“Yes, we know Maestro Mantoli very well. I hope he is not in any trouble?”
Sam reached up and removed his uniform cap, ashamed that he had forgotten to do so until now. “Yes and no, Mr. Endicott.” Sam flushed. There was nothing for it now but to state the facts. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you … that he has been killed.”
Endicott rested his hand for a moment on the back of a chair and then sank into it, his eyes focused far away. “Enrico dead. I can’t believe it.” Sam stood awkwardly still and waited for Endicott to recover himself.
“This is dreadful, Officer,” Endicott said finally. “He was our close and dear friend; his daughter is a guest here now. I …” Sam cursed the day he had left his job at the garage to become a police officer. Then Endicott turned to him. “How did the accident happen?” he asked very quietly.
This time Sam found better words. “Unfortunately, sir, it was not an accident. Mr. Mantoli was attacked early this morning in the downtown area. We don’t know yet by whom or how. I found his body around four this morning.” Sam wanted to say something else. “I’m terribly sorry to have to bring you this news,” he added, hoping that the words would somehow help to lessen the shock to the man who sat before him.
“You mean,” Endicott said very carefully, “he was murdered.”
Sam nodded, grateful that he didn’t have to put it into words.
Endicott rose. “I had better tell my wife,” he said. To Sam it seemed as if the man had suddenly grown tired, not the weariness of a single day, but the kind of fatigue that sinks into the bones and remains there like a disease.
“Sit down, please,” Endicott asked, and walked slowly out of the beautifully appointed room. Sam could feel the emptiness in the air when he had gone.
Sam let himself down until he was perched on the front six inches of one of the deep, comfortable chairs. In that position he was half sitting, half squatting, but the posture suited his mood. He tried to put out of his mind the scene that would be taking place in another part of the house. He looked hard through the glass wall at the spectacular view, which had about it a suggestion of eternity.
Endicott came back into the room. “Is there something specific I can do to help?” he asked.
Sam pulled himself to his feet. “Yes, sir. I-that is, we understood that Mr. Mantoli’s daughter was staying here. We thought she ought to be notified. Later, when she feels able to, we would like to have her come down and formally identify the body.”
Endicott hesitated a moment. “Miss Mantoli is here; she is still resting. We were all up very late last night making final plans for the music festival.” He passed his hand across his forehead. “When Miss Mantoli wakes up, my wife will break the news to her. Meanwhile, is there any reason why I can’t make the identification? I would like to spare her that if I could.”
“I’m sure you can do that,” Sam answered. He tried to speak sympathetically, but he could not seem to shape the sounds as he wanted them to come out. “If you would like, you can come down with me now. An officer will bring you back.”
“All right,” Endicott said. “Let me tell my wife and I’ll be right with you.”
As he drove back down the winding road, with Endicott by his side, Sam kept his eyes on the road and measured every movement of the controls to keep the car in steady, even motion. He was still driving with extra care when he pulled up in front of the police entrance of the municipal building and discharged his passenger. Then he followed a step behind as the older man climbed the steps that led up to the lobby and the desk.
Sam had planned to bow out at that point and ask permission to go home. When Endicott turned to follow Arnold to the morgue, he changed his mind and walked beside the older man in the hope that by so doing he might lend him some moral strength. He hated the moment when the sheet was turned back and Endicott weakly nodded his head.
“That is the body of Maestro Enrico Mantoli,” he said, and then, his duty done, he turned quickly to go. Back in the lobby, he made a request. “May I see your police chief?” he asked.
Fred, at the desk, spoke into an intercom. A moment later he nodded, and Sam, sensing his role, led the way. “Mr. Endicott, this is Chief Gillespie,” he said after they reached the office.
Endicott held out his hand. “We have met,” he said simply. “I am a member of the city council.”
Gillespie got to his feet and came out quickly from behind his desk. “Of course, Mr. Endicott. Thank you very much for coming down.” He started back to his chair and then turned around. “Please sit down,” he invited.
George Endicott seated himself carefully in the hard oak chair. “Chief Gillespie,” he began, “I know that you and your department will do everything possible to find and punish the person who did this. Whatever I can do to help, I want you to call on me. Maestro Mantoli was our very good friend; we brought him here. To that extent we brought him to his death. I think you understand how I feel.”
Gillespie reached for a pad of paper and plucked a pen out of his desk set. “Perhaps you can give me a few facts now,” he suggested. “How old was the deceased, do you know?”
“Enrico was forty-seven.”
“Married?”
“Widowed.”
“Next of kin?”
“His daughter, Duena, his only child. She is our house guest now.”
“Nationality?”
“He was an American citizen.”
Gillespie frowned very slightly, then cleared his features consciously. “Where was he born?” he asked.
Endicott hesitated. “Somewhere in Italy. I can’t remember exactly.”
“Genoa, I believe,” Virgil Tibbs supplied quietly.
Both men turned to look at him; Endicott spoke first. “You were a friend of Maestro Mantoli’s?” he asked.
“No, I never had the honor of meeting him. But at Chief Gillespie’s invitation, I examined his body this morning.”
Endicott looked puzzled. “You are a … mortician?” he suggested.
Tibbs shook his head. Before he could speak, Gillespie intervened. “Virgil here is a police investigator out in Beverly Hills, California.”
“Pasadena,” Tibbs corrected.
“All right then, Pasadena. What difference does it make?” Gillespie let his temper edge his voice.
George Endicott got to his feet. “I haven’t heard your name,” he said, and held out his hand.
The young Negro rose and took it. “My name is Tibbs.”
“I’m happy to know you, Mr. Tibbs,” Endicott acknowledged. “What type of investigation do you do?”
“Quite a variety, sir. I’ve done some narcotics work for the vice division, traffic work, and burglary, but I specialize in crimes against persons-homicide, rape, and similar major offenses.”
Endicott turned toward Gillespie. “How does it happen that Mr. Tibbs is here?” he asked.
When Sam Wood saw the look that was forming on Gillespie’s face, he realized it was up to him. “I’m responsible,” he admitted. “I found Virgil waiting for a train and brought him in as a possible suspect. Then we found out who he was.”
“Officer Wood acted very promptly,” Tibbs added. “He didn’t take any chances of letting a possible murderer get away.”
At that moment, for the first time in his life, Sam Wood found himself liking a Negro.
Endicott spoke again to the Pasadena detective. “How long are you going to be in Wells?” he asked.
“Until the next train,” Tibbs answered.
“And when is that?”
“If I remember, three-forty this afternoon.”
Endicott nodded that he was satisfied. Gillespie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It occurred to Sam Wood that this was the time to leave. Gradually it was dawning on him that his chief was on a spot and that he had put him there. He cleared his throat to give notice that he intended to speak. “Sir,” he said to Gillespie, “if I can be spared now, I’d like to clean up and get some rest.”
Gillespie glanced up. “Go on home,” he said.
As Sam Wood settled himself behind the wheel of his four-year-old Plymouth, he began to think about the obvious tension between Bill Gillespie and the Negro detective. There was no question in his mind who would win out, but he was disturbed by the growing feeling that if things broke the wrong way, he could be caught in the middle.