Sam turned to see Virgil Tibbs standing just inside the door. The Negro seemed pathetically weak at that moment, as though he was all too aware that he had ventured where he did not belong.
Ralph looked up and saw him. “Hey, you, there! Out,” he ordered.
Virgil hesitated and came a cautious step or two more inside. “Please,” he said, “I’m awfully thirsty. All I want is a glass of milk.”
Ralph looked quickly at his guests and then back at Tibbs. “You can’t come in here, you know that. Go back outside. When these gentlemen get through, maybe one of them will bring a carton out to you.”
“I will,” Sam offered.
Instead of retreating, Virgil walked farther into the forbidden room. “Look,” he said. “I know you have rules down here, but I’m a police officer just like these gentlemen. I don’t have any diseases. All I want is to sit down and have something like the others.”
Sam drew breath to arbitrate. Virgil was “out of line” for the first time since he had known him and Sam was suffering acutely from secondary embarrassment. Then, before he could speak, Ralph walked around the end of the counter and over to where Virgil was standing.
“I heard about you,” Ralph said. “You’re Virgil and you don’t come from around here. I know about you. For the sake of these gentlemen I don’t want to get rough, but you’ve gotta leave, if my boss ever hears that I let you walk in the door, he’ll fire me for sure. Now please go.”
“Why?” Tibbs asked.
Ralph’s face flushed and his temper snapped. “Because I told you to.” With these words, he put his hand on Virgil’s shoulder and pushed him around.
Tibbs whirled on the balls of his feet, seized Ralph’s extended arm with both hands, and pulled it behind him in a painful hammerlock.
Sam could stand no more; he was on his feet and came forward. “Let him go, Virgil,” he said. “It isn’t his fault.”
Virgil Tibbs seemed not to hear the remark. His hesitant manner had vanished and on the instant he was all business.
“Here he is, Sam,” he said. “You can arrest this man for the murder of Enrico Mantoli.”
CHAPTER 14
It was a dirty, hot dawn which streaked the sky. What colors there were were smoky and the beauty that often comes with the first light of day was not there. Virgil Tibbs sat waiting in the detention room of the police station, reading another paperback book; this one was Anatomy of a Murder.
After almost three hours, the door of Gillespie’s office opened. There was the sound of footsteps and then the clanging of a cell door. A few moments later, the big man who headed the Wells police department came into the detention room. He sat down and lighted a cigarette. Tibbs waited for him to speak.
“He signed a confession,” Gillespie said.
Tibbs put his book down. “I was sure you could do it,” he said. “Did he implicate the abortionist?”
Gillespie looked slightly startled. “You seem to know all about this, Virgil. I‘d like to know how you doped it all out.”
“Where’s Sam?” Virgil asked. It was the first time he had used Wood’s first name in Gillespie’s presence.
Apparently Gillespie didn’t notice it. “He went back out on patrol. Said it was his job.”
“He’s an exceptionally conscientious officer,” Virgil said, “and that means a great deal. With the music crowds coming here soon, you will be needing more help.”
“I know it,” Gillespie said.
“I was thinking that Sam would make a good sergeant. The men could look up to and respect him and Sam is ready for the job.”
“Are you trying to run my department for me, Virgil?” Gillespie asked.
“No, I was just thinking that if you did decide on something in that direction, Sam would probably be very grateful to you. Under those circumstances I think he might forget all about the recent inconvenience he went through. Pardon my bringing it up.”
Gillespie said nothing for a moment. Tibbs waited and let him take his time. “How long ago did you know it was Ralph?” the chief asked finally.
“Not until yesterday,” Tibbs said. “I’ve got a confession to make, Chief Gillespie: I almost bungled this one beyond recovery. You see, up until yesterday I was hotly in pursuit of the wrong man.”
The phone rang. The night desk man answered and then called to Gillespie. “It’s for you, Chief,” he said.
Gillespie rose to his feet and went to see who was calling at a little after seven in the morning. It was George Endicott.
“I called to ask when you would be in,” Endicott explained. “I didn’t expect to find you at this hour.”
“You’re an early riser,” Gillespie said.
“Not normally. Eric Kaufmann called with the news that you and your men have caught Enrico’s murderer. Please accept my very sincere congratulations. I understand you made the arrest personally. That was certainly a fine piece of work.”
Gillespie remembered some of the resolutions he had made. “The actual arrest was made by Mr. Wood,” Gillespie said. “I was there, that’s all. My part came later when I questioned him until he broke down and confessed.”
“I still can’t believe you were there by accident,” Endicott said.
The chief drew a deep breath and did what he had never done before. “You will have to give credit to Virgil; he had a lot to do with it.”
Now that it was over, it hadn’t been so bad. And Endicott was from the North, which made it easier still.
“Listen, I’ve talked to Grace and Duena. Although it may be a bit out of place so soon after Enrico’s death, we want to have a quiet gathering here tonight. I hope you can arrange to join us.”
“I’d be glad to.”
“Fine, and will you please ask Sam Wood and Virgil Tibbs? I’m sure you’ll see them.”
That was a little harder to take, but Gillespie made the grade. “I’ll tell them,” he said.
When he hung up, he reflected that he had met two challenges and had defeated them both. He might as well make it three in a row. And if anyone in the station said anything about it, he could and would deal with them. He walked into the detention room. He looked at Virgil Tibbs and held out his hand.
Tibbs rose and took it.
“Virgil,” Gillespie said, “I want to thank you for the help you’ve given us. I’m going to write a letter to Chief Morris and thank him for your services. I’m going to tell him you’ve done a fine job.”
Gillespie let go of the first Negro hand he had ever clasped. He looked at the man behind it and saw, to his sudden surprise, that his eyes were moist.
“You’re a man to be admired, Chief Gillespie,” Tibbs said. His voice shook a very little.
Then it was that Gillespie recalled a famous quotation. He knew it because he had hated it; now, however, it could be of service to him.
“Thank you, Virgil,” he said. “You’re a great credit to your race.” He paused. “I mean, of course, the human race.”
At seven-thirty that evening, Bill Gillespie picked up Sam Wood and Virgil Tibbs at the police station in his personal car. The two men climbed in. Tibbs sat in back.
There was little conversation as they drove up the mountain to the Endicott house; none of them had had very much sleep, but the summons to the gathering had to be obeyed. Gillespie wondered how he would feel at a social function where a Negro was a guest.
When they arrived, Grace Endicott met them at the door and led them into the big living room, Gillespie first, Sam next, and Virgil bringing up the rear.
The room was comfortably full. Eric Kaufmann was there, Jennings the banker and his wife, Duena Mantoli, and the Schuberts.
Sam Wood was vaguely aware of them all; he was acutely aware of Duena, whose beauty tonight almost literally took his breath away. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor, looked at her, and told himself once more that he had held this girl in his arms, and that she had kissed him. Vivid as the memory was, it was clouded with a veil of unreality.