Frank Sims nudged Virgil in the ribs. Resigning himself to what he had to do. Tibbs glanced toward the Los Angeles officer, motioned him to follow, and then walked uninvited into the living room.
He found himself more or less face to face with sixteen people seated around four bridge tables. Two of them were semi-elderly men; the rest were women. All of them stopped what they had been doing and silence gripped the room.
“Mr. Tibbs, you are not welcome. I must ask you to leave.” It was an angry command; her guests were watching with rapt attention.
Virgil spoke quietly, so quietly that not everyone present heard him. “Mrs. Pratt, I must have a word with you in private at once. It is urgent. I’m sure your guests will excuse you.”
“Mr. Tibbs, leave this house!” Her eyes blazed and the muscles of her small body tightened into rigidity.
“You leave me no choice; I had hoped to spare you.” Tibbs kept his own voice quiet and controlled. “Mrs. Pratt, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Albert Roussel. It will be necessary for you to come with me. Your maid will get your wrap.”
* A Japanese term that combines the meanings of “teacher” and “master.” A corresponding word is the Italian “maestro.”
chapter 15
The small woman sat motionless, the muscles of her face held under taut control. When she spoke, her voice seemed to be caught in her throat.
“Mr. Tibbs, you are demented.”
“I fear not, Mrs. Pratt,” he replied. “If you engage people to perform murders for you, then you share their guilt and must face the consequences.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Each word was wrapped in its own icy shroud.
“In the eyes of the law, you are a murderer,” Tibbs answered. “I know the person you hired to do your murder. I also know when and why. Now I suggest that we put off any further discussion. In light of recent court decisions, I strongly recommend that you phone your attorney from our booking room and have him advise you concerning your rights.”
Joyce Pratt closed her tiny hands into fists and slammed them down against the table top. She half rose from her chair, uncontrolled fury in her eyes, and shook her head violently as though to drive a frightful apparition away.
“Get out of my house!” she shouted. “Get out of my home!” Tears began to run from the corners of her eyes.
“After you, Mrs. Pratt,” Virgil said.
Like a berserk doll, Joyce Pratt turned on Tibbs and hammered against his chest with her fists. In her frenzy she forgot where she was, forgot those around her, forgot everything but the rage that consumed her. She screamed at him with words that defamed him, his manhood, and his ancestry-vicious and reckless words, violent and profane.
Frank Sims reached out firmly and shook her. “That’s enough,” he snapped. He took her by the elbow and turned her toward the door.
But Joyce was still not through. “I’ll kill you, you black bastard!” she screamed at Tibbs. “You can’t prove a word of it.”
Virgil felt a surge of vindication. He had known he was right, but his confidence was strengthened by her unintended confession. He knew, as every experienced policeman does, that the words “You can’t prove” are spoken only by the guilty.
The maid appeared, almost amazingly composed, with Joyce Pratt’s wrap across her arm. She remained poker-faced as Frank Sims took it and put it across her mistress’s shoulders. Sims, too, had heard her declaration and knew that she was guilty.
Joyce threw back her head and began to laugh, a wild senseless laugh that echoed obscenely through the room.
“You’re too late,” she cried, laughing at Tibbs. “You can’t help them now. I’m way ahead of you!”
Her voice broke and she began to sob hysterically.
Virgil looked at her a moment; then his body stiffened. “Take her, Frank,” he barked, and whirled toward the door. He jerked it open and raced across the lawn toward his waiting car on the dead run.
He was hardly behind the wheel when he hit the ignition, caught the opening cough of the engine, and snapped on the radio. He already knew that there was little if anything that he could do, but the thing he had failed to foresee compelled him to attempt everything possible. The moment he had power, he pulled the car into a tight U turn, flipped on the red spotlight, and hit the concealed siren.
In Code 3 condition he made Sunset Boulevard in less than two minutes, turned, and headed for the San Diego Freeway. He drove with one hand, holding the microphone in the other. When he reached the overpass, he turned north through the Santa Monica Mountains, a maneuver that would put him on the Ventura Freeway down the backbone of the San Fernando Valley. On the freeway he turned off the siren, knowing that he would gain nothing in speed and only cause accidents-a lesson the fire department had learned a long time ago.
It took him eight minutes at top speed to clear the pass and turn eastward, at last on the wide pavement of the Ventura Freeway. He pushed his speed up to past eighty in the far left lane and waited, his body alert and tense, for word from the radio dispatcher.
He was on a wild-goose chase and knew it, but he could not restrain himself. There were many others to do the work for him, but his own involvement was such that nothing could have held him back.
As he crossed Coldwater Canyon, the first report came in; Dick Mooney had been spoken to at Pine Shadows Lodge and had advised that everything was quiet. Ellen Boardman was out on a date with George Nunn.
Virgil had expected that; he kept his foot hard on the gas pedal and glanced once more at the gasoline gauge. He had already checked the gauge four times since reaching the freeway (the car, as always, had been filled before he had taken it out), but his suppressed body demanded action and that was one small thing he could do.
He was so intent on his driving that he did not see the motorcycle until the officer riding it, young and determined, motioned him to the side. Instead Virgil reached down and touched the siren control. As soon as he heard the sound, the motorcycle man quickly nodded his head and pointed forward. Tibbs raised his left hand in a quick greeting and sped on.
He had reached the Golden State Freeway before the second report came in: Ellen Boardman and George Nunn were not at Sun Valley Lodge; the Nunns knew that they were out together, but had no idea where they had gone.
A huge truck-trailer loomed in the way and began to change lanes ahead of the speeding police car. Cursing under his breath, Virgil cut sharply to his left directly in front of a white Oldsmobile, which was doing a legally proper sixty-five. The driver blasted his horn and almost swerved into the divider. Once more Virgil touched the siren enough to let the outraged driver know that it was a police car, the only apology he could make.
At the speed he was traveling, the red spotlight still on, he was soon at the San Bernardino Freeway intersection. Reluctantly he slowed down to negotiate the interchange ramp and then picked up speed once more when he was again headed east. Despite the several curves and a moderate flow of traffic, he steadied himself behind the wheel and cut the miles away as he waited for the radio to speak.
Again he remembered that he could do little or nothing; his mad dash to a destination still more than an hour away was close to recklessness. He had already set in motion, via radio, all the law-enforcement agencies on hand in the San Bernardino area and they were good and capable men. But like a man pursued by furies he drove himself, and the car he was in, to the limit of his ability.
He was climbing out of the Los Angeles basin over the ridge when a first report came through from the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department: George Nunn’s car had not been spotted in the area; a thorough check was being continued.