Seven Lies South

23

Beecher could not move. He stood helplessly at the window as Don Willie turned the corner and disappeared from his sight.

“He’s alive,” he said, speaking with an effort.

“Very much so.”

Beecher shook his head slowly; he felt as if he had been buffeted about by some grinning, powerful bully. How in God’s name had they played this last trick on him? “She lied to me,” he said thickly. “He’s not dead.”

“Impeccable logic. If he’s alive, it follows he is not dead.” Don Julio’s expression did not match his mildly whimsical comment; he was staring at Beecher gravely and sadly. “Well, Mike?”

“Wait a minute!” Beecher turned from the window and pressed his fingertips lightly against his temples. The events of the past week were like the designs seen in a kaleidoscope, he realized; at one minute they seemed brilliantly clear and fixed, but the lightest touch sent them flying into new and startling patterns.

“You say Don Willie hasn’t left Mirimar. How do you know that?”

“Because I have seen him and talked with him every day.”

“But how about at night? Last Monday night, to be exact. After the flight for Rabat took off? Did you see him that night?”

“There was no earthly reason to see him,” Don Julio said, with a touch of exasperation in his voice. “I was at home reading a novel. I assume he was doing something equally pointless.”

“You’re wrong. Have you checked to find out if he took his plane up that night?”

Don Julio sighed patiently. “The airport is closed at night. There are no clerks, no flight records.”

“It’s not closed, it’s unattended.” Beecher suddenly pounded a fist into his palm. “He took off after the Rabat flight had gone, and the airport was deserted. He met Bruno in the desert and they drove to meet the C-47. Don Willie and Bruno came back here early Monday morning, mission accomplished.”

“Please, Mike. Sit down and have a coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee. I want you to listen to me.”

“Then not so fast, please. You mentioned Bruno.” Don Julio was frowning faintly now. “Let’s continue with him for a moment.”

“Where is he now?”

“I believe he is in Barcelona. I heard he had flown there a day or so ago.”

“You will find that Bruno went to Morocco about ten days ago, in time to pick up the landrover and drive out to meet Don Willie in the desert.”

“How am I going to find this out?”

“Take me to Don Willie. I’ll sign any charges or accusations you want. But he’ll collapse at the sight of me. He thinks I’m dead, don’t you realize that?”

Don Julio looked patiently at the ceiling. “And a moment ago you thought he was dead. It’s very nice, isn’t it? An orderly little turnabout.”

“I was told he was dead.” Beecher tried desperately to make his thoughts run in a clean, straight line. Until this instant, he had accepted Laura’s story that Don Willie had died in the truck crash. And now he remembered Lynch’s dying words: “She likes to lie. Not just out of necessity. Remember this. Gives her an advantage.” Lynch had known Don Willie was alive, and he had tried, obliquely and pathetically, to warn Beecher of that. But what had Laura hoped to gain by lying to him? She might have felt he would pity her because she was alone and helpless and in pain. And she could hope that her lie might siphon off some of his anger. He would think himself avenged. And be merciful to her...

Laura and Lynch had been in the truck at the time of the crash. That was definite. And this meant that Don Willie and Bruno were already winging their way back to Mirimar. But this wasn’t logical. Don Willie couldn’t have been so foolish as to let these unstable and flamboyant collaborators set off for Dakar. If they were seen and recognized it would be the end of him. But Don Willie wouldn’t be content to hope they would meet with some fatal accident; his ponderous sense of fitness and propriety would be outraged at the notion of leaving any detail to chance. No. The success of the plan depended on bold and total carnage; there would be only two survivors, Don Willie and Bruno. Everyone else was ticketed for Valhalla. In some way, the “accident” had been planned; it had been drawn into the original blueprints.

Don Julio cleared his throat. “You wish to confront Don Willie with these accusations then?”

“Yes.”

“As a formality, I must advise you these are serious charges.”

“He’ll think so,” Beecher said. “Don’t worry about that.”

“As I mentioned before, Mike, it isn’t my business to worry. Very well. Let’s go...”

A dark-haired maid opened the wide, carved door of the Black Dove, and Don Julio told her they wished to speak with Señor Willie. She nodded, with a suggestion of nervous formality, and showed them into the living room. A log fire burned brightly in the huge stone fireplace, and a lamp glowed beside a deep armchair, but the corners of the room were in shadow. At the rear of the villa they heard the police dogs raising a clamor. The terrace doorways were open and a damp fragrant breeze blew in across the gardens. Tomorrow might be cold and overcast, Beecher thought; the rain had stopped, but beyond the garden wall he could see whitecaps running across the sea. The wind was rising.

A door closed in the back of the house, and heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway leading into the living room.

