In the Heat of the Night

rapidly. He met his father halfway and poured out his message. A moment later, Tibbs was joined by the big mechanic, whose hands were opening and closing quickly as if waiting for the chance of combat. “They attacked me,” Tibbs said. “Help me watch them.”
    Jess looked at the men. “Don’t nobody move!” he commanded. The one who had attacked first was whining softly; his right arm lay twisted in an unnatural position. Andy came running back. “They’re comin’,” he reported. “I told ’em two men set on Mr. Tibbs and to get the doctor.”
    “Good, son,” Jess said. “Now go get me a big tire iron. I don’t need it, but it might be handy.”
    Andy took off, winded but eager to do as he was bid. He was back in seconds with the wicked tool. “It’s a good thing we got that phone for emergency repair calls,” Jess said to Tibbs.
    Presently a siren could be heard wailing its way from the direction of the highway. Red lights came into view down the street and then the patrol car obeyed Andy’s frantic signal to pull up to the curb. There were two uniformed men in it. Tibbs pointed to the figures which still lay quietly on the ground. “Assault with a deadly weapon,” Tibbs said. “I’ll prefer charges when we get to the station.”
    “You’ll prefer charges?” one of the uniformed men questioned.
    “I think he’s Virgil,” his partner said.
    “I’m Virgil,” Tibbs admitted. “Go easy with the man on the right. I think his arm’s dislocated or broken.” When they reached the station, Gillespie was waiting for them in the lobby. “What happened?” he demanded.
    “I had dinner with Jess the mechanic, the man you introduced me to,” Virgil told him. “When I came out and was on my way back to my car, two men jumped me. One of them tried to club me with a piece of wood.” Gillespie seemed strangely pleased. “Bring ’em into my office,” he ordered, and led the way. When the party had assembled as he directed, the chief sat behind his desk and viewed the two men for a long minute without speaking. Then he drew breath and made the room shake with the power of his voice. “Which of you two punks wrote me an anonymous letter?” he demanded.
    There was no answer. The silence was broken by the buzz of the intercom. Gillespie flipped the key. “The doctor you sent for is here,” the night man announced.
    “Bring him in,” Bill directed. A moment later, the desk man ushered in a tall, very slender, elderly Negro who carried a black bag. “I’m Dr. Harding,” he said.
    Gillespie pointed a long finger at the man who clutched his injured arm to his side. “Fix him up,” he ordered. “When I heard two guys had jumped Virgil, I figured it was Virgil who got hurt so I told the desk man to call a colored doctor. Now you’re here, you might as well go to work.”
    Dr. Harding ignored the insult and looked at his patient. “He’ll have to lie down,” he said. “Where can we put him?”
    “Keep your hands off me,” the man said. “I want my own doctor.”
    “Shut up,” Gillespie barked. “I don’t like people who write me letters and tell me what to do. We’re providing you with a doctor like the law says.”
    “You won’t last long in this town,” the man retorted. “Long enough,” Gillespie said. “Take him in a cell and let the doctor work on him there.”
    The injured man was led away. Gillespie directed his attention to the other man. “All right, whose idea was this? Talk or you’ll be in one heap of trouble.”
    “I ain’t worried,” the man told him. “I’ll demand a jury trial. You know what that means.”
    “Sure, I know what it means,” Gillespie told him. “So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to call the paper and tell them how you and your pal jumped a little colored guy and that he beat the both of you up. Then you can have your jury trial.”
    “My story is that he and his big black pal jumped us with clubs,” the man said, still unshaken. “We was minding our own business.”
    “Sure, in niggertown. You and your pal were on your way to a nice black whorehouse, just two respectable citizens, when you got mugged. Wise up; either way you lose.”
    “I ain’t talkin’,” the man maintained stubbornly. Gillespie turned toward Tibbs. “You aren’t a white man, but I guess you can fight,” he conceded.
    “The credit goes to the man who taught me,” Tibbs said. “His name is Takahashi and he isn’t Caucasian,