“Yes, all these things are true,” Don Julio said, and his manner was that of a professor encouraging a student in the pursuit of logic. “I believe in the plane, and the documents, and the body of the Englishman. But these things would be just as true whether you were deceived by Don Willie, as you maintain, or whether you were working freely with him for your own profit. The question is: can I believe in you?”
Beecher sighed wearily. “I’m glad our roles aren’t reversed.”
The door opened then and Jorge came hurrying into the office. “She isn’t there,” he said to Don Julio and his eyes were bright with excitement. “She is definitely not at the Quita Pena.”
Don Julio looked thoughtfully at Beecher. “Well, you have had an explanation for everything else. What do you make of this development?”
Beecher stood up slowly. “She’s got to be there.” He stared from Don Julio to Jorge. “What are you talking about? I left her there not more than half an hour ago.”
“Perhaps that is so. I don’t know.” Jorge shrugged politely. “She is not there now. This I do know. I looked along the terrace, in the bar, at the tables in the back room. The waiters do not remember her. She is definitely not at the Quita Pena.”
“Maybe — maybe she went to buy cigarettes or something.” Beecher wet his dry lips. He felt suddenly confused and apprehensive: it was as if the ground had shifted abruptly under his feet. “You can find her,” he said to Don Julio.
“You seem quite confident of my abilities.”
“Goddammit, are you just going to stand here?” Beecher asked angrily. “She’s in the village, I tell you. People don’t disappear like phantoms.”
“Come! There is no need to shout.” Don Julio walked to the windows. “I like that phrase you just used. People don’t disappear like phantoms, wasn’t that it? I agree completely.” He pulled the shade down an inch or so, then released it; the shade shot up, snapping about the roller. “Please direct your attention to the terrace of the Bar Central,” Don Julio said. “Do you wonder that I find your story incredible?” Beecher looked through the misting rain. Cars and trucks rattled past, and an old woman was running heavily toward the doorway of a shop with a newspaper held above her head. Suddenly Beecher felt as if a huge hand had closed around his heart, squeezing life and breath from his body. He shook his head incredulously, and caught hold of the window with a tight, straining grip.
“Good God!” he said, in a thick, hoarse voice.
Don Willie was sitting alone at a table near the front of a terrace, a bottle of beer before him, and one of his huge German shepherds crouched attentively at his feet. He wore a black raincoat, with a yellow scarf knotted about his throat, and when he smiled up at a waiter bringing him change, his round red face looked as blankly cheerful as that of a Halloween pumpkin. As Beecher stared at him, still shaking his head helplessly, Don Willie collected his change and walked from the terrace, strolling without haste toward the little street which ran down to his villa. The big dog trotted at his heels, its black head swinging alertly from side to side. Don Willie proceeded down the plaza with an air of approachable majesty, exchanging an occasional smile or nod with men and women huddling in doorways out of the rain. He stopped and talked briefly with the owner of a wine shop, who was looking anxiously at the dark sky. Then he strolled on, a massive black figure in the glow of the street lamps, hands clasped behind his back, and his manner suggesting a stern but kindly bürgermeister parading through his tranquil kingdom on a sleepy Sunday afternoon.
Don Julio put a hand on Beecher’s shoulder. “He hasn’t left the village this week. This I know, Mike.”
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.