In the Heat of the Night by John Ball Page A

corrugated in thought. He put his fingertips together and then bounced them very gently. “If it was used as a club, it could not be too large. It would have to be a fairly short piece of wood.”
    “Something like that, perhaps two feet long.”
    “Hmm. That sounds as if it could be a piece of firewood.” When he fell silent once more, Tibbs waited patiently. After several seconds the big man spoke again. “You know … how does this sound, Mr. Tibbs: I will tell our young people—I mean the boys and girls who belong to our club for ten-to fifteen-year-olds—that I want to put in a stock of firewood for the church. I will send them out for suitable pieces, but I’ll insist that they take nothing from anyone’s woodpile, even if it is freely offered. Ill make a game out of it. As they bring in their findings, and they will bring in plenty, I’ll try to find what you’re looking for, that is if there is any way to tell.”
    “Some brownish dried blood on the end. It wouldn’t look like blood, not to children, anyway. It’s a very long chance at the best.”
    Reverend Whiteburn regarded the problem as solved. “We’ll get on this right away. I can’t promise results, of course, but we will gather in a good percentage of the loose wood around this area. And the children need never know the real purpose of the project.”
    “We could use you in California,” Tibbs said admiringly.
    His host answered him simply. “I’m needed here.”
    Bill Gillespie picked up his phone when it rang, and barked, “Yes?”
    “Bill, if you can get away for a few minutes, I wish you would step over to my office. Several councilmen are here and you ought to be in on this.”
    Gillespie recognized the mayor’s voice without comment. “I’ll be right over, Frank,” he replied, and hung up. As he passed through the lobby, he gave the desk man a piercing glance and noted with satisfaction a slight flicker of fear in the man’s eyes when he looked back. Then he walked out into the bright sunshine, feeling pretty good, and reflected that whatever Frank Schubert had on his mind, he would be able to handle it without trouble.
    It wasn’t quite that easy. Schubert welcomed him into his office and waved his arm toward the three other men who were waiting. “You know Mr. Dennis, Mr. Shubie, and Mr. Watkins, Bill.”
    “Certainly. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Gillespie sat down with the air of a highly placed executive who has been called upon to testify. At least that was the effect he tried for. And he intended to remain quiet and courteous no matter what lay ahead, for the four men facing him had enough votes on the Council to oust him from his job.
    “Bill, the boys asked me to invite you over to discuss the Mantoli murder. Naturally we’re all quite concerned about it.”
    Watkins interrupted. “Coming to the point, Mr. Gillespie, we want to know what’s being done and also what’s going on.”
    “Isn’t that the same question?” Gillespie asked.
    “I mean we want to know what’s being done to clear up the murder and what all the rumors are about you having a nigger cop in the station.”
    Gillespie straightened his shoulders. “I’ll take your questions in reverse order, Mr. Watkins. One of our men rushed ahead too fast and picked up a black boy in the station. He had a lot of money on him and so my man ran him in.”
    “Right thing to do,” Watkins clipped.
    “When I questioned him, he said he was a cop out in California. I checked up, of course, and he was.”
    “This isn’t California,” Shubie contributed.
    “I know that,” Gillespie snapped, and then checked himself quickly. “I’m sorry, just thinking about him makes me mad.” He looked at Shubie and saw that the explanation was satisfactory. “Anyway, George Endicott stuck in his oar. I don’t mean to be disrespectful to a councilman, but I don’t think he knows how to run a police department. Well, Mr. Endicott got hold of the chief of police