Free In the Heat of the Night by John Ball Page B

don’t know what I’ll get.”
    Tibbs got to his feet. “Leave it to me,” he advised. “If your story holds up, you’re all right.” He called loudly enough to be heard and waited for Arnold to come and let him out.
    Shortly thereafter Tibbs went to the weather bureau and checked the rainfall records for the last month.

    Bill Gillespie looked up from his desk to see his new assistant from Pasadena standing in the doorway. He did not want to see Virgil Tibbs; he did not want to see anybody. He wanted to go home, wash up, get something to eat, and go to bed. It was late in the working day and he had been on duty since the very early hours of the morning.
    “Well, what is it?” he demanded.
    Tibbs walked in a short way, but did not sit down.
    Since you put me in charge of the investigation of Mantoli’s death, Chief Gillespie, I’d like to ask you to release Harvey Oberst.”
    “Why?” Gillespie made the question a challenge. “He’s not guilty of the murder, I’m sure of that, and for more reasons than I gave you this morning. Technically you could hold him for grand theft for taking the wallet, but I checked with Mr. Jennings at the bank and he confirmed Oberst’s story that he turned the wallet in to him—at least he asked Jennings’ advice about it. With a responsible citizen to testify, you’d never get a conviction against Oberst.”
    Gillespie waved one hand to show that he assumed no responsibility. “All right, let him go. It’s your responsibility. He looked like a good suspect to me.”
    “I don’t want a suspect,” Tibbs replied. “I want a murderer. Oberst, I’m sure, isn’t our man. Thank you, sir.”
    As Tibbs left the room, Gillespie noted with some satisfaction that at least he had known enough to say “sir.” He got up and scowled at the papers on his desk. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked out through the lobby. It was Virgil’s responsibility and whatever else happened, he, Gillespie, was in the clear.

    At a few minutes past midnight, Sam Wood climbed into his patrol car, checked the gas gauge to be sure the tank had been filled, and drove out of the police parking lot. He had ahead of him eight hours alone with the city, which would soon be asleep. But things were different tonight. Somewhere, probably still within the city, there was a killer. A killer to whom human life was not as important as something he wanted.
    Tonight, Sam resolved, as he swung west on his accustomed route, he would keep his eyes and ears open as he had never done before. He let his imagination take hold briefly while he visualized trapping and catching a murderer so clearly guilty of his crime that it would show the moment he marched him into the police station.
    But it didn’t work that way, Sam told himself. Everything was on the killer’s side. He could hide where he chose, unknown and unseen, strike at a time and place of his own choosing. Perhaps, Sam thought, the unknown killer might seize on the idea that somehow he, Sam, had seen too much. In that case the killer would be out for him—tonight. Sam reached down carefully and for the first time since he had put on a police uniform, loosened his sidearm in its holster. It would be a long eight hours.
    As the car wove westward through the already silent and deserted streets, Sam had a sudden idea. To put it into effect might be dangerous and it would be definitely exceeding his authority. It might even be called a neglect of duty. Despite all of these objections, he knew almost at once he was going to do it anyway. He swung the car around a corner and headed for the dirt road that led up to the Endicott place.
    When the wheels of the car bit into the gravel, Sam was as calmly determined as he had ever been in his life. Mantoli was dead; no one knew why. Whatever the reason, it might apply also to his daughter. Sam thought of the girl who had sat beside him looking out over the mountains, and almost wished that the killer would prowl