The Cool Cottontail (16 page)

Virgil drove home with a curious mixture of emotions. He realized that though he had been warned to expect a ruthless aristocrat, he liked Walter McCormack and for that reason, as well as others, hoped that the financier had been telling him the truth.

Shortly after nine the following morning, which was Saturday, Walter McCormack personally made a long-distance telephone call. A few minutes thereafter his comfortable, air-conditioned black Cadillac purred down his private drive, swung through the gateway, and turned eastward. Almost two hours later it pulled up smoothly under Brown’s expert guidance in the driveway of Pine Shadows Lodge. The chauffeur held the rear door open while the owner emerged. Then, for more than an hour and a half, the financier conferred with Ellen Boardman and her parents.

When the meeting was over, Ellen left McCormack talking with her parents and, pushing open the front door of the lodge, stepped out into the shade of the tall trees. She shook her head and automatically brushed the sides of her hair back into place. She seemed to be almost unaware of her surroundings. She was realizing that being rich didn’t fit into her own picture of her life at all.

It had been impressed upon her that the responsibility had been given to her and she must assume it: there was no doubt that she would have to deal with it. Walter McCormack had offered to guide and assist her, but she still felt quite unprepared for the role of heiress.

In the driveway, almost like a symbol of her new status,
was the impressive black sedan and, seated behind the wheel, the waiting chauffeur. She looked at the man and the machine, trying to clear her mind and assemble her thoughts.

Then she became aware that the man who was patiently sitting in the car was a Negro: that brought a quick image of Virgil Tibbs, the remarkable man whose abilities she had begun to appreciate. She advanced a step or two nearer the car and, when the chauffeur looked up at her, wished him good morning.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” Brown answered.

She noted an accent that Virgil Tibbs did not have; the “g” was all but lost.

“Would you like to come inside?” she asked. “I can find you something cool to drink if you’re thirsty.”

“No thank you, Ma’am,” Brown answered. “I’m all right, thanks just the same.” He gave her a faint smile as he spoke, but there was restraint in it. He was not, she decided regretfully, another Virgil Tibbs.

Then, as though aware that the initiative had all been hers, Brown made an effort to be agreeable. “Real nice place you got here,” he offered.

“Yes, we like it,” Ellen answered. “And our guests seem to, too.”

“I can sure see why,” Brown commented. “I always like to see trees and things like that.”

So did Ellen. “You’ll pass the best view when you go back down the mountain,” she said. “You have to turn off at the bottom of the first hill. There’s a parking area there. The view is spectacular. I usually stop to see it.”

“I’d like to do that, Ma’am,” Brown responded. “But you
better tell Mr. McCormack about it. If he wants to stop, then we stop. If he don’t wanna, then we don’t.”

The reply chilled Ellen and made her regret having opened the conversation. She’d meant to be kind, but had only succeeded in underlining the chauffeur’s subservient position. Before she could think further about it, the door opened behind her and Walter McCormack appeared.

He nodded to Brown and said, “We’ll be going now,” and then he turned to her. “I think we’ve pretty well discussed it all now, and I know how you must feel,” he said. “I’ve been through it myself, under different circumstances. Don’t worry about it. Just remember the things I told you. And if anything comes up you’re not certain about, give me a call. You have my number.”

With Brown holding the door, he climbed unassisted into the back of his car and settled down onto the cushions. The dust raised by the tires was still in the air when the phone rang in the lodge. Ellen answered it and heard George Nunn’s voice on the line.

“I’d like very much to see you this evening,” he said. “Will you be free?”

Informed as she had just been, Ellen thought momentarily that his interest in her might well be because of her sudden transformation into an heiress. Then she realized he would have no way of knowing, and he certainly did not impress her as the fortune-hunting kind.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“We’re having a dance here at the lodge tonight. I’d like very much to have you come. Just informal dress,” he added quickly.

Ellen hesitated and then decided to go. She wanted to see George again and in his own element; since everyone would be dressed, it would be a good opportunity. Although she had been at the nudist resort once briefly, she still had a considerable curiosity concerning the place. She accepted and they agreed on the time.

Then, while planning what to wear to the dance, she found herself wondering if Virgil Tibbs was making any progress in the investigation of her uncle’s murder. There was still the unsettling possibility that George or a member of his family might be involved—if not in the actual murder, through some knowledge of it that was being kept to themselves. She glanced at the calendar to make sure it was Saturday. She assumed that the work of finding out who had done the horrible thing would have been halted for the weekend.

In that she was wrong, for Virgil Tibbs had already been in his office for more than two hours, sorting out the notes he had taken and fitting together the bits and pieces he had managed to obtain. A newspaper lay on his desk; on the front page it reported the conviction of the man he had testified against earlier in the week. That closed the matter unless they released him on parole too soon, and then the whole weary job would have to be done all over again. Crime was the only way of life, the only trade, the convicted man knew.

The mail came in and Virgil glanced at the pile. A blue-and-white envelope with the return address of Sun Valley Lodge caught his eye. Before he opened it, he glanced over to see if a similar one might by any chance be on Bob Nakamura’s desk. It was there.

He slit the envelope open and drew out the combination brochure and membership-application form. There were attractive
pictures of the pool, tennis court, volleyball courts, and other facilities. One paragraph of the printed text had been crossed out in ink and a handwritten note had been added in the margin. The deleted paragraph read:

Singles. Under no circumstances will married singles be accepted for membership, a married single being defined as an adult who applies without his or her spouse. Single adult men and women will be issued memberships only on a quota basis in order to maintain the family atmosphere of the park. The decision in each case will depend on the individual applicant and the action of the membership committee will be final.

