In the Heat of the Night

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 give notice that he intended to speak. “Sir,” he said to Gillespie, “if I can be spared now, I’d like to clean up and get some rest.”
    Gillespie glanced up. “Go on home,” he said.
    As Sam Wood settled himself behind the wheel of his four-year-old Plymouth, he began to think about the obvious tension between Bill Gillespie and the Negro detective. There was no question in his mind who would win out, but he was disturbed by the growing feeling that if things broke the wrong way, he could be caught in the middle.
    Still churning over this sobering thought, he parked the car in front of his small house, let himself in, lost no time in taking off his clothes, and showered. For a moment he contemplated getting something to eat. Then he decided he wasn’t hungry and climbed into bed. He pulled a single sheet over his body in lieu of pajamas and, despite the broiling heat and his disturbed state of mind, went immediately to sleep.

- 5 -

    As soon as Endicott had left his office and was safely out of the corridor, Bill Gillespie turned toward Virgil Tibbs.
    “Who in hell asked you to open your big black mouth,” he demanded. “If I want you to tell me anything, I’ll ask you. I was questioning Endicott exactly the way I wanted to until you butted in.” He clenched his massive right hand into a fist and rubbed it in the palm of his left. “Now get this—I want you out of here right now. I don’t know when the next train is and I don’t care; go down to the station and wait for it. When it comes in, never mind which way it’s going, just get on. Beat it!”
    Virgil Tibbs rose quietly to his feet. He walked to the door of the office, turned, and looked directly into the face of the big man who dominated the small room. “Good morning, Chief Gillespie,” he said. As he walked through the outer lobby, the desk man stopped him.
    “Virgil, did you leave a brown fiber-glass suitcase in the station this morning? Initials V.R.T. on it?” Tibbs nodded. “Yes, that’s mine. Where is it?”
    “We’ve got it. Wait five minutes till I finish this and 1 11 get it for you.”
    Tibbs waited uncomfortably; he did not want Gillespie to come out of his office and find him still there. He was not afraid of the big man, but he saw no possible advantage in another scene. He stayed on his feet to suggest politely that he was expecting the wait to be a short one.
    After a long five minutes, the desk man returned with his bag. “Can I get a ride to the station?” Tibbs asked.
    “Go ask the chief. If he OK’s it, it’s fine with me.”
    “Never mind,” Tibbs answered shortly. He picked up his bag and began to walk down the long flight of steps that led to the street.

    Nine minutes later, the phone rang in Gillespie’s office. It was his private line, the number of which was known to only a few people. He picked up the instrument. “Gillespie,” he acknowledged tersely.
    "This is Frank Schubert, Bill.”
    “Yes, Frank.” The chief made an effort to sound confident and cordial. Frank Schubert ran a hardware store and owned two gas stations. He was also the mayor of Wells and the chairman of the small committee which ran the city’s affairs.
    “Bill, George Endicott just left my office.”
    “Yes,” Gillespie almost shouted, and resolved to keep his Voice under better control.
    “It was about this colored