In the Heat of the Night

ask Sam Wood and Virgil Tibbs? I’m sure you’ll see them.”
    That was a little harder to take, but Gillespie made the grade. “I’ll tell them,” he said.
    When he hung up, he reflected that he had met two challenges and had defeated them both. He might as well make it three in a row. And if anyone in the station said anything about it, he could and would deal with them. He walked into the detention room. He looked at Virgil Tibbs and held out his hand.
    Tibbs rose and took it.
    "Virgil,” Gillespie said, “I want to thank you for the help you’ve given us. I’m going to write a letter to Chief Morris and thank him for your services. I’m going to tell him you’ve done a fine job.”
    Gillespie let go of the first Negro hand he had ever clasped. He looked at the man behind it and saw, to his sudden surprise, that his eyes were moist.
    “You’re a man to be admired, Chief Gillespie,” Tibbs said. His voice shook a very little.
    Then it was that Gillespie recalled a famous quotation. He knew it because he had hated it; now, however, it could be of service to him.
    “Thank you, Virgil,” he said. “You’re a great credit to your race.” He paused. “I mean, of course, the human race.”

    At seven-thirty that evening, Bill Gillespie picked up Sam Wood and Virgil Tibbs at the police station in his personal car. The two men climbed in. Tibbs sat in back.
    There was little conversation as they drove up the mountain to the Endicott house; none of them had had very much sleep, but the summons to the gathering had to be obeyed. Gillespie wondered how he would feel at a social function where a Negro was a guest.
    When they arrived, Grace Endicott met them at the door and led them into the big living room, Gillespie first, Sam next, and Virgil bringing up the rear.
    The room was comfortably full. Eric Kaufmann was there, Jennings the banker and his wife, Duena Mantoli, and the Schuberts.
    Sam Wood was vaguely aware of them all; he was acutely aware of Duena, whose beauty tonight almost literally took his breath away. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor, looked at her, and told himself once more that he had held this girl in his arms, and that she had kissed him. Vivid as the memory was, it was clouded with a veil of unreality.
    George Endicott called for order. When it grew quiet and everyone was seated, he took the floor. He held a drink in his hands, which he looked at as he spoke. “This is a rather strange affair,” he said, “but Grace and I wanted you all to come because, on top of crushing misfortune, we have many things to celebrate. We have a conductor for our festival; you all know now who he is. Our tickets are already almost sold out. The orchestra is in rehearsal. Mr. Kaufmann conducted the session yesterday and he tells me that our concerts are going to be of very high quality. So I want to announce that I am asking Mr. Kaufmann if he will favor us by appearing as conductor on at least one of our programs.”
    There was a little ripple of applause. Kaufmann colored and recovered himself. “I’d be proud to,” he replied.
    “Next, we have been looking around for a suitable name for our outdoor theater. In recognition of the fact that it was one man’s energy, ability, and enthusiasm that made it possible, the trustees voted this afternoon to name it the Mantoli Bowl.”
    Everyone looked at Duena; she put her face in her hands and said nothing.
    “I’m sure Duena will consent to dedicate it for us on opening night,” Endicott went on. “Now we come to the third matter, the way in which our police force, augmented by the abilities of a most unusual man, found and arrested the person responsible for the disaster that overtook us. I don’t know how this piece of work was done; I wish somebody would tell me. That is, if this is the proper time and place.”
    “I’d like to know, too,” Frank Schubert seconded.
    “Chief Gillespie?” Endicott invited.
    In a moment of rare clarity, Gillespie saw there was only one thing he could do. He couldn’t tell the story because he didn’t know it. To confess ignorance at this stage of the game was unthinkable. And he realized fully that if he passed the credit to the place where it belonged, his own standing would grow as a result.
    “Mr. Wood and Virgil made up the team who tracked him down,” he said, keeping his voice moderated. “I suggest you ask them about it.”
    That, Gillespie thought, should square him with Sam for