In the Heat of the Night

embarrassment later on the witness stand if it came to that. He also learned a lot about the late Maestro Mantoli which he had not previously known. Try as he would, however, he could not escape being irritated by the fact that the report was the work of a Negro. They had no right to be smart.
    The telephone rang.
    Frank Schubert was on the line. “Bill, I hate to bother you but my phone has been going like mad all day. Can you tell me any more than you could yesterday about our case? The council is getting very restless and everybody I know in town has been calling up asking when the murderer will be caught.”
    “Damn it, Frank, I wish you’d tell these people to get out of your hair and mine and let me run this murder investigation. Pressure doesn’t help, you ought to know that.”
    Mayor Schubert hesitated. “All right, Bill. I understand how you feel. Ah... about one other matter, that colored boy from California: did you get rid of him yet?”
    “No, and I’m not going to.” Gillespie kept his voice under control with an effort.
    “I think it would be a good idea, Bill.”
    “For personal reasons I’ll be damned if I will.” Gillespie’s voice rose in spite of him. “Frank, I’ve got to go now. I promise you I’ll call as soon as I have anything to report.”
    “Oh. All right, Bill,” Schubert said, and hung up. Gillespie realized that the mayor’s patience, too, was beginning to wear thin. And if Frank Schubert got too angry, that was the end of the chief-of-police job.
    Gillespie flipped a key on the intercom. “Where’s Virgil?” he asked.
    “He went out,” Pete answered. “Got a call from a Reverend Somebody and lit out of here on the double. Do you want him?”
    “Later,” Gillespie said, and killed the circuit. A dozen different emotions were tearing at him, all pulling in different directions. He got up, clapped on his hat, and headed for his car. One thing was going to be settled anyway; he was off to the bank to see Jennings.
    The bank manager received him courteously and sent immediately for Sam Wood’s file. Gillespie was pleased to note that his word, and his presence, carried some weight in this city he was beginning cordially to dislike. When the file was delivered, Jennings looked it over in silence and then kept it in his hands while he spoke.
    “Mr. Wood has had an account with us for several years. It has never been more than a few hundred dollars. Twice he has been overdrawn but covered the checks in question promptly enough to protect his credit standing. Deposits and withdrawals have been consistent for some time.”
    “Is there any more?” Gillespie asked impatiently. “I was coming to that,” Jennings replied, unruffled. “Two days ago, Mr. Wood came in and paid off the mortgage on his home. It is a small place and not very much was due. He deposited a check which he stated was a legacy he had received in the mail, and a little over six hundred dollars in cash.”
    “Six hundred dollars in cash!” Gillespie repeated. “That sounds very unusual to me.”
    “Yes and no,” the banker replied. “Many people still hoard their savings in mattresses and cookie jars despite the amount that is lost each year that way.”
    “But not when they have bank accounts and have had them for several years,” Gillespie said. The weight of the evidence that he had just received was beginning to sink in; he had called for a long forward pass and it was just falling securely into his arms on the five-yard line.

    Sam Wood made it a point to check in at the station around four o’clock each day. On this particular day he did not want to do so but felt that he should in order to keep up appearances. During the latter part of the night, when he had been alone, he had come to realize the injustice he had done his uninvited companion. He had spent considerable time trying to figure out how his simple deception had been detected. But since it had been, Sam did not want to run into Virgil Tibbs.
    When he walked into the lobby, Sam saw Eric Kaufmann talking with Pete at the desk. Kaufmann was displaying a small gun and Pete was apparently taking down the make and serial number.
    Kaufmann looked around, saw Sam, and came over to speak to him. “Can you spare me a moment?” Kaufmann asked. “I’ll be through here right away.”
    “Of course.” Sam sat down on a bench against the wall, where there was at least a small measure of privacy. In a minute or two Kaufmann slid