work.”
“Is he here?”
“No, he’s been out all day. Took that old car he’s got and left. No one knows where he is.”
“Maybe he got lonesome and went down to find some nice black girl to shack up with him.” As soon as he had uttered the words, Sam was ashamed of himself. He wished he hadn’t said them.
“I don’t know,” Pete answered slowly. “He’s awful smart for a black boy. I bet he’s working on the case somehow.”
Sam made amends, and was glad he could. “I was just kiddin’. Virgil’s all right. It wouldn’t fool me if he came out on top on this thing.”
“If he does, Gillespie’ll take it away from him.”
“Well, anyway, he’s no dope.”
“Smartest black I ever saw,” Pete concluded; then he added a remarkable tribute. “He oughta been a white man.”
Sam nodded his agreement.
Reverend Amos Whiteburn, despite the heat of the day and the presumed informality of his own home, wore clerical black. The parlor was poor and dingy; what furniture there was had not been new for decades. The cheap rug was threadbare and the window curtains totally disillusioned. Nevertheless the tiny room was clean and was as presentable as its furnishings would permit.
“As long as I have been in this community,” Reverend Whiteburn said in a commanding bass voice, “this is the first time that I have ever been consulted by the police. I take it as an honor.”
“Perhaps,” Virgil Tibbs suggested, “your spiritual leadership has been such that there has never been any need.”
“Extremely kind of you, Mr. Tibbs, but I’m afraid I know to the contrary. Have you spent much time in the South?”
“No more than I have to,” Tibbs admitted. “My mother lives here. I’m trying to persuade her to move to California, where I can give her a better home, but she is elderly and has other children on the East Coast.”
“I understand,” the minister agreed, his big voice almost booming in the little room. “For some of our people who have lived here all of their lives, the shock of entering a different climate of opinion would be considerable.”
Tibbs went on: “Two nights ago, a man was murdered here; you must know about it. I’m investigating that murder—with official approval. Right now I want to discover two things: the place where the murder was done and, if I can, the weapon used.”
Reverend Whiteburn leaned forward so that his chair strained under his bulk. “It was my understanding that the poor man met his fate in the middle of the highway.”
“He didn’t,” Tibbs replied.
The minister rubbed his big chin. “Are you at liberty to go any further?” he asked.
“This is an official conversation,” Tibbs told him, “and is not to be repeated to anyone.”
“It will not be,” the minister assured him gravely.
“Maestro Mantoli was killed somewhere on the outskirts or in this general area.”
The minister shifted once more in his uncomfortable chair. “How did you determine that?” he interrupted.
“By examining the body, plus a reasonable deduction, that’s all.”
The minister hesitated and then spoke most carefully. “Mr. Tibbs, are any of our people suspect, either directly or indirecttly, in this case?”
“To the best of my knowledge,” Tibbs answered with equal care, “no one has suggested that the murderer is necessarily a Negro.”
“That,” the minister replied, “is in itself a small miracle. But I interrupted you; please go on.”
Tibbs studied the big man, who looked like a retired heavyweight boxer, and then took the plunge. “Mantoli was killed with a piece of unfinished wood—pine, I think, but I won’t know for sure until I hear from the Forest Products Laboratory. I recovered a sliver from the corpse and sent it to them. I want to find that piece of wood. To try to do so alone would be almost impossible. I came to you because I hear that you are very active in Negro youth programs.”
The forehead of Reverend Whiteburn
“Is he here?”
“No, he’s been out all day. Took that old car he’s got and left. No one knows where he is.”
“Maybe he got lonesome and went down to find some nice black girl to shack up with him.” As soon as he had uttered the words, Sam was ashamed of himself. He wished he hadn’t said them.
“I don’t know,” Pete answered slowly. “He’s awful smart for a black boy. I bet he’s working on the case somehow.”
Sam made amends, and was glad he could. “I was just kiddin’. Virgil’s all right. It wouldn’t fool me if he came out on top on this thing.”
“If he does, Gillespie’ll take it away from him.”
“Well, anyway, he’s no dope.”
“Smartest black I ever saw,” Pete concluded; then he added a remarkable tribute. “He oughta been a white man.”
Sam nodded his agreement.
Reverend Amos Whiteburn, despite the heat of the day and the presumed informality of his own home, wore clerical black. The parlor was poor and dingy; what furniture there was had not been new for decades. The cheap rug was threadbare and the window curtains totally disillusioned. Nevertheless the tiny room was clean and was as presentable as its furnishings would permit.
“As long as I have been in this community,” Reverend Whiteburn said in a commanding bass voice, “this is the first time that I have ever been consulted by the police. I take it as an honor.”
“Perhaps,” Virgil Tibbs suggested, “your spiritual leadership has been such that there has never been any need.”
“Extremely kind of you, Mr. Tibbs, but I’m afraid I know to the contrary. Have you spent much time in the South?”
“No more than I have to,” Tibbs admitted. “My mother lives here. I’m trying to persuade her to move to California, where I can give her a better home, but she is elderly and has other children on the East Coast.”
“I understand,” the minister agreed, his big voice almost booming in the little room. “For some of our people who have lived here all of their lives, the shock of entering a different climate of opinion would be considerable.”
Tibbs went on: “Two nights ago, a man was murdered here; you must know about it. I’m investigating that murder—with official approval. Right now I want to discover two things: the place where the murder was done and, if I can, the weapon used.”
Reverend Whiteburn leaned forward so that his chair strained under his bulk. “It was my understanding that the poor man met his fate in the middle of the highway.”
“He didn’t,” Tibbs replied.
The minister rubbed his big chin. “Are you at liberty to go any further?” he asked.
“This is an official conversation,” Tibbs told him, “and is not to be repeated to anyone.”
“It will not be,” the minister assured him gravely.
“Maestro Mantoli was killed somewhere on the outskirts or in this general area.”
The minister shifted once more in his uncomfortable chair. “How did you determine that?” he interrupted.
“By examining the body, plus a reasonable deduction, that’s all.”
The minister hesitated and then spoke most carefully. “Mr. Tibbs, are any of our people suspect, either directly or indirecttly, in this case?”
“To the best of my knowledge,” Tibbs answered with equal care, “no one has suggested that the murderer is necessarily a Negro.”
“That,” the minister replied, “is in itself a small miracle. But I interrupted you; please go on.”
Tibbs studied the big man, who looked like a retired heavyweight boxer, and then took the plunge. “Mantoli was killed with a piece of unfinished wood—pine, I think, but I won’t know for sure until I hear from the Forest Products Laboratory. I recovered a sliver from the corpse and sent it to them. I want to find that piece of wood. To try to do so alone would be almost impossible. I came to you because I hear that you are very active in Negro youth programs.”
The forehead of Reverend Whiteburn
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