In the Heat of the Night

though they had never existed. If he had a murder on his hands he would solve it, and no one would dare to question him while he was in the process.
    Then he remembered that he had not been told where the murder was. He picked up the phone angrily and misdialed in his haste. He slammed the instrument back into its cradle before what he knew would be a wrong number could ring, and then, forcing himself to be calm, tried again.
    The night police desk man, who had been expecting the call, answered immediately. “Where is it?” Gillespie demanded.
    “On the highway, Chief, just below Piney. The ambulance is there and the doctor has pronounced the victim dead. No positive identification yet.”
    “All right,” the chief acknowledged, and dropped the instrument into position. He didn’t like having to admit that he had had to call back to know where to go. He should have been told the body’s position the first time.
    Bill Gillespie’s personal car was equipped with a siren, red lights in the rear window, and a police radio set. He jumped in, kicked the starter, and jerked the car away from the curb and up to speed without any regard whatever for the cold engine. In less than five minutes he saw ahead of him the police car, the ambulance, and a little knot of people gathered in the middle of the highway. Gillespie drove up quickly, set the brake, and was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop.
    Without speaking to anyone, he strode rapidly to where the body still lay in the street, then squatted down and began to run his hands quickly over the fallen man. “Where’s his wallet?” he demanded.
    Sam Wood stepped forward to reply. “It’s missing. At least I didn’t find it on the body.”
    “Any positive identification?” Gillespie snapped.
    The young doctor who had come with the ambulance answered that. “It’s Enrico Mantoli, the conductor. He was the spark plug behind the musical festival we’ve been planning here.”
    “I know that,” Gillespie retorted curtly, and turned his attention again to the body. He had a strong desire to tell it to sit up, wipe the dirt off its face, and tell him what happened, who did it. But this was one man whom he could not command. All right then, it would have to be done some other way. Gillespie looked up.
    “Sam, take your car, check the railroad station and the north end of town to see if anyone is crazy enough to try to hitchhike out of here. Wait a minute.” He turned his head quickly toward the doctor. “How long has this man been dead?”
    “Less than an hour, I should say possibly less than forty-five minutes. Whoever did it can’t be too for away.” Gillespie allowed an expression of angry annoyance to cross his face. “All I asked you was how long he has been dead; you don’t have to tell me my job, I’ll tell you. I want photographs of the body from all angles, including some shots long enough to show its position relative to the curb and the buildings on the west side of the street. Then mark the position in chalk outline and barricade the area to keep traffic off this spot. After that you can take the body away.” He stood up and saw Sam standing quietly by. “What did I tell you to do?” he demanded.
    “You told me to wait a minute,” Sam answered evenly.
    “All right then, you can get going. Hop to it.”
    Sam moved quickly to his patrol car and drove away with enough speed to avoid any possible criticism later. As he headed toward the railroad station, for a brief moment he allowed himself to hope that Gillespie would somehow make a public fool of himself and bungle the case. Then he realized that such a thought was totally unworthy of a sworn peace officer and he resolved that no matter what happened, his part would be done promptly and well.
    At the last moment, as he approached the silent railroad station, he slowed his car down to avoid giving any undue warning to a possible murderer lurking inside. Sam pulled up close to the wooden platform and climbed out without hesitation. The station was a small one which dated back at least fifty years; at night it was inadequately lighted by a few dusty bulbs which seemed as ageless as the worn hard benches or the unyielding tile floor. As Sam walked rapidly toward the main waiting-room door, he had a sudden desire to loosen the pressure of his uniform cap. He rejected the idea at once and entered the station every inch a police officer, his right hand on his gun. The waiting room