“Right,” Wilson agreed.
Virgil looked up and saw the organist wave from the press box area. “It looks like we’re all set. Ted, can you get the players in off the field? Just as though an inning had ended?”
“Of course.”
“All right, let’s get on with our little play.” Tibbs locked his fingers together and squeezed them. “At least we’ve got a top star.”
There was the whine of a golf cart and an usher appeared. “Mr. Autry wants to know how many shots the boy has fired.”
“Four,” Virgil answered immediately, then he looked at Bowsfield and amplified the statement. “One into a playmate’s house, two when he was stopped in the street, one at your usher. Correction: not at your usher, he deliberately aimed at the ceiling. The nick the bullet made was four feet in front of where your man fell down and almost five feet to the left. Even an inexperienced child couldn’t miss that badly in a confined space at very short range.”
The stadium manager was visibly startled. “You see things, don’t you,” he commented.
“That’s my business,” Tibbs replied.
The usher departed with the desired information and instructions to deliver a message at the clubhouse. Moments later Bill Rigney, the Angel field manager, appeared at the top of the dugout and waved his arm. Immediately the mock baseball practice ceased; the players from both teams ran at a jog toward the bench and quickly filled up most of the available space. In the sinking sun of late afternoon the vast stadium seemed quite abruptly to become stagnant and still.
In the third base stands, close to the bullpen, Mike McGuire sat silently, a policeman beside him apparently only as a fellow spectator. There were still many people in and around the baseball park, but almost all of them were intentionally well out of sight. Far across the field the executive boxes were well filled, but at that distance the occupants were barely visible. Thousands upon thousands of empty silent seats looked out unseeing at the broad spread of grass, at the deserted base paths, and the inert pitcher’s mound.
Then the organist began to play. He started very softly, so much so that the first wisps of the music seemed to drift almost naturally across the now still playing area. Gradually it began to take a little more coherent form as it increased very slightly in volume and became clearer in context. What had been only a featureless type of improvisation began to take on a certain flavor which is associated only with the great American West. A snatch of “Ghost Riders in the Sky” echoed and was gone, a few seconds later there was a suggestion of “Red River Valley.”
It was so artfully accomplished that Virgil found himself being swept up into the mood. Through a kind of alchemy the skill of the lone musician was transforming a busy corner of rapidly expanding, freeway-striped Orange County into a vast and lonely prairie; the bare ground around second base seemed almost to be waiting for the restless tumbleweeds to come rolling by, propelled by a warm summer wind.
The harmonies began to swell and a certain feeling of subdued triumph impregnated them, it was almost impossible to resist the spell that was being created. The long curved rows of tens of thousands of empty seats remained motionless and mute, but life was in the stadium now, a life that could be heard and almost felt.
Then, behind home plate where the umpires normally appeared, a single figure came into view. It was a long way from the extreme end of left field, but it could not be mistaken-it was a man on horseback. His face was all but hidden by his wide-brimmed Stetson. As he began to ride slowly forward the chaps he wore on his legs were outlined and the pattern of his brilliantly decorated shirt began to be visible.
With a lofty disdain of the sacred areas of the baseball diamond the fine horse lifted his forefeet elegantly and stepped across the pitcher’s mound as though it were a mere slight hump on some vast and featureless grazing land. The music grew clearer, it began to reach for something without quite attaining it; then it tried again, came nearer to the elusive melody, and finally, in a burst of triumph, captured it. Proud of its conquest it swung into the introduction to “Back in the Saddle Again,” now clear and bright.
The well-trained horse at an unshaken even pace walked across the wide dirt area at second base and reached the outfield grass. The musical introduction ended on a sustained note and then the well-known melody burst out in full flower. The horse paused on direction and stood in splendid silhouette while the song was finished. Then, when the organ swung into “Tumbling Tumbleweeds” the horse again came forward, broke into a slow gallop, and turned toward the left field bullpen area. Within a hundred feet of the gate it stopped when it was reined in. The rider on its back reached up and with a fine sweeping motion took off his hat.
And then from high above the stadium, from the tiny sanctuary which had crawled so far up on the soaring A-frame, there came an excited, bursting, joyful cry in the treble voice of a young boy, “GENE AUTRY!!!”
Gulping, Virgil turned and swung his arm down to indicate that the power was to be turned on. He found Charles Dempsey behind him, anxious to be heard. “I’m sorry fo’ what I done,” he said urgently.
“Don’t do it again,” Tibbs said with grim sharpness. He had no more time for Dempsey at that moment, the drama was nearing its climax.
“Hi, Johnny, how’s my pal?” the famous voice called out.
There was no answer.
“Can’t you say, ‘Hi, Gene’?” the man on horseback called.
It came back down, joy mixed with fright and awe. “Hi, Gene!”
“I can’t hear you, you’re too high!” Autry lifted his left hand and cupped it behind his ear.
“One,” Virgil began, counting the seconds, “two, three, four, five, six, se-” At that point the car began to descend. It came down slowly and steadily until it was close to the top of the scoreboard-then it stopped.
“That’s better!” On the back of his splendid mount the cowboy rode at a gallop in as big a circle as the outfield would allow. Virgil Tibbs checked the position of Mike McGuire and saw that his attention was riveted on his boy, but that he was making no attempt to leave the place where he was sitting. Apparently he understood that he could help now only by keeping out of the way. When the short ride was finished, the man on horseback drew up, pulled a gun from the holster which hung at his hip and fired into the air.
The shot rang out with raw power.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “Don’t you remember me? Where’s your cowboy greeting?”
Quickly Virgil looked aloft once more and saw the head and shoulders of the boy who had been transplanted into another, better, and happier world. He saw him reach down for his own gun, hold it in both hands, and then fire it overhead into the air.
“Five,” Tibbs said aloud to himself.
“Attaboy, Johnny, you do remember me!” Autry reined up tightly on his horse; in answer the animal rose up on its hind legs and for a moment pawed the air with its front hoofs.
“How about Champion?” The rider drew his gun and fired overhead once more. “You aren’t going to forget him, are you?”
With intense concentration Virgil watched the boy. He saw his gun, he saw his hands go up as he pointed the weapon toward the sky, and then he heard the sharp bark of sound as the last shot was fired.
He was weak in the knees, but he still had his job to do. He turned toward the lanky teen-ager who still stood, open-mouthed beside him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Charles Dempsey,” he said. “You are under arrest for the murder of Willie Orthcutt.”
15
When the morning at last came, it was bright and beautiful. A fresh wind had blown away every trace of smog so that the close-by mountains stood out in needle-sharp detail. Across the street from the Pasadena police station the little cluster of trees around the parking lot was crowned with a rich summer green. The windows were all open, inviting the warm pleasant air of the near perfect day to permeate through the otherwise spartan working areas.