Beecher felt as if a cold weight had suddenly settled in his stomach. He wet his lips and turned to face the doorway.

Don Willie snapped on the overhead lights as he strode into the room. He wore a blue flannel smoking jacket over baggy slacks and a sports shirt, and he seemed both sleepy and irritable; his little eyes were blinking in his flushed round face. He pulled reading glasses from a pocket of his jacket and hung them over his broad fleshy nose. “Ah, it’s better now. I was preparing for my bed, Don Julio, you must forgive—” His voice broke off there, and he halted as suddenly as if he had walked into a stone wall. He stared at Beecher with his mouth hanging open and his eyes bulging ludicrously behind the bifocal glasses. Except for the crackle of the fire, the silence covered the room like a thick soft webbing.

Then an astonished and incredulous smile spread over Don Willie’s plump features. “Mike!” he cried happily. “How is this miracle? Everyone has been so sad for you, and all the other poor peoples on the plane. Is everybody all right? The ship didn’t crash?”

Beecher tried to keep his straining nerves under control; Don Willie’s composure was staggering, and Beecher felt as if the earth had suddenly shifted beneath his feet. “You know what happened to the others,” he said slowly.

“How is this?” Don Willie peered closer at Beecher. “I know nothing, Mike. Except I am glad you are not dead in the plane crash. You must tell me about the others. I know nothing about this.”

“You murdered them,” Beecher said. “Has that slipped your mind?”

“Slipped my mind? What does that mean? You are talking so strange to me, Mike.” He looked inquiringly at Don Julio. “What does all this mean? Is he sick? Out of his head? Why have you brought him here?”

Don Julio bowed gracefully but formally, and the gesture was less a concession to Don Willie than an underscoring of his own official position. “Mr. Beecher has made a number of serious charges against you, Senor Willie.”

“Please explain this craziness,” Don Willie said, his voice snapping with exasperation. “You come to my house while I am preparing for my sleep, and you talk nonsense to me. What is it all about? What do you mean, he is making charges?”

“Please.” Don Julio raised his hand like a traffic policeman halting traffic. “The charges are as follows: that you forced Mr. Beecher aboard the Iberia aircraft which disappeared last week on its scheduled flight to Rabat; that you ordered the execution of its regular pilots; that, through an accomplice, you made him fly the plane into the desert south of Morocco, and that there, in the Sahara, you attempted to kill him.” Don Julio inclined his head a formal inch. “There are specifications to these charges which I will outline later if it seems necessary or fruitful. Do you have any comments to make at this time?”

Don Willie’s features had turned from red to crimson to purple as the policeman had been speaking, and now he puffed his cheeks out like an infuriated gobbler and pointed angrily to the front door. “I make a comment, yes, of course,” he said, in a voice trembling shrilly with emotion. “I tell him to get out of my house. What is this foolishness about the desert and killing people? I think he is crazy. Or he is trying to make some joke with me?”

Don Julio smiled diplomatically. “It was my duty to acquaint you with these charges. But you must understand that a reading of charges does not constitute an endorsement of them.”

“I know you must do your work,” Don Willie said impatiently. “I have no blame for you. But I don’t understand any of this craziness. Or is it joking?”

“Mr. Beecher seems sane enough to me,” Don Julio said. “And I do not believe he is joking.”

“No, no,” Don Willie said, shaking his head emphatically. “This I don’t believe. He cannot be serious.” Don Willie drew a deep breath, as if he were making an effort to control his emotions. “Please, Mike. Let us talk quietly, eh? I am angry. I am bewildered. I must stop this. It is bad for me, no? We will talk like sensible men together. It’s better, eh? Now what is wrong with you? Why do you say these things about me?”

“Because they’re true. I will—”

“Ach!” Don Willie cut him off with a snort of disgust. “Don Julio, I can’t talk with him. He is crazy. Now it is your turn. What has happened to the plane? Do the other people in it say I try to kill them or something?”

“We don’t know about the other passengers and the crew,” Don Julio said. “But Mr. Beecher insists there is a witness to support his accusations.”

“Bah! You think I am to be joked with like a child!” Don Willie drew himself to full height. “This person who wants to say something against me, where is he? Bring him to me. I am tired of this crazy talk.”

“The person is Ilse Sherman.”

“What is this? What can Ilse know of these things?”

“When we find her, we will ask her.”

Don Willie raised his hands, then let them fall helplessly to his sides. “When you find her! God in Heaven! Are you crazy too? You don’t need bloodhounds and policemen to find the child. It is a simple matter. You walk down the hallway and knock on the door of her room. That is all.”

“She is here?” Don Julio said sharply.

“Yes, of course.”

