In the Heat of the Night

signs of strain. Tibbs parked it on the small level area beside the house, set the brake firmly, and climbed out. A moment later he pressed the bell.
    George Endicott opened the door promptly. “Come in, Mr. Tibbs,” he invited. He was courteous without being cordial. He led the way to his spectacular living room, sat down, and waved his guest to a seat. “What did you want to see me about?” he asked.
    “I want to ask you some questions which I should have thought of long ago,” Tibbs replied. “Due to some events which have just taken place down in the city, they are now quite urgent. That’s why I asked if I could see you right away.”
    “All right then,” Endicott agreed. “You ask them and I’ll do my best to answer you.”
    “All right, sir. On the night that Maestro Mantoli was killed, I believe he was up here earlier in the evening; is that right?”
    Endicott nodded. “That’s right.”
    “Who was the first person to leave the house?”
    “Mr. Kaufmann.”
    “At about what time did he leave?”
    “I should say ten o’clock.” Endicott pondered for a moment. “I can’t be too exact about that; I don’t believe anyone was paying very close attention to the time. We were very much engaged with other things.”
    “Exactly who was here that evening?”
    “There was Enrico—that’s Maestro Mantoli—his daughter, Mrs. Endicott and myself, and Mr. Kaufmann.”
    Virgil Tibbs leaned forward and laced his fingers tightly together. He stared hard at them as he asked the next question. “Can you estimate the time when Maestro Mantoli left here?”
    “Eleven, eleven-thirty,” Endicott replied.
    Tibbs waited a moment. “When he left, how did he get from here down to the city?”
    This time Endicott paused before he replied. “I drove him,” he said finally.
    “Were you two alone?”
    “Yes, we were. As soon as we left, the ladies retired.”
    “Thank you. And about what time did you arrive back here?”
    "About an hour after I left. I can’t give you the exact time. I told you we were absorbed in other matters that night.”
    “Where did you drop Maestro Mantoli?”
    Endicott showed slight signs of impatience. “I dropped him at his hotel. We had offered to put him up here. He declined because he was a very considerate man and he knew that if he accepted, Mrs. Endicott and I would have had to move out of our room for him. We have a guest room but his daughter was occupying it. So he chose to stay at the hotel despite the fact that it is decidedly second rate.”
    “From the time you left here together,” Tibbs went on, “did you meet anyone else or see anyone else until you returned?”
    Endicott stared firmly at his guest. “Mr. Tibbs, I’m not sure I like the tone of that question. Are you asking me to prove an alibi? Are you suggesting that I killed a very close and dear friend?”
    Virgil Tibbs pressed his fingers even tighter together. “Mr. Endicott, I’m not implying anything. I am after information, pure and simple. If you saw anyone at that hour when you were down in the city, that could offer a clue as to who might be guilty of the murder.” Endicott stared out of the huge window at the remarkable view which extended for miles over the distant mountains. “All right, I’m sorry,” he said. “You have to explore every possibility, of course.”
    The two men were interrupted when Grace Endicott and Duena Mantoli came into the room. They rose and Tibbs exchanged proper greetings. He noted that the girl seemed to have recovered her composure; her eyes were clear and she looked at him as though she was no longer frightened.
    When they were all seated, Grace Endicott asked a question. “Are you making any progress?”
    “I believe so, Mrs. Endicott,” Tibbs answered, “particularly so today. But progress in any police investigation is a hard thing to define. You may work weeks on something and find it leads up a blind alley. You can never be sure until you have the last piece of evidence you need not only to identify your man, but also to prove his guilt beyond any question of doubt.”
    “We all appreciate the theory,” George Endicott interrupted, “but right now we’re more interested in facts. Is there any indication when an arrest will be made?”
    Virgil Tibbs studied his fingers. “An arrest has been made,” he said, “but it isn’t the right man. I know that for a fact.”
    ‘Then why is he under arrest?” Endicott demanded.
    Tibbs looked up.