John Ball - The Cool Cottontail

Tibbs produced them.

“Is this confidential?” Weidler asked.

“As far as possible.”

“All right, then, it amounts to this. For a great many years we have maintained a very strong position in the amateur photography field. Now our principal competition has come up with a new film that has us beat. It’s faster, has better color definition, and an almost invisible grain. Amateurs can process it themselves fairly easily, and we lose both the revenue from the sale of the film and the laboratory work.”

Virgil nodded. “I know. I’ve used the film and it’s excellent.”

Weidler lowered his voice. “Before he died, Dr. Roussel came up with something that will allow us to compete. This is very sub rosa .” He paused to be sure the statement had sunk in. “Our competition found out about it and have been negotiating for the process. We must have it or we will lose our control of much of the market.”

“What if the Roussel stockholders decide not to sell?”

Weidler pursed his lips. “I think they will,” he said finally. “We have made a very attractive offer and they are not very big people.”

“But if they don’t?”

“Then we will have to resort to other measures. Reluctantly, of course.”

Virgil left with a distaste for Weidler and for the company he represented, but he did not have time to concern himself with the maneuvers and power politics of big business. He had the information he wanted and he was almost ready to put it to use.

He phoned the home of Joyce Pratt and was told that madam would not be in until evening and then she would be entertaining. Walter McCormack was also out and his household did not know when he would return.

Oswald Peterson had not been in his office all day; his secretary reported he was out of town.

Stymied for the moment, Tibbs drove back to Pasadena, cleared his desk of several minor matters, and laid his plans for the evening. Then, to compose himself, he drove his own car to a nearby Japanese restaurant. Shoes off, he sat on a straw tatami mat before a low table and watched as the kimono-clad waitress knelt and prepared sukiyaki for him over an electric stove.

The quiet dignity of the restaurant and the change of atmosphere were exactly what he needed to relax the coiled springs he had carried within himself most of the day.

Just before eight, back at his office, he picked up the phone and called the Los Angeles Police Department.

“I’m coming into your jurisdiction,” he advised, and arranged for a Los Angeles plainclothes officer to meet him, as proper police courtesy required. It was the only way the several law-enforcement bodies in the Los Angeles basin could keep track of what was happening in their respective territories.

At a little after eight-thirty Tibbs pulled off the freeway and winked the lights of the official car he was driving as he came down the ramp. A black Chevrolet parked at the bottom winked in reply and Virgil pulled up alongside.

“Virgil Tibbs, Pasadena,” he introduced himself.

The Los Angeles officer was youngish, pleasant, but with the square-jawed look of a man who could handle himself. “Frank Sims, Mr. Tibbs. I’ve heard of you. What’s up?”

“I’m going to pick up a murder suspect. Remember the body that was found in the nudist park?”

“I sure do. How can I help?”

“I’m not certain yet, but it may get a little rough. The person I want to take may put up a pretty determined fight.”

“I’ve heard you’re a karate black belt.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. I’m not at that level yet, but I’m pretty well up in aikido. And, of course, in the rough-and-tumble stuff, if it comes to that.”

“Then you don’t mind? You see, I’d rather keep a show of guns out of this, if I can.”

“I’m with you.”

“Then let’s go. We have two stops to make.”

“Lead the way.”

Virgil swung his car around and headed west. The Chevrolet fell in behind him and followed smoothly with the sure control of an expert driver. The small procession moved into the exclusive residential area west of Beverly Hills, turned into the Bel Air entrance, and after a few blocks of winding drive pulled up before the residence of Mrs. Joyce Pratt. Virgil parked and joined Frank Sims on the curb.

“I don’t expect we will be especially welcome here,” he warned, “but I’d appreciate it if you would come along just the same.”

He looked at the house, which blazed with light on the lower floor; then with Sims beside him he walked quietly to the front door and pushed the bell.

The Negro maid answered, looked at him under the porch light, and said, “Good evening, Mr. Tibbs.”

Virgil gave her good marks for remembering his name. “Mr. Sims and I would like to see Mrs. Pratt,” he said. “I know that she is entertaining, but it is a matter of the greatest importance.”

The maid showed them into the small foyer and then went into the living room, where Virgil could see her as she bent over to speak quietly to her mistress. Joyce Pratt was out of his line of vision, but he heard her clearly when she spoke. “Impossible! He has no business here at this hour. Tell him I cannot be disturbed and that I do not appreciate his visit.”

Frank Sims nudged Virgil in the ribs. Resigning himself to what he had to do. Tibbs glanced toward the Los Angeles officer, motioned him to follow, and then walked uninvited into the living room.

He found himself more or less face to face with sixteen people seated around four bridge tables. Two of them were semi-elderly men; the rest were women. All of them stopped what they had been doing and silence gripped the room.

“Mr. Tibbs, you are not welcome. I must ask you to leave.” It was an angry command; her guests were watching with rapt attention.

Virgil spoke quietly, so quietly that not everyone present heard him. “Mrs. Pratt, I must have a word with you in private at once. It is urgent. I’m sure your guests will excuse you.”

“ Mr . Tibbs, leave this house!” Her eyes blazed and the muscles of her small body tightened into rigidity.

“You leave me no choice; I had hoped to spare you.” Tibbs kept his own voice quiet and controlled. “Mrs. Pratt, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Albert Roussel. It will be necessary for you to come with me. Your maid will get your wrap.”

*A Japanese term that combines the meanings of “teacher” and “master.” A corresponding word is the Italian “maestro.”

The small woman sat motionless, the muscles of her face held under taut control. When she spoke, her voice seemed to be caught in her throat.

“Mr. Tibbs, you are demented.”

“I fear not, Mrs. Pratt,” he replied. “If you engage people to perform murders for you, then you share their guilt and must face the consequences.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Each word was wrapped in its own icy shroud.

“In the eyes of the law, you are a murderer,” Tibbs answered. “I know the person you hired to do your murder. I also know when and why. Now I suggest that we put off any further discussion. In light of recent court decisions, I strongly recommend that you phone your attorney from our booking room and have him advise you concerning your rights.”

Joyce Pratt closed her tiny hands into fists and slammed them down against the table top. She half rose from her chair, uncontrolled fury in her eyes, and shook her head violently as though to drive a frightful apparition away.

“Get out of my house!” she shouted. “Get out of my home!” Tears began to run from the corners of her eyes.

“After you, Mrs. Pratt,” Virgil said.