In the Heat of the Night

reached inside his tunic and produced a heavily tooled wallet thick with its contents. Gillespie took it, examined it in detail, and peered at the identification cards which it contained. “You can take the cuffs off him,” he said almost conversationally.
    As soon as he was released from the handcuffs, Harvey Oberst began to rub his wrists, first one and then the other, but he said nothing.
    “Whatcha do it for?” Gillespie demanded.
    Oberst drew breath and lifted his head up. “Because it was just lying there. Right where I could see it. Full of money. I looked; he was dead and couldn’t use it. It was just lying there. If I hadn’t a taken it, somebody else would of. I needed it bad; so I took it.” He paused.
    “That’s all,” he added apologetically.
    “That is, after you killed him,” Gillespie prompted.
    The prisoner jumped to his feet, his face twisted so tightly that he seemed to be in sudden acute pain. “I took his wallet,” he screamed. “Because he was dead I took his wallet. I needed it, bad—but I didn’t kill him!” His voice cracked on the last words so that he croaked them out, robbed of any strength of meaning.
    Oberst tried again. With his left forefinger he thumped himself on the chest. “I didn’t kill him, I wouldn’t of had to kill him even if I wanted to grab his dough. He was a real little guy, I seen him before. I could’ve handled him easy if I’d wanted to. I just picked up his wallet, I tell you!” Suddenly he gave up and dropped back into the chair. This time he let his head roll forward until his chin almost touched his chest.
    Bill Gillespie waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Book him,” he ordered. “Suspicion of murder.” He rocked back in his chair as far as he cared and stared at the ceiling. He continued to look there until the prisoner had been taken away.
    When a cell door could be heard clanging shut a few moments later, Gillespie relaxed visibly and looked at Virgil Tibbs, who still sat on the uncomfortable chair at the side of the room. “Well, that clears it up,” he commented.
    “It helps,” Tibbs agreed.
    “How much more help do you want?” Gillespie asked, his voice somewhat closer to a normal level for a change.
    “It eliminates the superficial motive,” Tibbs replied, “it means digging a little deeper. I expected it, but it is an advantage to see it confirmed.”
    Gillespie swiveled to face Tibbs, an amused smile dawning on his face. “Don’t tell me you bought that kid’s story. I thought you were supposed to be the hotshot cop, the deadly manhunter, the Sherlock of the Pacific. If you’re a cop, I’m an anteater.”
    Arnold appeared in the doorway carrying a waxed- paper-wrapped sandwich in one hand and a paper container of coffee in the other. Without comment he handed them to Tibbs, then turned toward his chief. “Is he our boy?” he asked.
    Gillespie waved his hand toward Tibbs, who was unwrapping his sandwich. “Ask him,” he suggested. Arnold looked obediently at Tibbs. “Well?” he asked. “He’s innocent of the murder, I’m almost certain of that,” Tibbs replied.
    “Now tell him why,” Gillespie invited.
    “Because he’s left-handed,” Tibbs answered, and bit into his sandwich.
    Arnold looked at Gillespie. “Go on,” he said.
    Tibbs waited a moment until his mouth was empty. “When I examined the body of the deceased this morning,” Tibbs explained patiently, “it was evident that the fatal blow had been struck by a blunt instrument at an angle of about seventeen degrees from the right as the skull is viewed from the rear. That makes it almost certain that the assailant was right-handed. If you’ll pick up your desk ruler for a moment by one end, Chief Gillespie, I’ll explain the point.”
    To Arnold’s utter amazement, Gillespie complied. “Now imagine that you want to strike something with it at about the level of your own shoulders, or even a little higher. If you hold the ruler tightly, you will see that it is almost impossible to hold it straight out; your wrist isn’t built that way. If you want to point it toward the right, you will have to turn your hand over, palm up, to do it. Even to hit straight ahead, you have to turn your wrist ninety degrees.”
    Gillespie looked at the stick in his hand and then laid it back on top of his desk. “And you think Oberst is left-handed,” he said.
    “I know he is,” the Negro replied. “You remember when he thumped himself in the