Don Julio turned and looked at Beecher. The cool damp air blew softly through the room, stirring the flames in the fireplace. In the heavy close silence, Beecher heard the uneven stroke of his heart.

“Well?” Don Julio raised an eyebrow. “You are mistaken again?”

“No,” Beecher said. He swallowed a sudden dryness in his throat. “I want to speak to her.”

“Ach!” Don Willie cried. “You want to upset her with this foolishness.”

“One question, please,” Don Julio said mildly. “She has been here all week?”

“Yes, of course. This is her home. Where else would she be?”

“She has been ill? I don’t remember seeing her in the village.”

“Yes, she has a coldness in her head, a head cold. This is something criminal? This is wrong?”

“Please!” Don Julio looked pained. “And she is feeling better now?”

“Yes, I think she is better. She has sat in the sun by the pool, and her cold is going away.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It won’t be too great an imposition, then, if we speak to her for a moment.”

Don Willie shook his finger at the policeman, his cheeks flushing with anger. “We will go to the bottom of this now. You don’t take my word, eh?” He strode to the hallway and cried, “Ilse! Please come here.” Wheeling about he pointed his finger again at Don Julio. “The maids will tell you she has been here. You want them waked up? You want to talk to my dogs, too? This is not the end of this thing.” Suddenly he turned and hurried to the fireplace, his body waddling with a suggestion of righteous confidence. “Here, here is her passport. I will show it to you.” He took a slim black book from the mantelpiece and thrust it angrily at Don Julio. “There! Examine it! See if she has left the country.”

Don Julio shrugged graciously. “I asked only if she had been here in the villa. I didn’t ask if she had left the country. Forgive me if I gave the impression of doubting your word.” He flipped open Ilse’s passport.

“Ach! It’s nothing,” Don Willie said with a generous wave of his hand. “We know each other too long for misunderstanding, eh?” But Beecher saw the tiny blisters of perspiration gleaming on his forehead.

Don Willie had made his first mistake, Beecher decided; he should have waited for Don Julio to ask him for the passport. And it shouldn’t have been so conveniently at hand. It would have been a nice touch to pretend it was lost or mislaid — then there could have been the business of searching through drawers and purses, of calling to flustered maids, of murmured speculations and puzzled frowns. But Don Willie had underscored the significance of the passport with a stupid flourish. And he realized that now.

He probably hadn’t wanted to tax his acting abilities any further; he had done a splendid job thus far, but enough was enough! Ring the curtain down with a last crisp bit of theater. Produce the absolving passport.

Don Julio flipped through it with mechanical skill, eyes narrowing as he examined the dates of entradas and salidas. “Yes, of course,” he said, and returned the book to Don Willie with the smart, approving gesture of a satisfied customs officer. “She most certainly has not left Spain.”

There was a light footstep in the hallway, and the three men turned their eyes alertly to the doorway as Ilse came into the room. She smiled politely at them as she turned to join Don Willie in front of the fireplace. She wore a brown tweed skirt and a yellow linen blouse, and her dark hair was brushed cleanly away from her forehead and held at the back of her neck with a narrow red ribbon. In the shadows of the tall mantelpiece her body seemed very slight and vulnerable.

Beecher sighed wearily; he felt sick and dispirited, and saddened intolerably by the effort she was making to meet his eyes, to smile at him, to control her trembling lips. Don Willie rubbed his hand up and down her back, massaging her delicate shoulder-blades with thick strong fingers. “You are cold,” he said gently. “I’m sorry they insist on disturbing you.”

“It’s all right. I was reading. What do you want?”

“God in heaven, I want nothing but my sleep,” Don Willie said, putting an arm about her shoulders. He raised his head and stared at Don Julio and Beecher. “Very well, here is the mysterious person who is causing so much trouble by sitting in her room and reading her book. Now what do you want of her?”

Don Julio glanced at Beecher. “Well, Mike?” He turned as he said this, and moved beyond the rim of light extended by the fireplace. He stood in shadow then, removed from the scene, but in a position to watch the faces and expressions of everyone in the room; his cold blue eyes flickered from Beecher to Ilse as he put a cigarette in his mouth and drew his lighter from his pocket. “Well, Mike?” he said once more, and lit his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke toward the dark ceiling. He stared at Beecher over the little flame of the lighter, a tentative and curious smile touching his lined, shadowed features.

Beecher sighed again, and looked sadly at Ilse. He had known what was coming from the minute Don Willie strode so confidently into the room; Willie couldn’t have brought off that bit of acting unless he had known that Beecher was alive. And only Ilse could have told him. Beecher had thought he would be fired with a sustaining hatred when she came on stage to play her part in the deception. But he didn’t hate her, he realized; he felt sorry for her. And he almost felt sorry for Don Willie.