Next to this, in a slanting feminine hand, was written:

Although he had not the slightest intention of accepting, Virgil was very pleased that he had been asked. His spirits lifted and the monotonous work he had been doing suddenly seemed more interesting. He was still turning the heart-warming thought over in his mind when Bob Nakamura came in accompanied by a very attractive brunette and two small children.

Tibbs got to his feet. “Hello, Amiko,” he said. “Welcome to the treadmill. By the way, Bob, your membership application for the nudist park just arrived. It’s in your mail.”

“Nudist park? You didn’t tell me about that,” Amiko gasped.

Bob tore open the envelope and glanced at the folder it contained. Then he calmly handed it to his wife.

The two men waited while she looked at it, examined the
pictures, and even read the application blank on the back. “I don’t think we can afford it,” she said finally. “Although it might be a good thing for the children.”

Tibbs glanced at his watch. “Why don’t we all have some lunch?” he suggested. As he spoke, the phone rang.

He picked it up and listened for almost two minutes. As soon as he hung up, he pressed his lips together, looked again at his watch, and made a careful note. He left it significantly on his desk and glanced at Bob, who barely nodded. This done, Virgil scooped up the younger of the Nakamura children and said, “Let’s go and eat, shall we?”

While Virgil was shepherding Amiko and her youngsters out into the corridor, Bob crossed the room and read the note:

Below the message Virgil had drawn three horizontal lines in red.

A little after four that afternoon Joyce Pratt called Ellen long distance. “My dear, I’ve wanted to talk to you before this,” she said, “but in view of the circumstances I felt you would like to be by yourself for a little while.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Ellen replied.

“As you know, your uncle and I were very close and dear friends for many years; he spoke of you so much that I feel
I know you very well. I think now we should meet and have a chance to really get to know each other.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” Ellen said. Her comment was more courtesy than truth. She also was aware that Mrs. Pratt had organized the Roussel holding company and was a stockholder, a circumstance that made a meeting almost a necessity.

“Do come and have dinner with me tomorrow,” Joyce invited. “I have tickets for the Hollywood Bowl. Do you like music?”

Ellen considered quickly. Her parents were back with the car, so she could go if she really wanted to. And, she thought, since she would have to face up to her new responsibilities soon, she might as well begin now. Determined that she would not allow herself to be panicked into anything, she accepted the invitation. If everything went well, fine; if it did not, she could call either Walter McCormack, whom she already trusted, or possibly Virgil Tibbs.

Then she remembered that Tibbs was a policeman, pure and simple, and she could hardly call upon him to help her solve her personal problems—and her financial problems
were
personal.

At that moment the phone rang again. She brushed her hair aside and put the instrument against her ear. “Pine Shadows Lodge,” she said.

“This is Virgil Tibbs, Miss Boardman, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Now, was
he
going to invite her somewhere?

“I called to tell you that Mr. McCormack has informed me of his visit with you this morning, and the purpose behind it.”

“Yes.”

“I want to ask for your close cooperation, because it is very important. Let me stress that—
very
important.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Good. Will you please call me immediately, collect, if anything whatever happens concerning your new status. For instance, I want to know if anyone else comes to see you—if
anyone
calls you—who might have any possible connection with the matter we are both interested in. I don’t care if you call me a dozen times a day, I want to know at once anything and everything that happens. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes, it is. I can give you a report right now, if you would like.”

“Please.”

“George Nunn called me this morning and invited me to a dance at his parents’ lodge this evening. I accepted.” A sudden thought came to her. “It will be dressed, of course,” she added hastily.

“Naturally. I see no reason why you shouldn’t go. Is that all?”

“No. Mrs. Joyce Pratt called me. Do you know her?”

“Yes, I do. Go ahead.”

“She phoned just a little while ago. She said that in view of the circumstances we ought to meet. She asked me for dinner tomorrow and said she had tickets for the Hollywood Bowl.”

“Are you going?”

“Yes, I am.” She hesitated, and made up her mind. “May I ask you something?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t ask you this, and if that’s the case I’m
sorry, but is there any progress in—the matter that concerns us both?”

There was silence for a few moments on the line; then the answer came. “Yes, Miss Boardman, there is. If I trust you, will you respect my confidence?”

“Most certainly.”

“Very well, then. Not to be repeated to
anyone
, I will tell you this much: I am confident I know what happened, why, and who was responsible.”

“You know
who?
” Ellen asked, her voice tight.

“Yes, I know. But knowing and proving are two entirely different things. I am still gathering proof. If you say one word of this to anyone, you might make the job infinitely harder.”

“You can trust me,” Ellen said. “Is the danger all past?”

There was another slight pause. “No, Miss Boardman, I wouldn’t say that it is. That is why I want you to keep me continually informed of your movements.”

For the next few hours Ellen Boardman lived in a thick haze. The hand of murder, which had struck her uncle, now seemed to be groping toward her. She saw again the cold still face lying on the slab in San Bernardino and she had a sudden urge to flee somewhere and hide. She was not a coward, but all her life she had avoided trouble simply by not inviting it. Now trouble was being forced upon her and she felt inadequate and defenseless. She thought of canceling her engagement for the evening, then remembered that Virgil Tibbs had told her he saw no reason why she shouldn’t go.

How far, she wondered, could she trust his assurances? But
then she recalled how he had anticipated her thoughts about visiting George’s parents, and she felt a little easier. She would have to trust him. If he was not competent, then his superiors would never have assigned him to handle the case.

When George came to pick her up, she was ready. As they drove down the mountain in the dying light of what had been another lovely day, she still could not relax the unrelenting parade of her thoughts. But out of the bewilderment that surrounded her, one clear and welcome idea emerged: it couldn’t have been George or Virgil Tibbs would never have approved their being together now. She did not want it to be George. Despite his odd background, she knew that she liked him and was enjoying his company.