The Cool Cottontail (17 page)

Sun Valley Lodge, when they arrived, seemed just like any other resort where a dance was taking place. In what George described as the clubhouse she found a sizable crowd, a six-piece orchestra, and a pattern of paper decorations overhead that helped to create a holiday atmosphere. When Linda came to greet them, smiling and thoroughly attractive in a powder-blue dance dress, Ellen determined to put everything else out of her mind and enjoy herself as she wanted to do.

In George’s arms she danced and was happy. Each time the music stopped, there was someone new to be her next partner. She warmed to the atmosphere and to the friendly people; she was feeling totally rid of the problems that had plagued her when Linda appeared with a couple in tow.

“Ellen, this is Amiko and Bob,” Linda introduced. In a few moments Ellen was dancing smoothly with the first Nisei who had ever taken her out onto a dance floor. She liked him immediately and smiled at him as they danced. “I’m glad to see
you so relaxed and happy, Miss Boardman,” he said, smiling back at her.

Every muscle in her body tightened; she had never met him before and had been introduced only as Ellen. Mechanically she kept her feet moving, but the rhythm was gone.

Her companion sensed the abrupt change and responded to it “I’m Bob Nakamura,” he explained. “Pasadena police. I’m Virgil Tibbs’ partner.”

She relaxed a little, as much as she could. “Did he send you?” she asked.

Bob nodded. “The Nunn family knows all about it. As far as the rest are concerned, we’re prospective members. And please don’t let it alarm you, but we’re going to keep a pretty close eye on you for the next few days. Until after the board meeting.”

“But that’s about two weeks away,” Ellen reminded him.

“Perhaps not. Virgil is seeing McCormack this evening to try and get it moved up—to force someone’s hand, if you follow me.”

Ellen felt a strange and frightening feeling in the bottom of her stomach. “Am I to be a guinea pig?” she asked.

“No, we wouldn’t do that to you—not if we could help it, at any rate. Virgil has something going and he wants to get a certain person off balance, as I told you.”

“I understand,” Ellen said.

“Good. Then go ahead and enjoy yourself. It’s a nice party.”

Instead of following his advice, Ellen put her head close to his shoulder so that she could speak softly over the music. “Can I trust George Nunn?” she asked.

Bob turned her effortlessly and took a few steps before he replied. “As far as I know you can. Virgil didn’t say anything to the contrary.”

Ellen frowned. If George was completely dependable, why would Virgil Tibbs have sent his partner to watch over her at the dance? His answer had sounded like an evasion; where she had wanted firm assurance, it had not been given.

She managed the rest of the evening well enough, but she was too deeply troubled now to recapture her former happy mood. As soon as she decently could, she asked to be taken home.

As the car began to wend its way up the mountain road toward the high plateau that housed Big Bear Lake, George broke what had become a long and awkward silence. “Ellen,” he began, “forgive me for bringing this up, but has Virgil given you any indication about how things are going?”

Ellen tried not to let the increased tension she felt show; she was afraid of betraying herself. “I haven’t seen him recently,” she answered truthfully.

George negotiated a curve while he searched for the right words. “I don’t know just how to put this,” he said with some hesitation. “I don’t want to talk about unpleasant things, but until a lot of questions are answered, I’m a little worried.”

“I can understand that,” she responded tersely.

“Here’s what I’m getting at: I like you—you know that. And I’ve got a lot of confidence in Virgil—I’ve seen a little of what he can do. But until he comes up with the final answers, if you at any time would like to have—”

He stopped speaking and wheeled the car almost savagely around one of the viewpoint turnouts. “I’m sorry. Let’s try again. Are all your guest rooms filled?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Any time you’re worried in any way, or think there’s any danger, please call me. Night or day, it doesn’t matter. I’m not the world’s greatest, but I can handle myself reasonably well and”—he paused to think once more before he shaped the words—“and I’d like to—to help,” he concluded.

Ellen turned her head and looked at him. “Do you mean that?” she asked.

