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.”