John Ball - In the Heat of the Night

“Then it was … partly an accident?” Duena asked.

“Yes, assault with a deadly weapon and manslaughter, but not first-degree murder.”

“I’m almost glad,” the girl said quietly.

“When the Maestro slumped to the ground, unconscious, Ralph panicked. His first impulse was an honorable one, to get the man he had just injured to a doctor. He was in a cold sweat now, and terribly afraid. He carried the Maestro the few steps to his car, put him inside, and drove back to town. As he neared the center of the city he finally realized what he had done. He stopped on a side street, took out his victim’s wallet, removed enough money to solve his first problem, and then left the body in the middle of the highway, with the wallet nearby. Then he drove quickly to the diner and reported late for work, which he regularly did two or three times a week.”

“But why in the middle of the highway?” Grace Endicott asked, wide-eyed.

“He believed a hit-and-run driver would be blamed. That was a major clue, of course, the location of the body, but I didn’t see the point for some time.”

“And the temperature?” George Endicott added.

“Oh, yes, that did two things for Ralph: first it kept down the traffic to almost nothing and delayed the discovery of the body.”

“Wait a minute,” Frank Schubert interrupted. “How about that engineer who drove through?”

“While he was here no one asked him the exact time he had passed through the city. Ralph said it was forty-five minutes before Sam found the body, a statement Gottschalk didn’t question because he didn’t know when the body was found. He came through while Ralph was robbing his victim. Ralph noticed the unusual car and when the man stopped at the diner on his return trip, Ralph called the police department, hoping that Gottschalk would be arrested for hit-and-run.”

Grace Endicott shook her head. “What a dreadfully warped mind that boy must have. I can’t conceive of it. He’s like an animal.”

“The rest about the hot night,” Gillespie prompted.

“Oh, yes, the unusual temperature gave Ralph a totally unexpected alibi. When the intern who came with the ambulance fixed the time of death, he did so in the usual manner, by estimating how much body heat had been lost. But he failed to allow for the unusual temperature and therefore was considerably off on his estimate. The hot night had literally kept the body warm. It wasn’t until that major objection could be overcome, Ralph’s apparent alibi, that I could be sure he was the man.”

Tibbs looked suddenly very weary. “That’s about all,” he concluded. “I came into his diner and asked for a glass of milk. If I had said ‘carton’ he might have given it to me. The idea of my using a glass disturbed him and when I made a scene about being allowed to eat there, he was aroused to the point where he put hands on me. Then I was able to grab him; I shouldn’t have done it that way, but I wanted the satisfaction. He so clearly despised me because of my ancestry, and considered himself so totally superior, I wanted to teach him a very important lesson. It was childish, I admit.”

Bill Gillespie drove Virgil Tibbs to the railroad station. After he parked the car in front of the platform, he got out and picked up Virgil’s suitcase. Tibbs understood and let him do it.

Gillespie led the way onto the train side of the platform and put the case down before the single bench that offered limited comfort to those who had to wait.

“Virgil, I’d like to stay with you, but frankly I’m dead for sleep,” Gillespie said. “Do you mind if I go on?”

“Of course not, Chief Gillespie.” Tibbs waited a moment before he spoke again. “Do you think it would be all right if I sat out here? It’s a very nice night.”

Gillespie knew without looking that the bench was marked WHITE. However, it was past midnight and the station was deserted.

“I don’t think it would make any difference,” he answered. “If anybody says anything, tell ‘em I told you to.”

“All right,” Tibbs said.

Gillespie took two steps away, then he turned. “Thanks, Virgil,” he said.

“It was a pleasure, Chief Gillespie.”

Gillespie wanted to say something else, tried, but couldn’t. The man before him was black and the moonlight accentuated the contrasting whites of his eyes.

“Well, good night,” he substituted.

“Good night, sir.”

The chief thought of shaking hands with him, but decided not to. He had done it once and that had made the point. To do it again now might be just the wrong action to take. He walked back to his car.