In the Heat of the Night
reliable, but he might have something. Ralph’s mind was limited, but at times he had a glint of intelligence, the instinct of an animal for its enemies. To Ralph anything that upset the status quo would be an enemy. Asking a passing motorist for his cooperation wasn’t out of line even if the counterman was imagining things. The pressure of the case was making Gillespie jittery. He had consulted with himself about it and had decided to control his temper a little better, at least until the case was over. He was still new on the job and a blunder could cost him his whole future career. He knew that he was capable of blundering if he didn’t take the time to watch his steps.
Virgil Tibbs appeared at the door of his office. At that precise moment Bill did not want to see the Negro detective—as a matter of fact he did not want to see him at any time—but he recognized necessity when it stood before him.
“Morning, Virgil,” he said lazily. “Making any progress on the case?”
Tibbs nodded. “Yes, I believe I am.”
Gillespie bristled with suspicion. “Tell me about it,” he ordered.
“I’ll be glad to, Chief Gillespie, as soon as I’m able. What I have now isn’t pinned down tight enough to bring it to your attention. As soon as it is, I’ll report to you in full.”
Stalling, Gillespie thought to himself. Won’t admit it. He let the matter drop. Arnold put his head in the door.
“Mr. Gottschalk is here to see you, Chief.”
“Gottschalk?”
“The gentleman with the pink California Pontiac.”
“Oh. Ask him to come in.”
Gottschalk appeared in the doorway before Virgil Tibbs could leave. He was a middle-aged man and portly, with a crew haircut and a capable air. “Am I in trouble?” he asked abruptly.
Bill Gillespie waved him to a chair. “I don’t think so, Mr. Gottschalk. But I would appreciate it if you could spare me a little of your time. We had a murder here a couple of nights ago and we thought you might possibly shed some light on it for us.”
As soon as Gillespie finished speaking, Virgil Tibbs turned around in the doorway, came back into the office, and sat down. Gillespie noted it, but did not comment.
“Your name is Gottschalk, I believe?” Gillespie asked. It was clearly an invitation to supply additional information. Gottschalk reached into his breast pocket, removed his wallet, and laid a business card on Gillespie’s desk.
“May I have one?” Tibbs requested.
“Oh, certainly.” Gottschalk handed over the card. “You are... ah... on the force?”
“My name is Virgil Tibbs. I’m investigating the murder Chief Gillespie mentioned.”
“Excuse me, I didn’t understand.” Gottschalk held out his hand. The two men shook hands without rising. Then Tibbs sat back quietly, waiting for Gillespie to go on. Arnold appeared again in the doorway. “Ralph is here,” he said tersely. Gillespie hesitated, started to rise as if to leave the room. Just then Ralph appeared in the doorway, looked at Gottschalk, and pointed dramatically. “That’s him,” he declared.
Gillespie sat down again. Gottschalk craned his neck to look at Ralph and then turned back, frankly bewildered. Arnold remained in the doorway, hesitant as to what to do.
“What about this gentleman, Ralph?” Gillespie asked easily.
The counterman took a deep breath. “Well, I forgot all about it until he showed up again, but this fellow, I mean him there, was in the diner the night of the murder, ’bout forty-five minutes before Mr. Wood camein.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Gottschalk said.
“Before he came in I was mopping up the front of the place,” Ralph went on, “so I would have seen any other cars that went by. His was the only one.”
“Did you notice which direction he came from?” Gillespie asked.
“Yeah, he was goin’ south.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I found out later that Sam—I mean Mr. Wood—found the body of the Italian fellow right in the middle of the highway. No other car went through after this fellow did until Mr. Wood found the body.” Ralph paused and gulped. “So I figure he done it.”
Gottschalk sprang out of his chair with astonishing speed for a man of his bulk. Then he sensibly sat down again.
Bill Gillespie had an inspiration. “It’s all yours, Virgil,” he said, and leaned back. The idea of having a whipping boy available who could take none of the credit, but all of the blame in the event of a misfire was beginning to appeal to
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