The prisoner took the barest moment before he replied.
“I’m a police officer,” he said.
CHAPTER 3
As a matter of principle Sam Wood did not like Negroes, at least not on anything that approached a man-to-man basis. It therefore confused him for a moment when he discovered within himself a stab of admiration for the slender man who stood beside him. Sam was a sportsman and therefore he enjoyed seeing someone, anyone, stand up successfully to Wells’s new chief of police.
Until Gillespie arrived in town, Sam Wood had been rated a big man, but Gillespie’s towering size automatically demoted Sam Wood to near normal stature. The new chief was only three years his senior-too young, Sam thought, for his job, even in a city as small as Wells. Furthermore Gillespie came from Texas, a state for which Sam felt no fraternal affection. But most of all Sam resented, consciously, Gillespie’s hard, inconsiderate, and demanding manner. Sam arrived at the conclusion that he felt no liking for the Negro, only rich satisfaction in seeing Gillespie apparently confounded. Before he could think any further, Gillespie was looking at him.
“Did you question this man at all before you brought him in?” Gillespie demanded.
“No, sir,” Sam answered. The “sir” stuck in his throat.
“Why not?” Gillespie barked the question in what Sam decided was a deliberately offensive manner. But if the Negro could keep his composure, Sam decided, he could, too. He thought for an instant and then replied as calmly as he could.
“Your orders were to check the railroad station and then to look for possible hitchhikers or anyone else worth checking. When I found this ni- this man in the railroad station, I brought him in immediately so I could carry out the rest of your orders. Shall I go now?”
Sam was proud of himself. He knew he wasn’t much with words, but that, he felt sure, had been a good speech.
“I want to finish checking this man out first.” Gillespie looked toward Tibbs. “You say you’re a cop in California?”
“Yes, I am,” Tibbs replied, still standing patiently beside the empty hard chair.
“Prove it.”
“There’s an ID card in my wallet.”
Gillespie picked up the wallet from his desk with the air of handling something distasteful and somewhat unclean. He opened the pass-card section and stared hard at the small white card in the first transparent sleeve, then snapped the wallet shut and tossed it carelessly toward the young Negro. Tibbs caught it and slipped it quietly into his pocket.
“What have you been doing all night?” There was an edge of irritation in Gillespie’s voice now. The voice was trying to pick a fight, and daring anyone to defy it.
“After I got off the train, I went in the station and waited. I didn’t leave the station platform.” There was still no change in Tibbs’s manner, something which Gillespie apparently found irritating. He changed the topic abruptly.
“You know we wouldn’t let the likes of you try to be a cop down here, don’t you?”
He waited; the room remained still.
“You knew enough to stay out of the white waiting room. You knew that, didn’t you?” Once more Gillespie pressed his huge hands against the desk and positioned himself as if to rise.
“Yes, I knew that.”
Gillespie made a decision. “All right, you stick around awhile. I’m going to check up on you. Take care of him, Sam.”
Without speaking, Sam Wood turned around and followed Virgil Tibbs out of the room. Ordinarily he would not have permitted a Negro to precede him through a doorway, but this Negro did not wait for him to go first and Sam decided it was a bad moment to raise an issue. As soon as the two men had left, Gillespie raised one massive fist and slammed it down hard on the top of his desk. Then he scooped up the phone and dictated a wire to the police department of Pasadena, California.
Sam Wood showed Virgil Tibbs to a hard bench in the small detention room. Tibbs thanked him, sat down, pulled out the paperback book that he had had in the station, and returned to reading. Sam glanced at the cover. It was On Understanding Science by Conant. Sam sat down and wished that he, too, had a book to read.
When the sky began to gray through the window, and then grew streaked with curiously dirty stripes of high clouds against a lightening background, Sam knew that he would not be driving his patrol car anymore that night-it was too late for that. He began to ache from sitting on the hard bench. He wanted a cup of coffee despite the heat; he wanted to move around. He was debating whether he wanted to stand up and stretch, and make a slight exhibit of himself doing so, when Gillespie abruptly appeared in the doorway. Tibbs looked up with quiet inquiry in his eyes.
“You can go if you want to,” Gillespie said, looking at Tibbs. “You’ve missed your train and there won’t be another one until afternoon. If you want to wait here, we’ll see you get some breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Tibbs acknowledged. Sam decided this was his cue, and stood up. As soon as Gillespie cleared the doorway, Sam walked out and down the short hall to the door marked MEN-WHITE. The night desk man was inside, washing his hands. Something about the twist of the man’s mouth told Sam there was undisclosed news. “Got anything, Pete?” he asked.
Pete nodded, splashed water over his face, and buried it in a towel. When he came up for air, he replied. “Chief got a wire a few minutes ago.” He paused, bent down, and checked that all the toilet compartments were empty. “From Pasadena. Gillespie sent one out that said: ‘We have serious homicide here. Request information re Virgil Tibbs, colored, who claims to be member Pasadena Police Department. Holding him as possible suspect.’ “
“I don’t blame him for checking up,” Sam said.
“Wait till you hear what he got back.” Pete lowered his voice so that Sam had to take a step closer to hear him.” ‘Confirm Virgil Tibbs member Pasadena Police Department past ten years. Present rank investigator. Specialist homicide, other major crimes. Reputation excellent. Advise if his services needed your area. Agree homicide serious.’ “
“Wow,” Sam said softly.
“Exactly,” Pete agreed. “I bet Gillespie doesn’t know a damn thing about homicide investigation. If he doesn’t clear this one up, and fast, the whole town will be down on his neck. So he has the offer of a specialist who is both chief suspect and a nig-” He paused when Sam shot up his hand as a warning. Footsteps passed down the corridor and disappeared into silence.
“What I want to know,” Sam inquired, “is if Gillespie is as stupid as I think he is, how did he get this job in the first place? He was supposed to have been a hotshot in Texas, wasn’t he?”
Pete shook his head. “He was never a cop; he’s over the height limit. He was a jailor-a strong-arm boy who could handle the drunks. After three years of that, he answered an ad and got this job. He probably figures it will set him up for something bigger after a little while. But if he flubs this one he’s done for, and he knows it.”
“How did you get all this dope?”
Pete pressed his lips together and grinned. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and I’ve made quite a few friends here and there. I think I’ll stick around awhile and see what happens. I go on days beginning tomorrow so it will look all right. How about you?”
“I think I will, too,” Sam agreed.
Ten minutes later, the body of Maestro Enrico Mantoli was brought in. The hospital had refused to hold it any longer. When Pete went to Gillespie’s office to notify his chief of that fact in person, he found him with his hands thrust inside the waistband of his trousers and his mind obviously miles away. Pete waited until he was recognized, conveyed the news, and retreated rapidly while he was still in good order. A few moments later, Gillespie came out of his office, stalked down the corridor, and paused before the door of the detention room. He stared at Tibbs, who sat there reading. When he saw Gillespie, he looked up and waited for the big man to speak.