In the Heat of the Night by John Ball Read Free Book Online Page B

so doing he might lend him some moral strength. He hated the moment when the sheet was turned back and Endicott weakly nodded his head.
    “That is the body of Maestro Enrico Mantoli,” he said, and then, his duty done, he turned quickly to go. Back in the lobby, he made a request. “May I see your police chief?” he asked.
    Fred, at the desk, spoke into an intercom. A moment later he nodded, and Sam, sensing his role, led the way. “Mr. Endicott, this is Chief Gillespie,” he said after they reached the office.
    Endicott held out his hand. “We have met,” he said simply. “I am a member of the city council.”
    Gillespie got to his feet and came out quickly from behind his desk. “Of course, Mr. Endicott. Thank you very much for coming down.” He started back to his chair and then turned around. “Please sit down,” he invited.
    George Endicott seated himself carefully in the hard oak chair. “Chief Gillespie,” he began, “I know that you and your department will do everything possible to find and punish the person who did this. Whatever I can do to help, I want you to call on me. Maestro Mantoli was our very good friend; we brought him here. To that extent we brought him to his death. I think you understand how I feel.”
    Gillespie reached for a pad of paper and plucked a pen out of his desk set. “Perhaps you can give me a few facts now,” he suggested. “How old was the deceased, do you know?”
    “Enrico was forty-seven.”
    “Married?”
    “Widowed.”
    “Next of kin?”
    “His daughter, Duena, his only child. She is our house guest now.”
    “Nationality?”
    “He was an American citizen.”
    Gillespie frowned very slightly, then cleared his features consciously. “Where was he born?” he asked.
    Endicott hesitated. “Somewhere in Italy. I can’t remember exactly.”
    “Genoa, I believe,” Virgil Tibbs supplied quietly.
    Both men turned to look at him; Endicott spoke first. “You were a friend of Maestro Mantoli’s?” he asked.
    “No, I never had the honor of meeting him. But at Chief Gillespie’s invitation, I examined his body this morning.”
    Endicott looked puzzled. “You are a … mortician?” he suggested.
    Tibbs shook his head. Before he could speak, Gillespie intervened. “Virgil here is a police investigator out in Beverly Hills, California.”
    “Pasadena,” Tibbs corrected.
    “All right then, Pasadena. What difference does it make?” Gillespie let his temper edge his voice.
    George Endicott got to his feet. “I haven’t heard your name,” he said, and held out his hand.
    The young Negro rose and took it. “My name is Tibbs.”
    “I’m happy to know you, Mr. Tibbs,” Endicott acknowledged. “What type of investigation do you do?”
    “Quite a variety, sir. I’ve done some narcotics work for the vice division, traffic work, and burglary, but I specialize in crimes against persons—homicide, rape, and similar major offenses.”
    Endicott turned toward Gillespie. “How does it happen that Mr. Tibbs is here?” he asked.
    When Sam Wood saw the look that was forming on Gillespie’s face, he realized it was up to him. “I’m responsible,” he admitted. “I found Virgil waiting for a train and brought him in as a possible suspect. Then we found out who he was.”
    “Officer Wood acted very promptly,” Tibbs added. “He didn’t take any chances of letting a possible murderer get away.”
    At that moment, for the first time in his life, Sam Wood found himself liking a Negro.
    Endicott spoke again to the Pasadena detective. “How long are you going to be in Wells?” he asked.
    “Until the next train,” Tibbs answered.
    “And when is that?”
    “If I remember, three-forty this afternoon.”
    Endicott nodded that he was satisfied. Gillespie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It occurred to Sam Wood that this was the time to leave. Gradually it was dawning on him that his chief was on a spot and that he had put him there. He cleared his throat to