“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.”
Sam swung the car down Main Street and let the soft purr of the engine blend with the stillness of the night. He watched the picket fence of parking meters go by and then he paused to draw up to the curb across from the Simon Pharmacy. “Is it safe to stop here tonight?” he asked.
“I think so,” Virgil answered him. Sam touched the brake gently and let the car drift almost by itself over toward the curb. When he stopped, the wheels were an even two inches away from the concrete facing. He picked up his clipboard to write.
“We’ve got company,” Virgil said.
Sam looked up, startled. Then he saw movement in the thick, silent shadows which filled the store entrance. A figure stepped out of the blackness and walked toward them. It was a very tall man, but he walked without making much noise. An instant later, Sam recognized Bill Gillespie.
The police chief bent down and rested his forearms on the windowsill of the car. “How is it going with you guys?” he asked.
Sam found his tongue thick; it was hard to answer. “All right so far. Nothing unusual. Couple of lights on, but no indication of any trouble.”
Gillespie reached down and pulled the rear door open. “I think I’d like to ride along for a while,” he said. He climbed in and shut the door. “Not much room back here,” he added as his knees pressed against the rear of the front seat.
Sam reached his left hand down and notched the seat forward an inch or two to make more room in back. “Where would you like to go?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” Gillespie said. “Virgil said he was going to point out the murderer to you tonight and I’d like to see him do it, that’s all.”
Sam stole a look at the silent man beside him. The realization had just come that for the first time in his police career he had a partner. And despite his color, Sam felt he could rely on him. Virgil could think and he could handle himself. Both might be necessary before the night was over.
Sam slipped the car into gear, crossed the highway, and entered the shanty ville section of the city. He drove slowly and looked as usual for dogs that might be sleeping in the street. He saw one and made a careful detour.
The garage of Jess the mechanic was silent and dark. So was the little parsonage of Reverend Amos Whiteburn. There was a night light showing in the combination office and residence of Dr. Harding, who ministered to the physical needs of the colored citizens of Wells. The car bumped across the railroad tracks and started up the street that led to the Purdy house. Sam debated what to do. Then he went ahead; after what had happened, everything should be quiet tonight. The Purdy house was dark and still.
“There’s an odd feeling to this time of night,” Gillespie said.
Sam nodded his agreement. “I always notice it,” he answered. “It’s a miasma in the air.”
“A what?” Gillespie asked.
“I’m sorry. A certain feeling, a kind of atmosphere.”
“That’s what I meant,” Gillespie commented. “Don’t the Purdys live around here somewhere?”
“We just passed their house,” Sam told him.
He drove on another three blocks and then turned toward the highway. He slowed up for the stop that he always made even though the street was usually deserted at this hour. This time there was a car coming and he waited for it to pass. As it did so, the overhead street light outlined it enough so that Sam recognized it. It was Eric Kaufmann’s, or one exactly like it.
Sam turned and followed in the direction of the diner. “I usually stop about now for my break,” he explained.
“That’s OK with me,” Gillespie said.
Sam picked up speed and kept the car ahead of him in sight. As they neared the city limits, the other car slowed and turned into the diner parking lot. Sam slowed down and allowed Kaufmann enough time to get inside before he drove into the lot. Sam and Gillespie got out.
“What about Virgil?” Gillespie asked.
“I’ll wait here,” Tibbs said.
“What would you like me to get you?” Sam asked him.
“Nothing, I guess. If I think of something, I’ll let you know.”
Sam and Gillespie walked into the diner.
Eric Kaufmann looked up in surprise when they entered. Then he got to his feet to shake hands. “This is quite an unexpected pleasure,” he said.
“For us, too,” Gillespie added. “How come you’re here at this hour?” It was a friendly question, but there was an undertone to it which suggested that Gillespie really wanted to know the answer.
“I just came in from Atlanta,” Kaufmann explained. “I’ve gotten in the habit of driving at night. It’s cooler that way and there’s less traffic on the road.”
“I see,” Gillespie said as he sat down. “Any news?”
“Definitely,” Kaufmann replied. “I’ve managed to line up a big-name conductor, one of the very best, to take over in Enrico’s place. I’m not telling you who he is because I want George Endicott to be the first to know. And the ticket sales are excellent. You are going to have some real crowds here next month.”
Sam sat down and wondered what to order. He motioned to Ralph, the counterman, to attend to the others while he thought about it. All that would come into his mind was the promise that tonight he would arrest a murderer. His shift was now almost half over and nothing yet gave signs of action. In a little while the daylight would come and when it did the mystery of the night would evaporate. Somehow it seemed to Sam that it would be too late then. The murderer had struck by night; it would have to be at night, or so it seemed, that he would be captured. He became an unreal entity, not a normal person who walks down the street and who looks like everybody else.
But how do you tell a murderer?
Sam ordered a root-beer float and toast, a ridiculous combination, he realized a moment later, but he waited while Ralph made it and then just looked at it as it sat in front of him. Then he heard a noise behind him.