“Oh? I remember hearing something about that. Why did he do it?”
“Because I asked him to. How was the concert?”
“Oh, it was very nice. I love the Bowl, although I don’t get there very often. And we had coffee afterward.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do? How?” Ellen asked.
“You had a police officer with you most of the evening. He enjoyed the concert, too.”
“Goodness, did he follow me home? I thought there was a car behind me most of the way.”
“He did part of the way, then someone else took over. Which reminds me, could you accommodate another couple for a few days beginning tomorrow?”
“Yes. Why? Are they-friends of yours?”
“In a way of speaking. Mr. and Mrs. Mooney will be arriving tomorrow morning for a week’s stay. Mr. Mooney is the officer who stopped by a few days ago to ask if anyone who’d had a reservation had failed to appear.”
“Oh-I remember.”
“Good. Of course the fact that he is a police officer is something you don’t discuss, but if anyone asks you about it, don’t deny it. In that case let him know immediately.”
“I will.”
Ellen hung up slightly confused. Obviously she was being given a bodyguard, which was a new experience for her. In a way she welcomed it, but in a way it was distressing.
The following morning Dick and Elaine Mooney checked in at Pine Shadows and proved to be thoroughly agreeable. Ellen found that it was a considerable comfort to have the young officer there-a person she could definitely trust who would be on hand if he was needed. But she was still off balance when George Nunn called her and suggested a date on Wednesday; she hedged and asked him to call back again.
Later that afternoon Virgil Tibbs had a conference with Captain Lindholm and outlined his plan of action to the senior officer for approval. When that meeting was over, he returned to his apartment, showered, and ate a fairly light dinner, in view of what he had planned for the evening. An hour later, clad in a white training gi tied with the black belt that it had taken him so many years of hard work to earn, he began a two-hour training session in the karate dojo with the few present who were his equals and the two who were his betters.
When it was all over, he showered once more and stepped on the scales; the pointer stopped at a hundred and sixty-one pounds, six more than when he had first joined the force. At that time he had barely made the hundred-and-fifty-five-pound minimum. His abdomen was still hard and flat, and despite the fact that he was naturally slender in build, the muscles that rippled under his dark skin understood their functions and had been conditioned by constant training.
Virgil Tibbs dressed and returned to his apartment with a sense of well-being. He was relaxed as he turned on his stereo and stacked the changer with Ravel’s Introduction and Allegro, Falla’s Nights in the Gardens of Spain, and a performance recording of Duke Ellington at Newport. He mixed himself a drink and leaned back to listen. He needed the atmosphere that the music provided and the chance to let his thoughts wander away from the hard realities they would have to face in the morning.
The next day would be Wednesday, two days before the board meeting. More than that, it was to be the day of decision. The moment of truth was at hand.
chapter 14
The Wednesday-morning mail brought the final autopsy report from San Bernardino, just in time to suit Virgil’s purposes. He tore open the thick official envelope and studied the grim contents thoroughly.
When he had been over the report twice, he picked up a pad of paper and sketched the outlines of a human figure in both front and profile views. Then he carefully shaded in the areas where, according to the autopsy, the body had received blows. When he had finished, he had a reasonably accurate picture of the beating the dead chemist had received, with those particular areas that had contributed specifically to his death outlined in red.
Satisfied with his work, he phoned Michael Wolfram, the attorney. When he had the lawyer on the line, he came right to the point.
“Mr. Wolfram, knowing that you represent Walter McCormack, and that he and the late Dr. Roussel were both close friends and business associates, it occurred to me that you might also have handled Dr. Roussel’s legal business in this country.”
“You’re quite right,” Wolfram acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”
Tibbs made an appointment for eleven-thirty and hung up. After glancing through the rest of his mail, which was unimportant, he left the office and picked up one of the official cars that carry the special equipment used by the Investigative Division and drove it southward from the Pasadena civic center.
On the way down the Arroyo Seco toward the freeway, an ancient car with the front end dipped significantly down pulled illegally close behind him. Virgil glanced into the mirror and saw that the two occupants were boys, neither of whom appeared old enough to have a driving license. In a few seconds the car whipped out, drew alongside him, and then pulled to a stop at a red light. The boy on the right leaned out and slapped the side of the door.
“Come on, black boy!” he shouted. “Let’s see if you can go.”
When the light changed, the old car jumped forward, burning rubber on the dry concrete. As soon as it was ahead, the driver swung it recklessly close in front of the unmarked police car and hit the brakes. Virgil knew the maneuver and was ready; having already checked that there was no other traffic, he cut sharply to the left and then, reaching down, touched the control for the concealed siren under the hood. He did not allow it to come up to speed; he sounded it only enough so that the other driver would recognize what it was.
At once the dragsters became ultra-respectable; their old car moved into the right-hand lane and sedately held to the legal speed limit. As Virgil drove past, he looked carefully at the driver and checked the license plate against the hot sheet that is issued daily by the Los Angeles Police Department. Then he picked up the radio mike.
Within four blocks a motorcycle officer appeared at a traffic light and fell in behind the modified car. The situation under control, Virgil cleared the green light at the beginning of the freeway and came up to speed. He relaxed during the fifteen minutes it took him to reach the four-level interchange, and then continued on straight through down the Harbor Freeway until he reached Olympic, where he turned off and headed westward. Within a minute or two he pulled up across the street from a sign that read “ALL AMERICA KARATE FEDERATION” and flipped down the visor that would identify the car to any police officer. He got out and walked into the building.
The Nisei at the front counter looked up and registered mild surprise. “Hello, Virgil, didn’t expect you.”
“Is Sensei* here?” Tibbs asked.
“Just changing. You can catch him in the locker room.”
Virgil walked down the short corridor past the exercise rooms and the main training area and turned into the dressing room. In his hand he held the sketches he had made before leaving his office.
In the Spartan but efficient locker room there were two men, both of whom were knotting black belts as Tibbs came in. The one nearer to him was a Japanese of medium height and apparently light build, although the white training gi he was wearing concealed the outlines of his physique. He was in his mid-thirties and obviously charged with a high level of controlled nervous energy. As Virgil walked in, he looked up and flashed a smile.
“Good morning, Virgil,” he said with a perceptible accent.
“Good morning, Sensei.” Tibbs shook hands with both men and produced his sketches. Then he hesitated. The man to whom he wanted to speak had a limited command of English, and he did not wish to risk giving offense. Since the second man was a Nisei, he solved the problem by explaining the problem to them both. He gave a brief account of the murder and pointed out the significant areas in the drawings.