“Yes,” George answered, looking straight ahead. “I do. If I caught anyone trying to hurt you, I think I would kill him with my bare hands.”

As soon as he had spoken, he wondered if he’d sounded too theatrical. He hadn’t meant it to be that way.

Ellen did not answer with words. Instead she slid across the seat until she was next to him. He responded by putting his right arm across her shoulders for a moment, then withdrew it when he had to make another turn on the mountain road.

When they reached the lodge, he pulled up under the deep shade of the trees and set the parking brake. He was in no hurry to leave her, and obviously she was willing to let their evening together last a few more moments. They sat listening to the sounds of the night and watching the faint light of the waxing moon filter down through the few places where it could penetrate to the ground. Then, for a frightening instant, George was startled by the thought that something might be lurking, even at that moment, shielded by the blackness of the night, waiting to strike. He deliberately banished the thought. He had been theatrical just a few minutes before and he did not want to repeat the blunder, even in his mind.

He turned to Ellen and looked at her. She gazed back at him with a steadiness that, even in the night darkness, sent a welcome shiver down his backbone. He reached out his right arm, gathered her in gently, and kissed her once, long and tenderly. Then he opened the door, walked around the car, and helped her out. As he saw her to her door, he reflected that he’d meant it when he said he would kill with his bare hands, if need be, to protect her.

Inside her room Ellen shut her eyes for a moment as though to black out her thoughts; then she shook her head and slowly began to undress. George had kissed her and she knew she had wanted him to.

Quietly she slipped out of her clothes. For just a moment, before she put on her nightgown, she paused to look at herself in the mirror. Her figure was certainly not spectacular in any way, but it was presentable. That was an odd word, she thought—presentable. What was it like, she wondered, to be a nudist? She could not answer her own question as she slipped the gown over her head and climbed into bed.

Monday was an exceptionally busy day for Virgil Tibbs. He visited several banks and talked with senior officers concerning the accounts of certain people in whom he was interested. At one of them he was shown to a vacant booth next to the safe-deposit vault and, because of his standing as a police officer and the gravity of the matter he was investigating, he was allowed to go over a series of canceled checks that had not yet been mailed back to the client. One of these checks interested him very much; he arranged to have it photostated on both sides and took the print with him when he left.

The next stop was the county recorder’s office in Los Angeles,
where he looked up an item in the real-estate records. From the center he walked over to the
Times
building and arrived in time for an appointment he had made to talk with the art critic. This turned into a fairly extended conversation. From the
Times
building he phoned the Retail Credit Bureau and obtained some further information. With these three things accomplished, he reclaimed his car and took the freeway back to Pasadena, where Bob Nakamura was waiting for him. Bob had done his part and had a reasonably full report on the background and activities of Oswald Peterson, the broker.

In accordance with his usual habit, Virgil made individual notes on each piece of information he had learned and laid the slips out in a geometric pattern on top of his desk. With the other notes he already had, he began a process of shifting that looked like a new form of solitaire. In this manner he grouped related facts together and determined where there were blanks that needed to be filled.

Presently he noted a gap in the parade of data before him and picked up the telephone; in a few moments he had the records section of the Los Angeles Police Department on the line. He identified himself and then asked a question, waited while the necessary information was looked up, and received a negative answer. That suited him entirely; he made out another three-by-five card and fitted it neatly into place. When a teletype came up from the first floor about thumbprints on driving licenses, one more card was added to Virgil’s careful accumulation.

The phone interrupted him. When he answered, it was the secretary of the Japanese-American Gardeners Association returning his earlier call. A short conversation clarified another
point and allowed one of the few remaining gaps in the maze-like pattern on his desk to be filled.

At this point he picked up the phone once more, dialed the operator, and asked to speak with Miss Ellen Boardman at Pine Shadows Lodge. “How did your evening go with Mrs. Pratt?” he asked her when she came on the wire.

“Oh, quite well. Over dinner she made a considerable point about her business experience and pointed out all the evidence of her success.”

