anyone who wished to could sit there unobserved and look out over the Great Smokies.
Duena seated herself quietly and pulled her skirt over to indicate that Sam was permitted to sit beside her. Sam sat down, folded his hands, and looked out at the miles of country before him. He knew why the girl had come here: because this place seemed to be perched on the edge of the infinite; it was impossible to look out over the marching mountains and not feel that beyond the horizon they went on forever.
They sat quietly together for some moments; then, without preamble, the girl asked a question. “You found my father’s body, didn’t you?”
“Are you sure you want to talk about it?” Sam asked.
“I want to know,” the girl answered him. “Did you find his body?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Where was it?”
Sam hesitated before he answered. “In the middle of the highway.”
“Could he have been struck by a car?”
“No.” Sam paused, wondering how much more he should add. “He had been struck from behind with a blunt instrument. His stick was beside him—his cane, I mean. That might have been it.”
“Was it”—the girl hesitated and chose her words carefully—”instantaneous?” For the first time she turned her head and looked at him.
Sam nodded. “Not only that, but he had no knowledge, I’m sure, no pain.”
The girl gripped the edge of the bench with long, slender fingers and looked out once more at the mountain panorama before her. “He wasn’t a big man, or important,” she said half to the silent hills. “All his life he hoped and worked for the big break. This would have been it, his chance to be somebody in music. It’s a hard world and it’s almost impossible to get anywhere unless you somehow manage to belong to just the right group. Whoever killed my father killed all of his hopes and dreams—just before they were all to have come true.” She stopped speaking, but she continued to stare straight ahead. Sam looked at her carefully and was angry with himself for, at a time like this, deciding she was beautiful. He wanted desperately to offer her his protection, to let her cry on his ample shoulder if she wanted to, to hold her hand in a reassuring grip.
What he could not do physically, he tried to do with words. “Miss Mantoli, I want to tell you something that may help, just a little. All of us in the police department are going to do our best, no matter how hard we have to work, to find and punish the person responsible. That isn’t much comfort for you, but it might help a little.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Wood,” she said, as though she was really thinking of something else. “Is Mr. Tibbs’s being here going to cause you any trouble?” she asked abruptly.
Sam wrinkled his brow for a moment. “Truthfully, that’s hard to answer. I honestly don’t know.”
“Because he’s a Negro.”
“Yes, because he’s black. You know how we feel about things like that down here.”
When the girl looked at him steadily and evenly, Sam felt a sudden emotion he could not analyze. “I know,” she said. “Some people don’t like Italians; they think we’re different, you know. Oh, they’ll make an exception for a Toscanini or a Sophia Loren, but the rest of us are supposed to be vegetable peddlers or else gangsters.” She pushed back her hair carelessly with one hand, looked away from him out over the mountains.
“Perhaps we ought to go back,” Sam suggested, acutely uncomfortable.
The girl rose to her feet. “I suppose so. Thank you for coming with me,” she said. “It helped.”
As they reached the door of the house, it opened and Eric Kaufmann appeared. He held it open for Virgil Tibbs, who followed him, and then made a particular point of carefully shaking hands. Even Sam realized it was formal patronizing. “Mr. Tibbs,” Kaufmann said in a voice loud enough for Sam and the girl to hear, “I don’t care what it costs or what you have to do. I’m not a rich
Duena seated herself quietly and pulled her skirt over to indicate that Sam was permitted to sit beside her. Sam sat down, folded his hands, and looked out at the miles of country before him. He knew why the girl had come here: because this place seemed to be perched on the edge of the infinite; it was impossible to look out over the marching mountains and not feel that beyond the horizon they went on forever.
They sat quietly together for some moments; then, without preamble, the girl asked a question. “You found my father’s body, didn’t you?”
“Are you sure you want to talk about it?” Sam asked.
“I want to know,” the girl answered him. “Did you find his body?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Where was it?”
Sam hesitated before he answered. “In the middle of the highway.”
“Could he have been struck by a car?”
“No.” Sam paused, wondering how much more he should add. “He had been struck from behind with a blunt instrument. His stick was beside him—his cane, I mean. That might have been it.”
“Was it”—the girl hesitated and chose her words carefully—”instantaneous?” For the first time she turned her head and looked at him.
Sam nodded. “Not only that, but he had no knowledge, I’m sure, no pain.”
The girl gripped the edge of the bench with long, slender fingers and looked out once more at the mountain panorama before her. “He wasn’t a big man, or important,” she said half to the silent hills. “All his life he hoped and worked for the big break. This would have been it, his chance to be somebody in music. It’s a hard world and it’s almost impossible to get anywhere unless you somehow manage to belong to just the right group. Whoever killed my father killed all of his hopes and dreams—just before they were all to have come true.” She stopped speaking, but she continued to stare straight ahead. Sam looked at her carefully and was angry with himself for, at a time like this, deciding she was beautiful. He wanted desperately to offer her his protection, to let her cry on his ample shoulder if she wanted to, to hold her hand in a reassuring grip.
What he could not do physically, he tried to do with words. “Miss Mantoli, I want to tell you something that may help, just a little. All of us in the police department are going to do our best, no matter how hard we have to work, to find and punish the person responsible. That isn’t much comfort for you, but it might help a little.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Wood,” she said, as though she was really thinking of something else. “Is Mr. Tibbs’s being here going to cause you any trouble?” she asked abruptly.
Sam wrinkled his brow for a moment. “Truthfully, that’s hard to answer. I honestly don’t know.”
“Because he’s a Negro.”
“Yes, because he’s black. You know how we feel about things like that down here.”
When the girl looked at him steadily and evenly, Sam felt a sudden emotion he could not analyze. “I know,” she said. “Some people don’t like Italians; they think we’re different, you know. Oh, they’ll make an exception for a Toscanini or a Sophia Loren, but the rest of us are supposed to be vegetable peddlers or else gangsters.” She pushed back her hair carelessly with one hand, looked away from him out over the mountains.
“Perhaps we ought to go back,” Sam suggested, acutely uncomfortable.
The girl rose to her feet. “I suppose so. Thank you for coming with me,” she said. “It helped.”
As they reached the door of the house, it opened and Eric Kaufmann appeared. He held it open for Virgil Tibbs, who followed him, and then made a particular point of carefully shaking hands. Even Sam realized it was formal patronizing. “Mr. Tibbs,” Kaufmann said in a voice loud enough for Sam and the girl to hear, “I don’t care what it costs or what you have to do. I’m not a rich
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