Gillespie leaned forward again. “Oh, yes,” he added. “I’m having a release typed up absolving us from false arrest charges in your case. I want you to sign it before you go.”
“As one policeman to another,” Tibbs said evenly, “I don’t intend to sue you or Mr. Wood for false arrest. You don’t need to bother with a release. Thanks for your hospitality.”
An arm suddenly pushed Tibbs aside and Pete, his face flushed, appeared in the doorway. “We’ve got him, Chief, dead to rights. It’s Harvey Oberst. He’s been in trouble before. The boys picked him up and found Mantoli’s wallet on him.”
Gillespie looked back at Tibbs, who was still visible on one side of the doorway. “Like I said, Virgil, we know our business down here. Go home.”
CHAPTER 4
Bill Gillespie looked at Sam Wood. “You had anything to eat?” he asked.
“Not this morning,” Sam replied.
“Then stay here and get some chow. Let Arnold go and pick up the Mantoli girl.”
“No, that’s all right, I’ll go. I know how to get to the Endicott place, and I don’t think Arnold does. Speaking of eating, we do owe Virgil some breakfast-we promised it to him.”
“I told him to beat it.”
Sam Wood sensed that he could go a little further. “Yes, sir, but there is no train for hours and the only bus through here going north doesn’t carry colored. It’s my fault he missed his train. Since he is a cop, maybe we ought to let him wait here”-Sam paused as inspiration hit him-”so he’ll at least speak well of us when he gets back to Pasadena.”
Gillespie recognized diplomacy as a necessary evil. “All right. But there’re no colored restaurants around here. Get hold of Virgil before he leaves, send him back in here, and have Pete bring him in a bologna sandwich or whatever he can pick up. It might be a good idea to let him see us wrap this one up-show him that we know how to handle men down here.”
His point won, Sam nodded, and retreated rapidly before Gillespie could change his mind again. He found Tibbs saying his good-byes to Pete in the lobby. “Virgil,” Sam reported, “the chief just remembered that he had promised you some breakfast. He wants you to go back to his office.” Sam struggled with himself for a moment and was glad when right triumphed. “And thanks for letting me off the hook on false arrest. You could have made it tough.”
Virgil Tibbs started to hold out his hand and then, to Sam’s immense relief, shifted his coat to his other arm instead. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Wood. I know you would extend me the same courtesy in Pasadena.”
For a moment Sam was ashamed of the fact that if Tibbs had held out his hand, he would have had to look away. What with Pete there and all that. But Tibbs had saved him the embarrassment, and for that he was grateful. He left to carry out his unpleasant errand.
Tibbs walked back down the corridor to Gillespie’s office. “Mr. Wood said you wanted to see me,” he said.
Gillespie waved him to a chair against the wall. “I’ve sent for some breakfast for you. You can wait here until it comes; the boys are pretty busy right now. Meanwhile we’ve caught our murderer.”
“You have a confession?” Tibbs inquired.
“Don’t need one,” Gillespie retorted. “I’ve just read the folder on him. Nineteen years old and in trouble twice already. Once petty theft and once for playing around with a girl named Delores Purdy. He had Mantoli’s wallet on him.”
“It sounds like a good start,” Virgil Tibbs agreed.
“You’ll see how good a start it is,” Gillespie declared, and reached for his intercom. “Send Oberst in here,” he ordered.
While he was waiting, Gillespie flashed a look toward Tibbs. “Do you know what ‘poor white trash’ means down here, Virgil?” he asked.
“I’ve heard the term,” Tibbs replied.
There were footsteps in the corridor and then a short, chunky policeman shoved a grown boy into the office. The prisoner was wearing handcuffs. He was too slender for even his moderate height. His blue denim pants fitted him so tightly that the awkward angles of his legs were outlined in sharp relief. His eyes were blinking rapidly-looking about him, down to his manacled hands, at Gillespie, and then back to his hands once more. He seemed to sway on his feet, as though balancing upright was a conscious effort almost beyond his skill.
Gillespie drew himself up and roared at the prisoner. “Sit down!”
Harvey Oberst sat down simply by letting his body go limp in front of the chair. His thin buttocks hit the hard seat with a bump, but he didn’t seem to care. He rested his hands in his lap and let his head fall to one side as though there was no point in trying to hold it upright any longer.
The seconds ticked on as Bill Gillespie waited for the prisoner to become fully intimidated. Oberst, however, didn’t react.
Gillespie looked up at the arresting officer. “Have you got it?” he demanded.
The stocky policeman reached inside his tunic and produced a heavily tooled wallet thick with its contents. Gillespie took it, examined it in detail, and peered at the identification cards which it contained. “You can take the cuffs off him,” he said almost conversationally.
As soon as he was released from the handcuffs, Harvey Oberst began to rub his wrists, first one and then the other, but he said nothing.
“Whatcha do it for?” Gillespie demanded.
Oberst drew breath and lifted his head up. “Because it was just lying there. Right where I could see it. Full of money. I looked; he was dead and couldn’t use it. It was just lying there. If I hadn’t a taken it, somebody else would of. I needed it bad; so I took it.” He paused. “That’s all,” he added apologetically.
“That is, after you killed him,” Gillespie prompted.
The prisoner jumped to his feet, his face twisted so tightly that he seemed to be in sudden acute pain. “I took his wallet,” he screamed. “Because he was dead I took his wallet. I needed it, bad-but I didn’t kill him!” His voice cracked on the last words so that he croaked them out, robbed of any strength of meaning.
Oberst tried again. With his left forefinger he thumped himself on the chest. “I didn’t kill him, I wouldn’t of had to kill him even if I wanted to grab his dough. He was a real little guy, I seen him before. I could’ve handled him easy if I’d wanted to. I just picked up his wallet, I tell you!” Suddenly he gave up and dropped back into the chair. This time he let his head roll forward until his chin almost touched his chest.
Bill Gillespie waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Book him,” he ordered. “Suspicion of murder.” He rocked back in his chair as far as he dared and stared at the ceiling. He continued to look there until the prisoner had been taken away.
When a cell door could be heard clanging shut a few moments later, Gillespie relaxed visibly and looked at Virgil Tibbs, who still sat on the uncomfortable chair at the side of the room. “Well, that clears it up,” he commented.
“It helps,” Tibbs agreed.
“How much more help do you want?” Gillespie asked, his voice somewhat closer to a normal level for a change.
“It eliminates the superficial motive,” Tibbs replied, “it means digging a little deeper. I expected it, but it is an advantage to see it confirmed.”
Gillespie swiveled to face Tibbs, an amused smile dawning on his face. “Don’t tell me you bought that kid’s story. I thought you were supposed to be the hotshot cop, the deadly manhunter, the Sherlock of the Pacific. If you’re a cop, I’m an anteater.”
Arnold appeared in the doorway carrying a waxed-paper-wrapped sandwich in one hand and a paper container of coffee in the other. Without comment he handed them to Tibbs, then turned toward his chief. “Is he our boy?” he asked.
Gillespie waved his hand toward Tibbs, who was unwrapping his sandwich. “Ask him,” he suggested.