“Tell the truth, Ilse,” he said.

“About what, Mike?” There was no expression at all in her small, pale face. “I don’t understand.”

“Please, Ilse,” he said wearily. “This won’t help. It’s no good.”

“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Don Willie held her close against his powerful body. “Of course you don’t. And you are tired, I know.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Last night you were happy, Ilse,” Beecher said quietly. “Remember? You knew you were free. There was nothing to be afraid of any more.”

She shook her head quickly. “I don’t know why you are saying these things,” she said, but her lips trembled as she spoke, and her eyes became dry and brilliant with pain. Don Willie was watching her closely. “I don’t see the use of all this,” he said hoarsely to Don Julio. “She has been sick. She needs her rest. Why do you upset her?”

Don Julio stood quietly in the shadows smoking his cigarette. There was a thoughtful, musing expression on his face; he might have been listening to a distant strain of music. “I agree with you,” he said mildly. “Mr. Beecher’s fantastic charges would seem to be unsupported. I apologize for disturbing you.” He walked to Beecher’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “You will come with me to my office, please.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Beecher said, without taking his eyes from Ilse’s face.

“You will be held for murder.”

“Then let’s go,” Beecher said. There was a chance that Ilse’s and Don Willie’s desperate lie might be difficult to disprove, he knew; her passport would be a strong prop for her story. There wasn’t much to contradict it. Beecher’s word, but not much else. A pair of GIs had seen her in Morocco, along with a frightened American tourist, and a sea-going smuggler. And their testimony would be counterbalanced by Don Willie’s maids who were obviously ready, through fear or bribery, to testify that Ilse had been in the villa all during the week. But Beecher wasn’t seriously worried about any of this.

He stood for a moment watching Ilse. She tried to meet his eyes, but couldn’t; she turned away from him, her body stiff and rigid within Don Willie’s arm, and he saw the tendons rising cruelly in her slender throat.

“You’re flying right back into your cage, Ilse,” he said gently. “You don’t have to. Don’t you remember what it was like to be free?”

“Please,” she said, and her voice was like that of someone straining on a rack. “I... I must go.”

“Yes!” Don Willie said sharply. “We have had enough of this.”

She slipped from his arms, the firelight gleaming on her slim bare legs, and walked swiftly to the doorway, her head high, and her hands clenched tightly at her sides. When she turned into the hallway they could hear her high heels clicking rapidly on the marble flagging, their sound fading toward the rear of the villa. But the tempo of her footsteps quickened suddenly; she was running then, Beecher knew, running frantically away from him. A door slammed heavily, shutting off the sharp clatter of her steps, and silence settled in the house.

Don Julio touched Beecher’s arm. “Please?”

“All right.”

Don Julio gave Don Willie a soft, smiling salute. “Good night. You must forgive this intrusion.”

“I know it is not your fault. There is no blame to you.”

“Thank you,” Don Julio said gravely.

Beecher walked beside him to the door. The policeman moved with the confident step of an infantry cadet, his shoulders straight and level, and his legs swinging to the beat of a march. He pulled open the door and bowed to Beecher. “If you please.”

Beecher smiled. He swept an arm toward the door with a formal flourish. “After you, I insist,” he said, and winked quickly at him.

Don Julio raised an eyebrow. Then he shrugged. “Very well.”

When he had gone a few steps down the pathway leading to the gates of the villa, Beecher turned in the door and looked back at Don Willie.

“I like things tidy,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “You used your B-26 to try to kill Laura and Lynch, didn’t you? You sent them off with a handshake, I imagine, then took the plane up and banked around to knock them off the road. Am I right? It’s a small point, but, as I say, I’m a tidy man.”

Don Willie stood with his back to the fireplace. The color was leaving his face, and his flesh seemed to be shrinking, plump cheeks sagging against the bones of his skull and drawing deep creases beside his nose and mouth. “Get out,” he said hoarsely. “You talk like a madman.”

Beecher nodded thoughtfully. “I’m wondering how you’ll do it. The revolver in the study is traditional, isn’t it? With a last glass of brandy and the dress uniform with full ribbons and decorations. The Imperial German officers liked that. But the Nazis favored cyanide. Of course, civilians find the razor in a warm bath pretty efficient. You might think about it.”

Don Willie raised his head until the muscles in his throat stood out painfully; his eyes rolled like those of a maddened stallion.

“I will not die,” he said, and his voice sounded as if it might be ripping out the insides of his throat.

“Think of the honor of your house,” Beecher said dryly. “It’s a small price, surely. Good-by, Don Willie.”