I don’t want a suspect,” Tibbs replied. “I want a murderer. Oberst, I’m sure, isn’t our man. Thank you, sir.”
As Tibbs left the room, Gillespie noted with some satisfaction that at least he had known enough to say “sir.” He got up and scowled at the papers on his desk. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked out through the lobby. It was Virgil’s responsibility and whatever else happened, he, Gillespie, was in the clear.
At a few minutes past midnight, Sam Wood climbed into his patrol car, checked the gas gauge to be sure the tank had been filled, and drove out of the police parking lot. He had ahead of him eight hours alone with the city, which would soon be asleep. But things were different tonight. Somewhere, probably still within the city, there was a killer. A killer to whom human life was not as important as something he wanted.
Tonight, Sam resolved, as he swung west on his accustomed route, he would keep his eyes and ears open as he had never done before. He let his imagination take hold briefly while he visualized trapping and catching a murderer so clearly guilty of his crime that it would show the moment he marched him into the police station.
But it didn’t work that way, Sam told himself. Everything was on the killer’s side. He could hide where he chose, unknown and unseen, strike at a time and place of his own choosing. Perhaps, Sam thought, the unknown killer might seize on the idea that somehow he, Sam, had seen too much. In that case the killer would be out for him-tonight. Sam reached down carefully and for the first time since he had put on a police uniform, loosened his sidearm in its holster. It would be a long eight hours.
As the car wove westward through the already silent and deserted streets, Sam had a sudden idea. To put it into effect might be dangerous and it would be definitely exceeding his authority. It might even be called a neglect of duty. Despite all of these objections, he knew almost at once he was going to do it anyway. He swung the car around a corner and headed for the dirt road that led up to the Endicott place.
When the wheels of the car bit into the gravel, Sam was as calmly determined as he had ever been in his life. Mantoli was dead; no one knew why. Whatever the reason, it might apply also to his daughter. Sam thought of the girl who had sat beside him looking out over the mountains, and almost wished that the killer would prowl again tonight, but not until he, Sam, got there first.
As the road climbed upward, the air seemed to grow cooler and cleaner. Sam switched on the bright lights and swung the car expertly around the curves of the semiprivate road.
It was a flicker of light against a white guard rail that first told him that another car was coming in the opposite direction.
At a point where the road widened slightly, Sam pulled over, switched his headlights to parking position, and waited. He reached for the flashlight that was clipped to the steering column and held it ready in his left hand. The headlights of the approaching car threw a brighter loom into the sky; as they came into view, Sam, on impulse, switched on his red spotlight. The driver of the other car hit his brakes and pulled up opposite. Sam stabbed him with the beam of the flashlight, and as the driver threw up his arm to shield his eyes, Sam recognized Eric Kaufmann.
“What are you doing on this road at this hour?” Sam demanded.
“I’m on my way to Atlanta. Why?” Sam sensed antagonism in the voice and he didn’t like it.
“Is this the hour you usually start trips to Atlanta?”
Kaufmann leaned partway out of the car window. “Is that any business of yours?” he asked.
Sam stepped quickly from his car and stood beside Kaufmann, his right hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. “In case you have forgotten,” he said, biting each word off separately, “less than twenty-four hours ago someone committed a murder in this town. Until we catch him, everyone’s business is our concern, especially when they start out on long drives past midnight. Now explain yourself.”
Kaufmann rubbed his fingers across his face for a moment. “I’m sorry, Officer,” he apologized. “I’m not myself and you know why. I was up at the Endicotts’ discussing the festival until a few minutes ago. Because a good deal of local money has been advanced for this project, we decided that we have to go ahead despite the fact that Enrico is dead. If we let it ride for a year, we’ll all be dead. I’m sorry-that’s a bad choice of words.” Kaufmann stopped and made an effort to collect himself. “Anyhow, I’ve got to go to Atlanta and see what can be done to locate a name conductor to take over. And I’ve got to arrange for the orchestra; it was all lined up but the news may have thrown everything off again.”