His diplomacy was successful. The man he had addressed as Sensei examined the drawings carefully and asked several questions of his companion in rapid staccato Japanese. They were answered just as fluently, and what was clearly a technical discussion continued for some time. Then the Nisei turned to Tibbs.
“Nishiyama Sensei would like to know the exact height and weight of the dead man, if you have that information.”
Virgil supplied the figures from memory; Nishiyama nodded again quickly and once more consulted the drawings. Then the karate master shook his head.
“It was not a karate man,” he explained. Continuing in English, he began a technical description that Tibbs listened to attentively. Although he was himself highly trained in the art, he knew that he could not match his knowledge against that of a world authority. The essence of Nishiyama’s opinion was that the killer had been well schooled in no-holds-barred street fighting and had attained reasonable proficiency, but he did not know karate. The master based his conclusions not only on the nature of the blows the body had received but also on the number. A competent karate man would not have required the quantity shown.
Tibbs thanked him warmly and declined an invitation to remain and train for a period of what Nishiyama chose to call light sparring. He had sparred with Nishiyama before, and despite what he had learned from the session, he was in no immediate hurry to repeat the experience.
Armed with the information, which had confirmed his own opinion, Virgil returned to his car and set out for his appointment with the attorney. His case was now very nearly complete, but for that very reason he was determined to overlook no detail that might later prove to be significant.
When he reached the attorney’s office, Wolfram received him and motioned him to a chair. He proved to be an unexpectedly small man whose immaculate, expensive suit contrasted with his bushy, undisciplined hair. Tibbs noted that all the furniture in the office was scaled down to minimize the slight stature of Wolfram, who looked more like a successful retired jockey than a power in the courtroom.
After the amenities, Virgil outlined the case, concerning which the attorney was already partially informed. As he neared the end of his recital, Wolfram interrupted. “Mr. Tibbs,” he asked, “are you coming to the point of telling me that one of my clients is in jeopardy?”
“No,” Virgil answered. “At least not at this time. Of course, I don’t know your client roster, so I couldn’t answer that question in any event. Actually I’m here for information.”
Wolfram nodded. “Please go on.”
“When are you going to submit Dr. Roussel’s will for probate?”
“Almost immediately-in fact, today.”
“Would you have any serious objection if I asked you to postpone doing so for, say, twenty-four hours?”
Wolfram leaned back and suddenly, despite his small size, looked remarkably shrewd and responsible. “Would you care to give me a reason?” he asked.
“I’m after someone. Delaying the publication of the will might help me to get him.”
“I see. In that case I’ll go along with you. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Virgil answered. “I’d like to read the will, if I may. One provision it may contain would interest me very much.”
“Is this an official request?”
“Definitely.”
Wolfram drew his legs up and hung his heels on the edge of his chair. “If it will help to pin the guilt on Al Roussel’s murderer, I’m for it,” he said. “On general principles I’d suggest that you keep it to yourself as much as you can.”
“Agreed,” Tibbs answered.
Wolfram pressed a button. When a secretary responded, he said simply, “The Roussel will,” and then they waited. As soon as the document arrived, he handed it to Tibbs.
As Virgil turned the long legal pages with the numbered lines, only the rustling of the paper broke the silence. In five minutes he had finished and handed the will back. “Thank you,” he said.
“Any time.” The lawyer looked at him. “Are you getting at all close? Or can’t you tell me?”
Tibbs got to his feet. “It shouldn’t be too long,” he answered.
Returning downtown, he stopped at the Los Angeles Police Department, but the man he wanted to see had gone to lunch. While he waited, he had his usual sandwich and a malted at a lunch counter and pondered what he had learned that morning.
Having built up his case, he tried to tear it down again in his own mind, but this time it appeared to hold water. He realized that he would have to take a calculated risk and play for a break, since he had no witnesses and the concrete evidence he had assembled might or might not be enough to convince a jury. Before the day was over, he would either have it made or be in deep trouble. He refused to worry. If he did his part properly, as he had planned, the rest should take care of itself.
By the time he had finished his eating and his mental review, the police expert in rough-and-tumble street fighting was back and available. Once more Virgil produced his sketches and asked some very specific questions. After making detailed notes he knew that an additional important piece had been fitted into place. For the first time he was confident that he knew almost the whole story.
At that point another thought crossed his mind and he phoned the home of Mrs. Joyce Pratt. The owner was not there, but the intelligent Negro maid he had met on his first visit was quite willing to talk to him. She apologized for the unfortunate tea episode, and Tibbs reassured her with the information that hot tea was something he disliked. The conversation continued for some time, during which the maid succeeded in learning that Tibbs was unmarried and Virgil in turn picked up a few pieces of information he found equally interesting.
While he was thus engaged, certain other events began to shape themselves without his knowledge. George Nunn called Pine Shadows Lodge to repeat his invitation for that evening; better prepared this time, Ellen Boardman accepted.
Officer Dick Mooney privately phoned headquarters and reported that everything was quiet at the lodge and that there was no evidence of any kind of trouble.
Oswald Peterson, the broker, was served with formal papers informing him that his estranged wife was upping her demands for alimony in connection with her suit for divorce on the grounds of adultery.
William Holt-Rymers had a private telephone conversation with Walter McCormack during which Virgil Tibbs was freely discussed.
Joyce Pratt called Michael Wolfram and asked a number of questions to which she did not receive satisfactory answers; at least they did not satisfy her.
Arthur Greenberg, of the optical company, had a confidential discussion with Dr. Nathan Shapiro concerning a certain irregular prescription.
Mike Casella, the construction contractor, left his office on what he announced would be an inspection trip and added that he would not be back before the first of the following week.
One more item remained on Virgil’s list of things to do-a single last detail that he wanted to check. He called at the West Coast offices of a major corporation, glanced at the lobby board, and took the elevator to the executive offices. He stepped out into an aura of thick carpeting, rich wood paneling, and a studied quiet. A perfectly groomed and carefully detached receptionist looked up and awarded him an official meaningless smile, which implied that he was of course welcome, but only up to a point unless he had business of genuine importance.
Tibbs presented his card and stated that he would like to see Mr. Emil Weidler, the vice-president in charge.
The receptionist picked up a phone and dialed three digits.
“Mr. Virgil Tibbs, of the Pasadena Police Department, is here to see you,” she reported. “He is an investigator.”