“She did that to me, too,” Virgil said.

“After that she carefully patronized me quite a lot. I was the sweet young thing not yet quite awake in the world. She offered to become my guide and mentor and explain everything to me.”

“Did she mention your stockholding?” Tibbs asked.

“Oh, only indirectly. She knew about it, of course. She did ask me if I planned to attend the stockholders’ meeting and said she would talk with me about it later. Of course that’s almost two weeks away.”

“Not any more it isn’t,” Tibbs said grimly. “Mr. McCormack has moved it up to this weekend.”

“Oh? I remember hearing something about that. Why did he do it?”

“Because I asked him to. How was the concert?”

“Oh, it was very nice. I love the Bowl, although I don’t get there very often. And we had coffee afterward.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You do? How?” Ellen asked.

“You had a police officer with you most of the evening. He enjoyed the concert, too.”

“Goodness, did he follow me home? I thought there was a car behind me most of the way.”

“He did part of the way, then someone else took over. Which reminds me, could you accommodate another couple for a few days beginning tomorrow?”

“Yes. Why? Are they–friends of yours?”

“In a way of speaking. Mr. and Mrs. Mooney will be arriving tomorrow morning for a week’s stay. Mr. Mooney is the officer who stopped by a few days ago to ask if anyone who’d had a reservation had failed to appear.”

“Oh–I remember.”

“Good. Of course the fact that he is a police officer is something you don’t discuss, but if anyone asks you about it, don’t deny it. In that case let him know immediately.”

“I will.”

Ellen hung up slightly confused. Obviously she was being given a bodyguard, which was a new experience for her. In a way she welcomed it, but in a way it was distressing.

The following morning Dick and Elaine Mooney checked in at Pine Shadows and proved to be thoroughly agreeable. Ellen found that it was a considerable comfort to have the young officer there—a person she could definitely trust who would be on hand if he was needed. But she was still off balance when George Nunn called her and suggested a date on Wednesday; she hedged and asked him to call back again.

Later that afternoon Virgil Tibbs had a conference with Captain Lindholm and outlined his plan of action to the senior officer for approval. When that meeting was over, he returned to his apartment, showered, and ate a fairly light dinner, in view of what he had planned for the evening. An hour later,
clad in a white training
gi
tied with the black belt that it had taken him so many years of hard work to earn, he began a two-hour training session in the karate
dojo
with the few present who were his equals and the two who were his betters.

When it was all over, he showered once more and stepped on the scales; the pointer stopped at a hundred and sixty-one pounds, six more than when he had first joined the force. At that time he had barely made the hundred-and-fifty-five-pound minimum. His abdomen was still hard and flat, and despite the fact that he was naturally slender in build, the muscles that rippled under his dark skin understood their functions and had been conditioned by constant training.

Virgil Tibbs dressed and returned to his apartment with a sense of well-being. He was relaxed as he turned on his stereo and stacked the changer with Ravel’s
Introduction and Allegro
, Falla’s
Nights in the Gardens of Spain
, and a performance recording of Duke Ellington at Newport. He mixed himself a drink and leaned back to listen. He needed the atmosphere that the music provided and the chance to let his thoughts wander away from the hard realities they would have to face in the morning.

The next day would be Wednesday, two days before the board meeting. More than that, it was to be the day of decision. The moment of truth was at hand.

The Wednesday-morning mail brought the final autopsy report from San Bernardino, just in time to suit Virgil’s purposes. He tore open the thick official envelope and studied the grim contents thoroughly.

When he had been over the report twice, he picked up a pad of paper and sketched the outlines of a human figure in both front and profile views. Then he carefully shaded in the areas where, according to the autopsy, the body had received blows. When he had finished, he had a reasonably accurate picture of the beating the dead chemist had received, with those particular areas that had contributed specifically to his death outlined in red.

Satisfied with his work, he phoned Michael Wolfram, the attorney. When he had the lawyer on the line, he came right to the point.