The Cool Cottontail (19 page)

“Now that Dr. Roussel is dead, are you still interested in acquiring the rights to his patents?”

“Yes.”

“How valuable are they?”

Weidler hesitated briefly. “Very valuable. We’ve been paying royalties on them for years.”

“Without them would you be able to continue your basic color-film production as at present?”

“No.” The tone of Weidler’s voice changed. “May I see your credentials, please?”

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.

Like a berserk doll, Joyce Pratt turned on Tibbs and hammered
against his chest with her fists. In her frenzy she forgot where she was, forgot those around her, forgot everything but the rage that consumed her. She screamed at him with words that defamed him, his manhood, and his ancestry—vicious and reckless words, violent and profane.

Frank Sims reached out firmly and shook her. “That’s enough,” he snapped. He took her by the elbow and turned her toward the door.

But Joyce was still not through. “I’ll kill you, you black bastard!” she screamed at Tibbs. “You can’t prove a word of it.”

Virgil felt a surge of vindication. He had known he was right, but his confidence was strengthened by her unintended confession. He knew, as every experienced policeman does, that the words “You can’t prove” are spoken only by the guilty.

The maid appeared, almost amazingly composed, with Joyce Pratt’s wrap across her arm. She remained poker-faced as Frank Sims took it and put it across her mistress’s shoulders. Sims, too, had heard her declaration and knew that she was guilty.

Joyce threw back her head and began to laugh, a wild senseless laugh that echoed obscenely through the room.

“You’re too late,” she cried, laughing at Tibbs. “You can’t help them
now
. I’m way ahead of you!”

Her voice broke and she began to sob hysterically.

Virgil looked at her a moment; then his body stiffened. “Take her, Frank,” he barked, and whirled toward the door. He jerked it open and raced across the lawn toward his waiting car on the dead run.

He was hardly behind the wheel when he hit the ignition,
caught the opening cough of the engine, and snapped on the radio. He already knew that there was little if anything that he could do, but the thing he had failed to foresee compelled him to attempt everything possible. The moment he had power, he pulled the car into a tight U turn, flipped on the red spotlight, and hit the concealed siren.

In Code 3 condition he made Sunset Boulevard in less than two minutes, turned, and headed for the San Diego Freeway. He drove with one hand, holding the microphone in the other. When he reached the overpass, he turned north through the Santa Monica Mountains, a maneuver that would put him on the Ventura Freeway down the backbone of the San Fernando Valley. On the freeway he turned off the siren, knowing that he would gain nothing in speed and only cause accidents—a lesson the fire department had learned a long time ago.

It took him eight minutes at top speed to clear the pass and turn eastward, at last on the wide pavement of the Ventura Freeway. He pushed his speed up to past eighty in the far left lane and waited, his body alert and tense, for word from the radio dispatcher.

He was on a wild-goose chase and knew it, but he could not restrain himself. There were many others to do the work for him, but his own involvement was such that nothing could have held him back.

As he crossed Coldwater Canyon, the first report came in; Dick Mooney had been spoken to at Pine Shadows Lodge and had advised that everything was quiet. Ellen Boardman was out on a date with George Nunn.

Virgil had expected that; he kept his foot hard on the gas pedal and glanced once more at the gasoline gauge. He had
already checked the gauge four times since reaching the freeway (the car, as always, had been filled before he had taken it out), but his suppressed body demanded action and that was one small thing he could do.

He was so intent on his driving that he did not see the motorcycle until the officer riding it, young and determined, motioned him to the side. Instead Virgil reached down and touched the siren control. As soon as he heard the sound, the motorcycle man quickly nodded his head and pointed forward. Tibbs raised his left hand in a quick greeting and sped on.

He had reached the Golden State Freeway before the second report came in: Ellen Boardman and George Nunn were not at Sun Valley Lodge; the Nunns knew that they were out together, but had no idea where they had gone.

A huge truck-trailer loomed in the way and began to change lanes ahead of the speeding police car. Cursing under his breath, Virgil cut sharply to his left directly in front of a white Oldsmobile, which was doing a legally proper sixty-five. The driver blasted his horn and almost swerved into the divider. Once more Virgil touched the siren enough to let the outraged driver know that it was a police car, the only apology he could make.

At the speed he was traveling, the red spotlight still on, he was soon at the San Bernardino Freeway intersection. Reluctantly he slowed down to negotiate the interchange ramp and then picked up speed once more when he was again headed east. Despite the several curves and a moderate flow of traffic, he steadied himself behind the wheel and cut the miles away as he waited for the radio to speak.

Again he remembered that he could do little or nothing;
his mad dash to a destination still more than an hour away was close to recklessness. He had already set in motion, via radio, all the law-enforcement agencies on hand in the San Bernardino area and they were good and capable men. But like a man pursued by furies he drove himself, and the car he was in, to the limit of his ability.

He was climbing out of the Los Angeles basin over the ridge when a first report came through from the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department: George Nunn’s car had not been spotted in the area; a thorough check was being continued.

The speedometer of the police car touched and passed eighty-five as Virgil came down the eastern side of the ridge and plunged on toward Ontario and Fontana. His fingers opened and closed as he gripped the wheel; he cut his way through traffic and past angry drivers who looked in their rear-view mirrors hoping to see a cop.

A rebuilt Mercury blowing smoke from its exhaust pulled alongside to race. This time Virgil did not bother to use the siren; he sped on and left the Mercury behind.

He passed Ontario and dropped his speed of necessity when the road narrowed down to two lanes. He cut past a diesel truck that blocked his way and ignored the flashing lights the driver threw into his mirror. At Fontana he took the left-lane cutoff and once more turned on the siren. Ignoring the stop signs, he was on Route 66 eastbound in less than eight minutes, the Kaiser Steel Works vanishing behind him. He turned off and headed toward the mountains.