She listened for a moment and replaced the instrument.
“Mr. Weidler suggests that you contact Mr. Hennessey in the legal department.” She penciled a number on a slip of paper and handed it to Tibbs. “You can take the elevator to your right.”
Virgil sighed inwardly. The moats and armor of medieval times had their counterpart in the modern industrial buffer-receptionist.
“Perhaps I failed to make myself clear,” he said without changing the level of his voice. “This is an official call. I wish to see Mr. Weidler and no one else.”
The girl looked at him, clearly trying to measure the amount of authority behind his words. Then, reluctantly, she once more picked up the phone; the official smile was gone. After a brief conversation she became cool and efficient.
“Mr. Weidler will see you-the second door on the right.”
That was better; Virgil went down the thickly carpeted corridor and opened the heavy wood door that had been designated. It was not marked.
Weidler was medium-height, in his late forties, and at least twenty pounds overweight. He wore his hair plastered back in a style that was wrong for his round, rather pushed-in face. He looked up, but did not rise, as Tibbs entered.
“Oh,” he said in some surprise. “Are you the police officer?”
“I am,” Virgil replied and sat down without waiting to be asked. He was suddenly tired of being looked at like some kind of freak; if people didn’t care to show him reasonable courtesy, then he saw no need to go out of his way to stand on ceremony with them.
“I believe you knew Dr. Albert Roussel.”
“I met him once,” Weidler replied. “But I knew his work certainly.”
“I’m investigating his murder,” Tibbs said, keeping the advantage. “It is most important that I know certain details concerning your company’s offer to buy out the holders of his patents. I assume you are fully acquainted with the facts.”
Weidler became cautious. “This is a very delicate and confidential matter-” he began.
Virgil cut him off. “Mr. Weidler, I don’t want to appear discourteous, but at this moment time is very important. I already know most of the facts, but I need a few more immediately. Let me remind you that this is a murder investigation. If you don’t care to confide in me now, you may have to do your talking later, publicly, on the witness stand.”
Weidler pulled out a handkerchief and wiped it across his flat face. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Now that Dr. Roussel is dead, are you still interested in acquiring the rights to his patents?”
“Yes.”
“How valuable are they?”
Weidler hesitated briefly. “Very valuable. We’ve been paying royalties on them for years.”
“Without them would you be able to continue your basic color-film production as at present?”
“No.” The tone of Weidler’s voice changed. “May I see your credentials, please?”
Tibbs produced them.
“Is this confidential?” Weidler asked.
“As far as possible.”
“All right, then, it amounts to this. For a great many years we have maintained a very strong position in the amateur photography field. Now our principal competition has come up with a new film that has us beat. It’s faster, has better color definition, and an almost invisible grain. Amateurs can process it themselves fairly easily, and we lose both the revenue from the sale of the film and the laboratory work.”
Virgil nodded. “I know. I’ve used the film and it’s excellent.”
Weidler lowered his voice. “Before he died, Dr. Roussel came up with something that will allow us to compete. This is very sub rosa.” He paused to be sure the statement had sunk in. “Our competition found out about it and have been negotiating for the process. We must have it or we will lose our control of much of the market.”
“What if the Roussel stockholders decide not to sell?”
Weidler pursed his lips. “I think they will,” he said finally. “We have made a very attractive offer and they are not very big people.”
“But if they don’t?”
“Then we will have to resort to other measures. Reluctantly, of course.”
Virgil left with a distaste for Weidler and for the company he represented, but he did not have time to concern himself with the maneuvers and power politics of big business. He had the information he wanted and he was almost ready to put it to use.
He phoned the home of Joyce Pratt and was told that madam would not be in until evening and then she would be entertaining. Walter McCormack was also out and his household did not know when he would return.
Oswald Peterson had not been in his office all day; his secretary reported he was out of town.
Stymied for the moment, Tibbs drove back to Pasadena, cleared his desk of several minor matters, and laid his plans for the evening. Then, to compose himself, he drove his own car to a nearby Japanese restaurant. Shoes off, he sat on a straw tatami mat before a low table and watched as the kimono-clad waitress knelt and prepared sukiyaki for him over an electric stove.
The quiet dignity of the restaurant and the change of atmosphere were exactly what he needed to relax the coiled springs he had carried within himself most of the day.
Just before eight, back at his office, he picked up the phone and called the Los Angeles Police Department.
“I’m coming into your jurisdiction,” he advised, and arranged for a Los Angeles plainclothes officer to meet him, as proper police courtesy required. It was the only way the several law-enforcement bodies in the Los Angeles basin could keep track of what was happening in their respective territories.
At a little after eight-thirty Tibbs pulled off the freeway and winked the lights of the official car he was driving as he came down the ramp. A black Chevrolet parked at the bottom winked in reply and Virgil pulled up alongside.
“Virgil Tibbs, Pasadena,” he introduced himself.
The Los Angeles officer was youngish, pleasant, but with the square-jawed look of a man who could handle himself. “Frank Sims, Mr. Tibbs. I’ve heard of you. What’s up?”
“I’m going to pick up a murder suspect. Remember the body that was found in the nudist park?”
“I sure do. How can I help?”
“I’m not certain yet, but it may get a little rough. The person I want to take may put up a pretty determined fight.”
“I’ve heard you’re a karate black belt.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I don’t see the problem. I’m not at that level yet, but I’m pretty well up in aikido. And, of course, in the rough-and-tumble stuff, if it comes to that.”
“Then you don’t mind? You see, I’d rather keep a show of guns out of this, if I can.”
“I’m with you.”
“Then let’s go. We have two stops to make.”
“Lead the way.”
Virgil swung his car around and headed west. The Chevrolet fell in behind him and followed smoothly with the sure control of an expert driver. The small procession moved into the exclusive residential area west of Beverly Hills, turned into the Bel Air entrance, and after a few blocks of winding drive pulled up before the residence of Mrs. Joyce Pratt. Virgil parked and joined Frank Sims on the curb.
“I don’t expect we will be especially welcome here,” he warned, “but I’d appreciate it if you would come along just the same.”
He looked at the house, which blazed with light on the lower floor; then with Sims beside him he walked quietly to the front door and pushed the bell.
The Negro maid answered, looked at him under the porch light, and said, “Good evening, Mr. Tibbs.”
Virgil gave her good marks for remembering his name. “Mr. Sims and I would like to see Mrs. Pratt,” he said. “I know that she is entertaining, but it is a matter of the greatest importance.”
The maid showed them into the small foyer and then went into the living room, where Virgil could see her as she bent over to speak quietly to her mistress. Joyce Pratt was out of his line of vision, but he heard her clearly when she spoke. “Impossible! He has no business here at this hour. Tell him I cannot be disturbed and that I do not appreciate his visit.”