In the Heat of the Night Read Free Page B

demanded.
    “You told me to wait a minute,” Sam answered evenly.
    “All right then, you can get going. Hop to it.”
    Sam moved quickly to his patrol car, and drove away with enough speed to avoid any possible criticism later. As he headed toward the railroad station, for a brief moment he allowed himself to hope that Gillespie would somehow make a public fool of himself and bungle the case. Then he realized that such a thought was totally unworthy of a sworn peace officer and he resolved that no matter what happened, his part would be done promptly and well.
    At the last moment, as he approached the silent railroad station, he slowed his car down to avoid giving any undue warning to a possible murderer lurking inside. Sam pulled up close to the wooden platform and climbed out without hesitation. The station was a small one which dated back at least fifty years; at night it was inadequately lighted by a few dusty bulbs which seemed as ageless as the worn hard benches or the unyielding tile floor. As Sam walked rapidly toward the main waiting-room door, he had a sudden desire to loosen the pressure of his uniform cap. He rejected the idea at once and entered the station every inch a police officer, his right hand on his gun. The waiting room was deserted.
    Sam sniffed the air rapidly and detected nothing to suggest that anyone had been there recently. No fresh cigarette smoke, only the habitual aroma of all such railroad stations, the evidence of thousands of nameless people who had passed through and gone on.
    The ticket window was closed; the glass panel was down. Posted inside was a square of cardboard with the arrival times of the night trains printed in heavy crayon. Sam looked carefully about the room once more while he thought. If the murderer was here, he probably did not have a gun. He had killed by hitting the dead man on the back of the head with a blunt instrument, and with a blunt instrument Sam was confident he could deal. He bent and checked the small area under the benches. It was clear except for dirt and a few bits of paper.
    Striding through the room, Sam pushed open the door to the train platform and looked both ways. The platform, too, was deserted. Walking with firm, authoritative steps, Sam passed the locked baggage-room door, which he tested and found secure, and paused by the dingier door over which a white board sign specified COLORED . With his right hand once more on his sidearm, Sam pushed into the poorly lighted room and then drew a quick gulp of breath. There was someone there.
    Sam sized him up at a glance, and knew at once that he did not belong in Wells. He was fairly slender and dressed up in city clothes, including a white shirt and a tie. Sam guessed that he might be about thirty, but it was always hard to tell about blacks. Instead of being stretched out on the bench, he was wide awake and sitting up straight as though he were expecting something to happen. His coat was off and laid neatly beside him. He had been reading a paperback book up to the moment Sam entered; when he looked up, Sam saw that his face lacked the broad nose and thick, heavy lips that characterized so many southern laborers. His nose was almost like a white man’s and the line of his mouth was straight and disciplined. If he had been a little lighter, Sam would have seen white blood in him, but his skin was too black for that.
    The Negro forgot his book and let his hands fall into his lap while he looked up into Sam’s broad face.
    Sam took immediate command. “On your feet, black boy,” he ordered, and crossed the room in five quick steps.
    The Negro reached for his coat. “No you don’t!” Sam knocked his arm aside and with a single swift motion spun his man around and clamped his own powerful forearm hard under the Negro’s chin. In this position Sam could control him easily and still leave his right hand and arm free. Swiftly Sam searched his captive, an action which the Negro appeared too frightened to