In the Heat of the Night

to intrude myself into an interview he was conducting.”
    “I know,” Sam said.
    Tibbs took no offense. “Without going into details, Chief Gillespie has assigned me to help on the Mantoli case for a few days. This is with the approval and permission of my superiors at home.”
    “What’s your status, then?” Sam asked curiously.
    “None, except that I’m going to be allowed to try my hand. I may hang myself in the process.”
    The car reached the end of the pavement and hit the gravel.
    “Think you can do any good?” Sam asked.
    “I can give you some references,” Tibbs answered.
    “They can’t do you much good here if they’re in California,” Sam pointed out.
    “They’re in California,” Tibbs acknowledged. “San Quentin.”
    Sam decided to shut up and drive.
    When the door of the Endicott house swung open to him for the second time that day, Mrs. Endicott was there as before. She had changed into a simple black dress. Although she did not smile, she made him feel welcome. “I’m glad to see you, Officer,” she said. “I’m sorry I don’t know your name.”
    “It’s Sam Wood, ma’am.”
    She offered him her hand briefly. “And this gentleman I’m sure is Mr. Tibbs.” She gave the Negro her hand for a moment. “Please come in, gentlemen,” she invited.
    Sam followed his hostess into the big, spectacular living room; as he entered he saw not only Endicott, but also a younger man and a girl. They were holding hands and Sam sensed at once that it was his idea, not hers. The men stood up for introductions.
    “Duena, may I present Mr. Tibbs and Mr. Wood; Miss Mantoli. And Mr. Eric Kaufmann, Maestro Mantoli’s associate and manager.”
    The men shook hands. Sam immediately did not care much for Kaufmann. He was a youngish man who looked as if he was trying to be older, taller, and more important than he was.
    The girl was different. As she sat, quietly composed, Sam took a quick, careful look and revised drastically his estimate of Italian women. This one was not fat and did not look as though she ever would be. She was dark, he noted, with the type of short-cropped hair which had always appealed to him. He reminded himself that this girl had learned only that morning that her father had been brutally murdered. He felt an impulse to sit beside her, to put his arm gently across her shoulders and tell her that somehow everything was going to be all right.
    But it couldn’t possibly be all right for her—not for a long time to come. He was still thinking about her when Virgil Tibbs calmly took command.
    “Miss Mantoli,” Tibbs said, “we have only one excuse for disturbing you at a time like this: we need your help to find and punish the person responsible. Do you feel able to answer some questions?”
    The girl looked at him for a moment with eyes that were red-rimmed and liquid, then she shut them and nodded silently toward chairs. Sam sat down with a strong sense of relief; he wanted very much to fade into the background and let Tibbs handle things.
    “Perhaps it would be easiest if I began with you,” Tibbs said as he turned toward Eric Kaufmann. Were you here last night?”
    “Yes, I was, for the first part of the evening, that is. I had to leave at ten in order to drive to Atlanta. It’s a long way from here and I had to be there early in the morning.”
    “Did you drive all night?” Tibbs asked.
    “Oh, no; I got in about two-thirty in the morning. I checked into my hotel there to get some sleep, at least. I was up and shaving when... when the call came through,” he finished.
    Tibbs turned to the girl, who sat with her head down, her hands held tightly together in front of her knees. When he spoke, his voice changed a little in timbre.
    It was quiet and matter-of-fact, but it showed an undercurrent of sympathy for the unhappy girl who sat before him.
    “Were there any unsuccessful candidates for the position your father held who might have been... greatly upset by his success?” he asked.
    The girl looked up. “None at all,” she answered. She spoke softly, but her words were clear, distinct, and unafraid. She had no accent whatever. “I mean really none at all. The festival here was his idea and there was never anyone else...” She let her voice trail off and did not attempt to finish the sentence.
    “Did your father normally carry considerable sums of money with him—say, over two hundred dollars?”
    “Sometimes, for traveling expenses. I tried to get him