When he walked into the lobby, Sam saw Eric Kaufmann talking with Pete at the desk. Kaufmann was displaying a small gun and Pete was apparently taking down the make and serial number.
Kaufmann looked around, saw Sam, and came over to speak to him. “Can you spare me a moment?” Kaufmann asked. “I’ll be through here right away.”
“Of course.” Sam sat down on a bench against the wall, where there was at least a small measure of privacy. In a minute or two Kaufmann slid the little gun into his pocket and came over to sit beside Sam.
“First of all,” he began, “I want to square things with you. I’m damn sorry I got hairy with you the other night. I was very worried and upset, but that’s still no excuse.”
“Forget it,” Sam said gallantly.
“When I stopped to think about it, I realized how thoughtful of you it was to drive all the way up to Endicotts’ just to look after all of us up there. Duena and I want you to know we appreciate it a great deal.”
The last sentence made Sam feel as though he had been solidly hit in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he made no reply.
“When I thought it over,” Kaufmann continued, “I came in and got a permit to carry a gun.”
“Do you know how to use one?” Sam asked.
“Not very well. But I don’t ever want to use it, really. It’s enough to have it to point at somebody if I have to. That’s all I want it for, until this thing is over. I presume you’re making some progress.”
“I can’t talk about that,” Sam replied. He was sure that was a safe answer.
“I understand. And, oh, yes, before I forget it, Duena asked me to thank you for your kindness to her the day her father was killed. She still isn’t herself, but she’s coming around better than could be expected. If you knew her as I do, you’d know she’s a wonderful girl.”
“I’m sure she is,” Sam said, meaning every word of it. Then he decided he might as well take the plunge. “I’m surprised you haven’t married her.”
“I want to very much,” Kaufmann replied. “I think all might have gone well, but then this dreadful thing happened. When it is all behind us, and we can leave here, then she may come around.”
“You should stand a good chance,” Sam said, deliberately torturing himself.
“I hope so.”
“Well, I sure wish you the best of luck,” Sam lied cordially, and held out his hand. He liked Kaufmann better today in spite of everything. It was nice to like people and to have them like you. Sam looked about him to see if Virgil Tibbs might be there.
Pete saw him looking and called him over to the desk. “The boss wants to see you.”
“Right away,” Sam acknowledged. He turned toward the corridor that led to Gillespie’s office. On the way he stepped in the washroom for a moment to smooth his hair and tuck in his shirt. Even though he had little respect for Gillespie, when he walked into his chief’s office he wanted to look, and to be, every inch a competent and reliable police officer. He walked the rest of the way down the corridor and knocked respectfully on the closed door.
It was nearly six when Virgil Tibbs drove his borrowed car onto the official parking lot and climbed wearily from the driver’s seat. Before closing the door he reached back inside, then he climbed the steps into the lobby.
The early night man on the desk looked up as Tibbs walked in.
“Well?” he asked.
“Is Chief Gillespie still here, by any chance?” Tibbs asked.
“Yes, he’s here, but I don’t think he wants to be disturbed right now.”
“He has someone with him?” Tibbs inquired.
“No, he’s alone. But it had better be pretty important if you want to see him now.”
“Please tell him that I’m here and I want to see him,” Tibbs said.
The night man took ample time to reach over and flip the intercom key. “Virgil’s here,” he reported. “I told him not to disturb you, but he insists on coming in.”
“All right,” Gillespie’s voice came out.
“Go on in,” the night man said, and returned to the paper he had been reading.
Tibbs walked down the corridor and knocked on Gillespie’s door.
Gillespie’s voice came through the panel. “I said you could come in.”
Virgil Tibbs opened the door and walked quietly into Gillespie’s office. When he looked at the big man behind the desk, he saw at once that in some manner he had been badly shaken. “Well? What is it that’s so important, Virgil?” Gillespie asked. There was no fire in his words. He spoke with the voice of a man who had made a strong and bold move and who was now asking himself if he had done the right thing.
Tibbs laid a piece of wood on Gillespie’s desk. It was a rough, round section of a limb about two inches in diameter and twenty-two inches long. Gillespie looked at it without speaking. “What do you want me to do with that?” he asked.
“It’s the murder weapon,” Tibbs told him.
Gillespie picked up the fatal piece of wood and examined it curiously. There were unmistakable stains at one end which gave grisly proof of what it probably had done. The chief turned it around in his fingers and then sighted down its length to see how straight it was. “How did you find it?” he asked.
“I had some help,” Tibbs acknowledged. He waited for further questions.
Gillespie continued to turn the piece of wood in his fingers. When he didn’t speak, Tibbs did. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I told you once we could run our own business down here, not that I don’t appreciate your bringing this in to me. And your report on Mantoli’s body was satisfactory. And I’d better tell you-I arrested Mantoli’s murderer personally about an hour ago.”
Tibbs audibly drew a quick breath. “Can you tell me-” he began.
“Who he is?” Gillespie supplied.
“ … whether you got a confession?” Tibbs finished.
“No, I didn’t. He protested, of course.” Gillespie stopped and picked up the deadly piece of wood once more. “But he did it. I know.” He continued to examine the implement in his hands and then hefted it for weight. “What did this tell you, Virgil?” he asked.
“It would be more accurate to say that it confirmed what I already knew, Chief Gillespie.”
“Exactly what would that be?”
“Who the murderer is,” Tibbs answered.
Gillespie put the piece of wood back on his desk. “Hmm. Well, I beat you to it. And now if you want to see your friend Sam, you’ll find him in the first cell down the hall.”
Virgil Tibbs looked at Gillespie with wonder and disbelief and then looked out the window a moment while he collected his thoughts. “Sam Wood?” he asked, as though the idea was beyond him.
“That’s right,” Gillespie answered. “Sam Wood.”
Tibbs sank silently into a chair before Gillespie’s desk. “Sir,” he said finally, with great care, “I know you won’t want to hear this, but I must tell you. Mr. Wood is definitely not guilty. You can see the implications toward your career if you don’t let him go.” He paused and looked very steadily at Gillespie with his deep-brown eyes. “You see, sir, I know it for a fact that you’ve got the wrong man.”
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.