In the Heat of the Night

do to help?” he asked.
    Sam pulled himself to his feet. “Yes, sir. I—that is, we understood that Mr. Mantoli’s daughter was staying here. We thought she ought to be notified. Later, when she feels able to, we would like to have her come down and formally identify the body.”
    Endicott hesitated a moment. “Miss Mantoli is here; she is still resting. We were all up very late last night making final plans for the music festival.” He passed his hand across his forehead. “When Miss Mantoli wakes up, my wife will break the news to her. Meanwhile, is there any reason why I can’t make the identification? I would like to spare her that if I could.”
    “I’m sure you can do that,” Sam answered. He tried to speak sympathetically, but he could not seem to shape the sounds as he wanted them to come out. “If you would like, you can come down with me now. An officer will bring you back.”
    ‘All right,” Endicott said. “Let me tell my wife and I’ll be right with you.”
    As he drove back down the winding road, with Endicott by his side, Sam kept his eyes on the road and measured every movement of the controls to keep the car in steady, even motion. He was still driving with extra care when he pulled up in front of the police entrance of the municipal building and discharged his passenger. Then he followed a step behind as the older m an climbed the steps that led up to the lobby and the desk.
    Sam had planned to bow out at that point and ask permission to go home. When Endicott turned to follow Arnold to the morgue, he changed his mind and walked beside the older man in the hope that by 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