Outside faint traffic noises could be heard; from almost a block away a city bus made familiar churning sounds as it pulled away from the curb. From inside the house the soft whirr of an electric clock could just be detected.
Then headlights came down the street and there was the sharper, clearer sound of vehicles pulling up and stopping.
“The police are back.” Hotchkiss raised himself enough to peer out the window. He saw two official cars with red lights on and a third just arriving. A few moments later there was a knock at the door. “Mr. Hotchkiss, can you hear me?” a voice asked.
“Yes, clearly.”
“Good. We’re back and looking for the boy now. We have men all around your home, but stay where you are, with the lights off, until we can make a thorough check. We don’t want to take any chances.”
“Agreed.” Nevertheless after a minute or two Hotchkiss sat up, satisfied that the danger was past, and looked out the window. Across the street, in the wooded area, he could see flashing lights and hear the voices of several men. Then compassion returned to him and he hoped that they would not hurt the boy when they found him. In the cool calmness of the darkened room he realized that they would not do that. He also began to understand how deeply his own son must have injured the youngster outside.
He also thought that the father had to be some kind of an idiot to keep a loaded revolver where a child could get at it.
Again there was a knock on the door, a quieter one this time. “This is Mr. Tibbs,” Ralph heard. “You can turn on the lights now, Mr. Hotchkiss. And I’d like to come in if you please.”
Stiffly and uncertain of himself, he got up, went to the light switch, and then opened the door. He found Tibbs there and also Barry Rothberg. As the policemen came in Estelle Hotchkiss got to her feet; her composure was badly shaken, but she made an effort nonetheless. “Will you have some coffee?”
“Thank you,” Tibbs said. “We’re a little shaken too.”
That broke the ice. “I’m very sorry for the experience you’ve just been through,” Virgil said to his host. “I told you what happened; we put two and two together and got the wrong four. If Chief Addis feels that it was our fault for pulling the protection away from your home too soon, and he very well may, then we’ll pay for the window and the damage to your woodwork.”
Hotchkiss shook his head. “Never mind that, we’re insured. I only hope now that you find the boy and get the gun away from him before anything more happens.”
“Amen,” Tibbs agreed.
There was a strained silence for a short while, then Estelle Hotchkiss reappeared with a tray of empty coffee cups, cream, and sugar. “The kettle’s on,” she announced. “It will just be a couple of minutes.” She set out the cups carefully in front of her husband and the two policemen.
Although he was at the moment a guest, Virgil’s thoughts were very much elsewhere. He kept listening for any indication from the men outside that the boy had been found. If and when he was, then it was his intention to take him home himself and make sure that the child was not ill-treated. Having formed his estimate of Mike McGuire, he considered it a definite possibility that he might have to remain present until Johnny was at least safely in bed.
Estelle came in with the coffee and poured it out with hands which shook just a little. “Will they find him?” she asked.
“I believe so,” Tibbs answered her easily. “He’s only a small boy and he can’t get too far on foot. It may take a little while because we don’t want to frighten him any further if we can avoid it, and of course we have to recover the gun he has, or had, without any more accidents.”
“What will you do to him?” Billy asked.
“I’m going to take him home myself,” Virgil answered, “and help him if I can. He’s not as old as you are, you know.”
Billy hung his head. “Will you arrest him?”
“I don’t think so. Part of the decision there rests with your father.”
The telephone rang and Billy jumped to answer it. He listened for only a moment and then held out the instrument; Tibbs took it, spoke his name, and then actually seemed to turn pale. “I’ll go there directly,” he said and hung up.
He turned toward his hostess. “I’m very sorry,” he apologized, “but I have to leave at once. Please excuse me.” Within seconds he was out of the door and literally running for his car. Because of the time element it was hard for him to connect what had happened so recently at the Hotchkiss home with the report he had just been given, but he felt a definite tightening of his nerves.
He headed westward, driving as rapidly as he could without going into code three condition, toward a familiar destination. As he did so he tried to decide if it was possible that Johnny McGuire had somehow made his way without delay to another part of the city, or whether he now had two similar cases on his hands.
He pulled up and parked near to the emergency entrance of the Huntington Memorial Hospital. As he went inside he noted at once a gangling Negro youth who was waiting in the corridor. He knew that he wanted to talk to this young man, but his first concern was for the patient who had just been brought in. The receptionist nurse, who knew him, quickly shook her head. “You’ll have to wait, Mr. Tibbs,” she told him. “The boy is in critical condition; they’ve taken him into surgery. Even if he pulls through, I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to see him tonight. At least I don’t think so.” As she finished speaking she inclined her head, very slightly, toward the teen-ager standing in the hallway.
“Thank you,” he said. “If you get any further word, let me know immediately. Will you, please?”
“Of course-I’ve already asked them to keep me informed.”
In a manner which seemed almost casual Tibbs turned away from the desk, walked down the corridor a short way, and then turned to speak to the obviously tense youth who seemed to be not quite sure where he was. “Did you bring in the boy who was shot?” he asked.
The young man looked slightly down at him from his six foot height and took his time before he answered. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“A friend of yours?” Tibbs asked.
Despite his obvious tension, the young Negro took a studied time before he answered. Then he said simply, “Yeah.”
“It’s a good thing you brought him immediately,” Tibbs told him. “It’s possible that you may have saved his life.”
He was ignored.
This was not a new game, he had encountered it many times before. Pretending he had not noticed, he took his own time before he put his next question. Then he asked, “What happened?”
The Negro youth lifted his shoulders by way of reply and then let them settle back into position.
Once more Tibbs waited, then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small leather case, opened it, and displayed his badge. He very seldom did that, if he had to offer credentials he preferred a simple calling card. In this instance the badge itself was the proper answer.
“Why didn’t cha tell me?” the tall boy asked.
“I just did.” There was no edge to the words, they came out only as a flat statement. “Who are you?”
The teen-ager shifted his weight. “Charlie Dempsey. They call me Sport.”
“What happened, Sport?”
“Well, we was out drivin’ in my car, doin’ nothin’ much, when we seen this kid. He looked like he was real lost so I stopped. I figured maybe he needed some help.”
“Just like that.”
Again the shoulders rose and fell in a slow movement. “I figured if we took the kid home, we might get a dollar or two for the trouble.”
Tibbs nodded his head slowly as if that explanation had satisfied him. “Did you get out?”
“No, Beater, he got out. Nice and friendly-like he walked up to the kid. When they started talking then we all got out, I did and so did Jeff and Harry. Jus’ got out, that’s all. As soon as we got up near to the kid he called us a bunch o’ niggers.”