“Andy, go get your father as fast as you can. Then call the police and tell them to come here.”
Andy ran off rapidly. He met his father halfway and poured out his message. A moment later, Tibbs was joined by the big mechanic, whose hands were opening and closing quickly as if waiting for the chance of combat. “They attacked me,” Tibbs said. “Help me watch them.”
Jess looked at the men. “Don’t nobody move!” he commanded. The one who had attacked first was whining softly; his right arm lay twisted in an unnatural position. Andy came running back. “They’re comin’,” he reported. “I told ‘em two men set on Mr. Tibbs and to get the doctor.”
“Good, son,” Jess said. “Now go get me a big tire iron. I don’t need it, but it might be handy.”
Andy took off, winded but eager to do as he was bid. He was back in seconds with the wicked tool. “It’s a good thing we got that phone for emergency repair calls,” Jess said to Tibbs.
Presently a siren could be heard wailing its way from the direction of the highway. Red lights came into view down the street and then the patrol car obeyed Andy’s frantic signal to pull up to the curb. There were two uniformed men in it. Tibbs pointed to the figures which still lay quietly on the ground. “Assault with a deadly weapon,” Tibbs said. “I’ll prefer charges when we get to the station.”
“You’ll prefer charges?” one of the uniformed men questioned.
“I think he’s Virgil,” his partner said.
“I’m Virgil,” Tibbs admitted. “Go easy with the man on the right. I think his arm’s dislocated or broken.”
When they reached the station, Gillespie was waiting for them in the lobby. “What happened?” he demanded.
“I had dinner with Jess the mechanic, the man you introduced me to,” Virgil told him. “When I came out and was on my way back to my car, two men jumped me. One of them tried to club me with a piece of wood.”
Gillespie seemed strangely pleased. “Bring ‘em into my office,” he ordered, and led the way. When the party had assembled as he directed, the chief sat behind his desk and viewed the two men for a long minute without speaking. Then he drew breath and made the room shake with the power of his voice. “Which of you two punks wrote me an anonymous letter?” he demanded.
There was no answer. The silence was broken by the buzz of the intercom. Gillespie flipped the key. “The doctor you sent for is here,” the night man announced.
“Bring him in,” Bill directed. A moment later, the desk man ushered in a tall, very slender, elderly Negro who carried a black bag. “I’m Dr. Harding,” he said.
Gillespie pointed a long finger at the man who clutched his injured arm to his side. “Fix him up,” he ordered. “When I heard two guys had jumped Virgil, I figured it was Virgil who got hurt so I told the desk man to call a colored doctor. Now you’re here, you might as well go to work.”
Dr. Harding ignored the insult and looked at his patient. “He’ll have to lie down,” he said. “Where can we put him?”
“Keep your hands off me,” the man said. “I want my own doctor.”
“Shut up,” Gillespie barked. “I don’t like people who write me letters and tell me what to do. We’re providing you with a doctor like the law says.”
“You won’t last long in this town,” the man retorted.
“Long enough,” Gillespie said. “Take him in a cell and let the doctor work on him there.”
The injured man was led away. Gillespie directed his attention to the other man. “All right, whose idea was this? Talk or you’ll be in one heap of trouble.”
“I ain’t worried,” the man told him. “I’ll demand a jury trial. You know what that means.”
“Sure, I know what it means,” Gillespie told him. “So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to call the paper and tell them how you and your pal jumped a little colored guy and that he beat the both of you up. Then you can have your jury trial.”
“My story is that he and his big black pal jumped us with clubs,” the man said, still unshaken. “We was minding our own business.”
“Sure, in niggertown. You and your pal were on your way to a nice black whorehouse, just two respectable citizens, when you got mugged. Wise up; either way you lose.”
“I ain’t talkin’,” the man maintained stubbornly.
Gillespie turned toward Tibbs. “You aren’t a white man, but I guess you can fight,” he conceded.
“The credit goes to the man who taught me,” Tibbs said. “His name is Takahashi and he isn’t Caucasian, either.”
He turned toward the door. “I’ve got a job to finish and I’m getting near to the end. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.”
To Tibbs’s surprise, Gillespie got up and walked down the corridor with him. “Virgil,” he said when they were by themselves, “I think you’re smart enough to know you’ve got to get out of this town. Tonight you were lucky. Next time somebody may take a shot at you and that you can’t duck. I’m giving you my advice-get out of here before I’ve got another murder on my hands. I’ll tell them in Pasadena you did a good job for me.”
“I’ll get out, Chief Gillespie,” Virgil answered, “but not until I have delivered Mantoli’s murderer to you together with the proof of his guilt. I’ve got to do that first; perhaps you understand why.”
“I won’t be responsible,” Gillespie said.
“That’s all right,” Tibbs acknowledged, and hurried through the lobby.
Duena Mantoli sat in the quiet of the early evening in the high lookout where, a few days before, Sam Wood had perched stiffly beside her. Now she was alone, looking out over the silent parade of the mountains trying to sort out her thoughts. She knew now that Sam Wood stood accused of seducing a sixteen-year-old girl, the daughter of an almost illiterate laborer.
Although she did not want to do so, she coldly compared herself to what she imagined the other girl to be. Then, with mounting shame, she saw herself standing on tiptoe in a jail cell to press her kiss on the lips of the man in whom she had found a sudden faith. That faith was gone now, which made her action, in retrospect, something cheap and vulgar. She folded her arms about herself and knew she had been a fool. It was hopeless to assume that breeding and what is called common decency could ever stamp out the basic instincts of sexual drive. Sam Wood was a big, strong man and he was unmarried. The girl, whoever she was, had been able to give him animal gratification.
Duena shuddered and tears of anger came to her eyes. She continued to sit there until Endicott, worried, came down to find her and take her back.
It was a little after nine on Saturday morning when Delores Purdy answered the doorbell. She preened herself for a moment first, because a girl could never tell who might be there. When she swung the door open and looked into the dark-skinned face of Virgil Tibbs, her mood changed abruptly. “Niggers go to the back door,” she snapped.
“This one doesn’t,” Tibbs said. “I came to see your father.”
“Don’t you come in the door,” she ordered, and then shut it in his face. A minute later, it was reopened by Purdy with an expression of profound distaste on his face. “Get away from here,” he said. “We don’t want you ‘round.”
“You don’t have any choice,” Tibbs told him, and calmly walked in. “I’m from police headquarters and I’ve come to talk to you and your daughter.”
“I know who you are,” Purdy snarled. “Now get out of here fast or I’ll break you in two.”
“If you try that,” Tibbs retorted, “I won’t be responsible for what happens to you. Two other guys tried it last night.”
“Yeah, I heard tell. You and your pal jumped ‘em at night and beat ‘em up with tire irons. One of ‘em is in the hospital.”