In the Heat of the Night

hung in the blackness, waiting.
    A while back, Sam had read a book about a situation something like this. The author had used a word to describe it, an odd and unusual word which Sam had dutifully looked up in the dictionary. He could not remember the word now, but it began with m, he was pretty sure of that. Whatever it was, what the word meant hung in the air now.
    Sam was not a coward. Determined to do his duty, he made his complete patrol of the city. When he had finished, he took the precaution of parking in a different place to make out his report. He would not tempt fate by stopping across from the Simon Pharmacy as he always did; anyone familiar with his movements at night would know to lie in wait for him there. When he had finished making out his careful statement, Sam put the board down and felt as though something was just about to be pressed against the back of his neck. He flipped the car into gear and drove at an unusually high speed, for him, to the drive-in and the sanctuary of its bright lights.
    When he had finished a root-beer float, and topped it off with a piece of lemon pie, he returned to his car and to the city it was his duty to protect. Not till the sky streaked with light and then came aglow did the feeling leave him that he was being silently watched, that at some time he had passed close to danger. At eight in the morning he drove his car with careful skill into the police-department parking lot. This past night, at least, he had earned his pay.

- 7 -

    Bill Gillespie waited impatiently while the long-distance operator made the connection. Ordinarily he would have assigned this routine check to someone else, but he had personal reasons for waiting to do it himself. Virgil Tibbs was his alibi now for whatever happened, but he did not want to settle for an alibi— he wanted to catch the killer himself. The hotel clerk came on the line.
    “You have an Eric Kaufmann registered with you?” Gillespie asked.
    “Yes, sir, we have.”
    “You understand who I am. Now tell me what you can about Kaufmann’s movements night before last. When was he registered, when did he come in, and all that. Spell it out in detail as close as you can. Wait a minute.”
    Gillespie reached for a block of scratch paper. He started to write “Kaufmann” at the top of the sheet and then stopped in time. Someone might see it. It had been his own idea to check Kaufmann’s alibi and he didn’t want to tip his hand to anyone. “OK, shoot.”
    “Mr. Kaufmann registered with us four days ago. He took a moderate-priced room with bath. Night before last, he came in sometime after midnight, actually closer to two, I should say. The night man admits that he cannot fix the time very accurately as he had been dozing up to the time that Mr. Kaufmann came in and didn’t look at the clock. He believes it was about two when Mr. Kaufmann went up with him. He does remember that Mr. Kaufmann remarked to him that he had taken a meal before coming to the hotel and was afraid he had been unwise in eating cherry pie at that hour.”
    Gillespie interrupted. “How does it happen that you have all of this information so conveniently at hand? Were you expecting my call?”
    “No, sir, actually I talked to the night man at the request of one of your men yesterday when he phoned me—Mr. Tibbs I believe he said his name was.”
    The chief grunted into the telephone. “Uh... OK, and thanks. Mention this call to no one, of course.”
    “Certainly not, sir; Mr. Tibbs warned us about that. But we knew anyway. I hope you get your man; I’m sure you will.”
    “Thank you,” Gillespie concluded, and hung up. He told himself as he leaned back in his chair that he had no reasonable grounds for getting sore. He had told Virgil to investigate the murder and Virgil was following his orders. Which was what he had better do. Anyhow, Kaufmann was in the clear. At that moment Arnold poked his head in the door.
    “Chief, Ralph, the night man at the drive-in, just phoned. He stayed over to eat his breakfast before he went home. He says a man is at the diner, just drove up through town, and Ralph thinks he knows something about the murder.”
    “Any car description?” Gillespie snapped.
    “Pink Pontiac, this year’s.California license.”
    “Go get him,” Gillespie ordered. “Ask him politely to see me for a few minutes. And bring Ralph in here as quick as you can.”
    Gillespie leaned back and thought for a while. Ralph was none too