In the Heat of the Night

some of our people who have lived here all of their lives, the shock of entering a different climate of opinion would be considerable.”
    Tibbs went on: “Two nights ago, a man was murdered here; you must know about it. I’m investigating that murder—with official approval. Right now I want to discover two things: the place where the murder was done and, if I can, the weapon used.”
    Reverend Whiteburn leaned forward so that his chair strained under his bulk. “It was my understanding that the poor man met his fate in the middle of the highway.”
    “He didn’t,” Tibbs replied.
    The minister rubbed his big chin. “Are you at liberty to go any further?” he asked.
    “This is an official conversation,” Tibbs told him, “and is not to be repeated to anyone.”
    “It will not be,” the minister assured him gravely. “Maestro Mantoli was killed somewhere on the outskirts or in this general area.”
    The minister shifted once more in his uncomfortable chair. “How did you determine that?” he interrupted.
    “By examining the body, plus a reasonable deduction, that’s all.”
    The minister hesitated and then spoke most carefully. “Mr. Tibbs, are any of our people suspect, either directly or indirectly, in this case?”
    “To the best of my knowledge,” Tibbs answered with equal care, “no one has suggested that the murderer is necessarily a Negro.”
    “That,” the minister replied, “is in itself a small miracle. But I interrupted you; please go on.”
    Tibbs studied the big man, who looked like a retired heavyweight boxer, and then took the plunge. “Mantoli was killed with a piece of unfinished wood—pine, I think, but I won’t know for sure until I hear from the Forest Products Laboratory. I recovered a sliver from the corpse and sent it to them. I want to find that piece of wood. To try to do so alone would be almost impossible. I came to you because I hear that you are very active in Negro youth programs.
    The forehead of Reverend Whiteburn corrugated in thought. He put his fingertips together and then bounced them very gently. “If it was used as a club, it would not be too large. It would have to be a fairly short piece of wood.”
    “Something like that, perhaps two feet long.”
    “Hmm. That sounds as if it could be a piece of firewood.” When he fell silent once more, Tibbs waited patiently. After several seconds the big man spoke again. “You know...how does this sound, Mr. Tibbs: I will tell our young people—I mean the boys and girls who belong to our club for ten- to fifteen-year-olds—that I want to put in a stock of firewood for the church. I will send them out for suitable pieces, but I'll insist that they take nothing from anyone’s woodpile, even if it is freely offered. I’ll make a game out of it. As they bring in their findings, and they will bring in plenty, I'll try to find what you’re looking for, that is if there is any way to tell.”
    “Some brownish dried blood on the end. It wouldn’t look like blood, not to children, anyway. It’s a very long chance at the best.”
    Reverend Whiteburn regarded the problem as solved. “We’ll get on this right away. I can’t promise results, of course, but we will gather in a good percentage of the loose wood around this area. And the children need never know the real purpose of the project.”
    “We could use you in California,” Tibbs said admiringly.
    His host answered him simply. “I’m needed here.”

    Bill Gillespie picked up his phone when it rang, and barked, “Yes?”
    “Bill, if you can get away for a few minutes, I wish you would step over to my office. Several councilmen are here and you ought to be in on this.”
    Gillespie recognized the mayor’s voice without comment. “I’ll be right over, Frank,” he replied, and hung up. As he passed through the lobby, he gave the desk man a piercing glance and noted with satisfaction a slight flicker of fear in the man’s eyes when he looked back. Then he walked out into the bright sunshine, feeling pretty good, and reflected that whatever Frank Schubert had on his mind, he would be able to handle it without trouble.
    It wasn’t quite that easy. Schubert welcomed him into his office and waved his arm toward the three other men who were waiting. “You know Mr. Dennis, Mr. Shubie, and Mr. Watkins, Bill.”
    ‘Certainly. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Gillespie sat down with the air of a highly placed executive who has been called upon to