Peterson weighed about two hundred plus, with much of the plus concentrated around his middle. His frame was big and rugged, typical of the ex-football star, but he had obviously been neglecting himself and his stomach protruded. The athletic look was preserved in his crew cut, but denied by the network of tiny red veins that traced a discernible pattern across his broad, florid face. He held out a hamlike hand and shook hands as briefly as possible with no show of cordiality. He waved toward a chair as though he did not care whether Tibbs took it or not.
Peterson then seated himself behind his desk in a massive posture chair that would have held Nero Wolfe and spoke with a rasp in his voice uncommon in a salesman. “Please be brief,” he directed. “I have an appointment.”
Tibbs looked at him coolly as he sat down. “You have one with me,” he reminded him. “This morning a man named Albert Roussel was buried in San Bernardino. He had been murdered. If you can tell me right now who killed him, and supply me with enough evidence to secure a conviction, I’ll be glad to leave your office. Otherwise we have some things to talk over.”
“I have nothing to tell you,” Peterson snapped. “I knew the man and had business dealings with him. You know all this or you wouldn’t have called me. But I have no evidence to give you. I hadn’t seen Roussel for a long time-didn’t even know he was in the country.”
Tibbs took out his notebook. “You said you hadn’t seen Dr. Roussel for a long time. How long would you estimate that to be?”
Peterson rocked back and forth, as though he were making a mighty effort to control himself. “Is that germane?” he asked. “I can’t really see that it’s any of your business.”
Instead of flashing anger, Tibbs settled back and seemed to compose himself even more. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and controlled. “Mr. Peterson, a statement like that addressed to a police officer investigating a murder is asinine, and you know it. If you are trying to put yourself under suspicion, you are succeeding.”
Peterson leaned forward and rose slightly to emphasize his bulk. “Are you here to pass judgment on me?” he barked.
Virgil maintained his calm. “I’m here to find out who killed Albert Roussel, and why. If, in the course of this conversation, you convince me that you are the person responsible, then I will arrest you and you will stand trial for your life.”
The broker wiped his thick hand across his wide face. “I saw Roussel in Europe about three months ago. I was over there on other business and ran into him. We talked a little, but not to any great degree. Does that answer your question?”
“At that time did you discuss the Roussel Rights company?”
“Casually, very casually.”
“Speaking of the company, how do you feel about the pending offer to purchase its assets?”
The broker leaned back and assumed the proper position for giving advice; his voice became more relaxed and impressive. “We have a very good offer and I am recommending that we take it. Particularly now with our inventive genius gone. Sooner or later some bright young man in a lab somewhere will come up with something new, and what we have now will be obsolete overnight. In the investment field, hanging on to something too long can be a bad mistake. Take a good profit when you can get it and then go for something else.”
“That sounds logical,” Virgil acknowledged. “Did Dr. Roussel agree with your advice? I say ‘advice’ since you are a professional in the field.”
The touch of flattery had a clear effect. “Frankly we didn’t discuss that. I’m not sure that the offer had been made at that time. It was largely a social call.”
Tibbs’ next question came as a surprise, as he intended it to. “Mr. Peterson, how long have you employed your present secretary?”
The muscles in the broker’s big body went tight and he gripped the arms of his chair. “May I ask the reason for that question?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice under control.
Tibbs parried the question with an inconclusive answer. “I had the impression she was new,” he replied with a degree of truth. “If she had been here for some time, I might have wanted to talk to her, too.”
A shadow of relief crossed Peterson’s face and the muscles of his shoulders relaxed. “You’re quite right. She is new-joined me a little more than two months ago. But she has nothing whatever to do with my personal business arrangements.”
Tibbs nodded that the answer was satisfactory and stood up. “Thank you for your time,” he said, and left so promptly that Peterson was not required to stand up and shake hands once more.
On the way back to his office Virgil fought the traffic automatically while he turned the day’s happenings over in his mind, sorting out the information he had been given from the lies he had been told. As he slowed down for the abrupt curves of the Pasadena Freeway, he gave most careful attention to three important facts that people had told him without intending to do so. For the first time he began to see a pattern emerging, but there were still too many gaps to permit him to draw even a tentative conclusion without more data.
For the next two days he would be unable to do anything further on the problem; he was scheduled to appear in court on a robbery case that would probably drag out while the due processes of law were employed to protect a man whose guilt was certain. Instead of bearding the hostile Walter McCormack, he would have to concentrate his attention on countering an attorney whose entire purpose would be to trap him in a single mistake.
Bob Nakamura was in when Virgil arrived, which was a break. “I need a hand again,” Tibbs informed him. “It would help a lot.”
Bob reached for a block of paper and a pencil. “Go ahead.”
“In Beverly Hills there is a stockbroker I’m interested in-Oswald Peterson.”
“The football star?”
“He was. I want a rundown on him-his financial standing and his personal life. If he has a family, I’d like an idea on how stable it is. Check also, if you can, on why he changed secretaries after he came back from Europe about ten weeks ago. I don’t believe you can pin down what took him off to Europe, but get what you can.”
“What sort of a guy is he?” Bob asked.
“Well, for one thing he’s a bad liar,” Virgil answered. “Possibly from lack of practice. He took me for an imbecile and I’m afraid I resented it.”
“Don’t blame you. I’ll see what I can get. You’re in court tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Virgil nodded. “At least tomorrow, possibly longer.”
Normally Tibbs did not mind giving evidence; it was part of his job and he was an experienced professional. This time he did mind, because he knew what the angle of attack would be. The accused was guilty and his lawyer would know it-as he would need to. Consequently he had asked for a jury trial, which was his legal right. With twelve citizens sitting in the box, most of whom had probably come from some other part of the country, there might be one or two who could be persuaded that the chief prosecution witness was not reliable because he was a Negro. Most defense attorneys would not attack in this manner; this particular one had no such reservations.
Before calling it a day, Virgil typed out a short note on plain paper to Walter McCormack, informing him that a stock option had been granted by William Holt-Rymers and that he would call concerning the matter. He signed it, dropped it into the outgoing mail, and then went home to prepare himself for the next day’s ordeal.
It was a rough one. After the usual delays and motions, he gave his evidence clearly and concisely, aware that the whole case hung on his eyewitness report. When the defense attorney arose, he had a patronizing smile on his lips and the tough part began.
Since he had qualified as a police officer, it was a proper subject for cross-examination.
“Mr. Tibbs, how did you happen to be, ah-selected-as a member of the police department?” …
“Have you always lived in California, Mr. Tibbs?” …