In the Heat of the Night

the little gun into his pocket and came over to sit beside Sam.
    "First of all,” he began, “I want to square things with you. I’m damn sorry I got hairy with you the other night. I was very worried and upset, but that’s still no excuse.”
    “Forget it,” Sam said gallantly.
    “When I stopped to think about it, I realized how thoughtful of you it was to drive all the way up to Endicotts’ just to look after all of us up there. Duena and I want you to know we appreciate it a great deal.” The last sentence made Sam feel as though he had been solidly hit in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he made no reply.
    “When I thought it over,” Kaufmann continued, “I came in and got a permit to carry a gun.”
    “Do you know how to use one?” Sam asked.
    “Not very well. But I don’t ever want to use it, really. It’s enough to have it to point at somebody if I have to. That’s all I want it for, until this thing is over. I presume you’re making some progress.”
    “I can’t talk about that,” Sam replied. He was sure that was a safe answer.
    “I understand. And, oh, yes, before I forget it, Duena asked me to thank you for your kindness to her the day her father was killed. She still isn’t herself, but she’s coming around better than could be expected. If you knew her as I do, you’d know she’s a wonderful girl.”
    “I’m sure she is,” Sam said, meaning every word of it. Then he decided he might as well take the plunge. “I’m surprised you haven’t married her.”
    “I want to very much,” Kaufmann replied. “I think all might have gone well, but then this dreadful thing happened. When it is all behind us, and we can leave here, then she may come around.”
    “You should stand a good chance,” Sam said, deliberately torturing himself.
    “I hope so.”
    “Well, I sure wish you the best of luck,” Sam lied cordially, and held out his hand. He liked Kaufmann better today in spite of everything. It was nice to like people and to have them like you. Sam looked about him to see if Virgil Tibbs might be there.
    Pete saw him looking and called him over to the desk. “The boss wants to see you.”
    “Right away,” Sam acknowledged. He turned toward the corridor that led to Gillespie’s office. On the way he stepped in the washroom for a moment to smooth his hair and tuck in his shirt. Even though he had little respect for Gillespie, when he walked into his chief’s office he wanted to look, and to be, every inch a competent and reliable police officer. He walked the rest of the way down the corridor and knocked respectfully on the closed door.

    It was nearly six when Virgil Tibbs drove his borrowed car onto the official parking lot and climbed wearily from the driver’s seat. Before closing the door he reached back inside, then he climbed the steps into the lobby.
    The early night man on the desk looked up as Tibbs walked in.
    “Well?” he asked.
    “Is Chief Gillespie still here, by any chance?” Tibbs asked.
    “Yes, he’s here, but I don’t think he wants to be disturbed right now.”
    “He has someone with him?" Tibbs inquired.
    “No, he’s alone. But it had better be pretty important if you want to see him now.”
    “Please tell him that I’m here and I want to see him,” Tibbs said.
    The night man took ample time to reach over and flip the intercom key. “Virgil’s here,” he reported. “I told him not to disturb you, but he insists on coming in.“
    “All right,” Gillespie’s voice came out.
    “Go on in,” the night man said, and returned to the paper he had been reading.
    Tibbs walked down the corridor and knocked on Gillespie’s door.
    Gillespie’s voice came through the panel. “I said you could come in.”
    Virgil Tibbs opened the door and walked quietly into Gillespie’s office. When he looked at the big man behind the desk, he saw at once that in some manner he had been badly shaken. “Well? What is it that’s so important, Virgil?” Gillespie asked. There was no fire in his words. He spoke with the voice of a man who had made a strong and bold move and who was now asking himself if he had done the right thing.
    Tibbs laid a piece of wood on Gillespie’s desk. It was a rough, round section of a limb about two inches in diameter and twenty-two inches long. Gillespie looked at it without speaking. “What do you want me to do with that?” he asked.
    “It’s the murder weapon,” Tibbs told him.
    Gillespie picked up the fatal piece