In the Heat of the Night

the doorway. “We’ve got him, Chief, dead to rights. It’s Harvey Oberst. He’s been in trouble before. The boys picked him up and found Mantoli’s wallet on him.”
    Gillespie looked back at Tibbs, who was still visible on one side of the doorway. “Like I said, Virgil, we know our business down here. Go home.”

- 4 -

    Bill Gillespie looked at Sam Wood. “You had anything to eat?” he asked.
    “Not this morning,” Sam replied.
    “Then stay here and get some chow. Let Arnold go and pick up the Mantoli girl.”
    “No, that’s all right, I’ll go. I know how to get to the Endicott place, and I don’t think Arnold does. Speaking of eating, we do owe Virgil some breakfast—we promised it to him.”
    “I told him to beat it.”
    Sam Wood sensed that he could go a little further. “Yes, sir, but there is no train for hours and the only bus through here going north doesn’t carry colored. It’s my fault he missed his train. Since he is a cop, maybe we ought to let him wait here”—Sam paused as inspiration hit him—“so he’ll at least speak well of us when he gets back to Pasadena.”
    Gillespie recognized diplomacy as a necessary evil.
    All right. But there’re no colored restaurants around here. Get hold of Virgil before he leaves, send him back in here, and have Pete bring him in a bologna sandwich or whatever he can pick up. It might be a good idea to let him see us wrap this one up—show him that we know how to handle men down here.” His point won, Sam nodded, and retreated rapidly before Gillespie could change his mind again. He found Tibbs saying his good-byes to Pete in the lobby. “Virgil,” Sam reported, “the chief just remembered that he had promised you some breakfast. He wants you to go back to his office.” Sam struggled with himself for a moment and was glad when right triumphed. “And thanks for letting me off the hook on false arrest. You could have made it tough.”
    Virgil Tibbs started to hold out his hand and then, to Sam’s immense relief, shifted his coat to his other arm instead. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Wood. I know you would extend me the same courtesy in Pasadena.”
    For a moment Sam was ashamed of the fact that if Tibbs had held out his hand, he would have had to look away. What with Pete there and all that. But Tibbs had saved him the embarrassment, and for that he was grateful. He left to carry out his unpleasant errand.
    Tibbs walked back down the corridor to Gillespie’s office. “Mr. Wood said you wanted to see me,” he said.
    Gillespie waved him to a chair against the wall. “I’ve sent for some breakfast for you. You can wait here until it comes; the boys are pretty busy right now. Meanwhile we’ve caught our murderer.”
    “You have a confession?” Tibbs inquired.
    “Don’t need one,” Gillespie retorted. “I’ve just read the folder on him. Nineteen years old and in trouble twice already. Once petty theft and once for playing around with a girl named Delores Purdy. He had Mantoli’s wallet on him.”
    “It sounds like a good start,” Virgil Tibbs agreed. “You’ll see how good a start it is,” Gillespie declared, and reached for his intercom. “Send Oberst in here,” he ordered.
    While he was waiting, Gillespie flashed a look toward Tibbs. “Do you know what ‘poor white trash’ means down here, Virgil?” he asked.
    "I’ve heard the term,” Tibbs replied.
    There were footsteps in the corridor and then a short, chunky policeman shoved a grown boy into the office. The prisoner was wearing handcuffs. He was too slender for even his moderate height. His blue denim pants fitted him so tightly that the awkward angles of his legs were outlined in sharp relief. His eyes were blinking rapidly—looking back to his hands once more. He seemed to sway on his feet, as though balancing upright was a conscious effort almost beyond his skill.
    Gillespie drew himself up and roared at the prisoner. “Sit down!”
    Harvey Oberst sat down simply by letting his body go limp in front of the chair. His thin buttocks hit the hard seat with a bump, but he didn’t seem to care. He rested his hands in his lap and let his head fall to one side as though there was no point in trying to hold it upright any longer.
    The seconds ticked on as Bill Gillespie waited for the prisoner to become fully intimidated. Oberst, however, didn’t react.
    Gillespie looked up at the arresting officer. “Have you got it?” he demanded.
    The stocky policeman