“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.”
24
At midnight the little street which curled through the heart of Mirimar was quiet and empty, and the pavement gleamed wetly from the rain. Beecher and Don Julio walked silently past the somber bulk of the little church, its twin steeples like horns against the sky, and turned at the railroad crossing where the road climbed gradually up to the central plaza of the village. Without speaking, they went past dark homes and shuttered shops, their footsteps ringing in cadence against the echoing silence. A dog trotted toward them, eyes gleaming like luminous green marbles in the darkness, and from a second-floor room they heard the faint hoarse cry of a man singing hondo.
They crossed the lighted but empty plaza a moment or so later, and entered Don Julio’s warm office. Don Julio spoke quietly to Jorge, who nodded and hurried from the room. Then the policeman removed his stiff, peaked cap and sat down behind his desk.
“Please,” he said then, and nodded to a chair.
“Thanks,” Beecher said, but instead of sitting he turned and walked to the window. Lighting a cigarette, he stared into the dark tunnel of the street which he and the policeman had just walked through; it was possible to imagine the silence of the little houses, the brooding bulk of the church, and then the sharp turn that led toward the Black Dove. After a moment he turned and glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the wall. The light flickered rhythmically on the swinging brass weight of its pendulum.
“So?” Don Julio said at last.
Beecher shrugged. “So?”
Don Julio removed a sturdy watch from the inner pocket of his jacket and placed it before him on the desk. There was a hint of amusement in his clear blue eyes. “Very well, then,” he said. “We shall both wait.”
Beecher was caught off-balance; he turned and stared sharply at him. “What do you mean?”
Don Julio was smiling now, seemingly quite pleased with himself; he settled back comfortably and ran the palms of his hands over his smooth silvered hair. “How much time do you intend to give her, Mike?”
Beecher shook his head helplessly. Then he laughed. “I’ll never learn,” he said. “I always underestimate you.”
“Thank you. Recent experience has made you a subtle observer. I’m pleased I can still play a small trick on you.”
“You knew all along I was telling the truth?”
“No, far from it.” Don Julio sighed. “I prayed it was the truth, but I wasn’t certain. Don Willie’s difficulties in Morocco have been official gossip within the Administration for some time. The loss of the pertinent documents would have delayed the accounting, but not for very long. But this alone does not prove or disprove the truth of your story. And I wanted to make sure it could be proven.”
“And you think it can?”
“Most certainly, I do. I have posted Jorge to the Black Dove to make sure that Don Willie doesn’t leave Mirimar tonight.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“It was partly your manner at Don Willie’s. You didn’t behave like a man whose life hung on a lie. Then you didn’t mention the box of documents which is on the plane. That weapon might have knocked Don Willie to his knees. But you didn’t use it. I didn’t understand this until the girl came in.” Don Julio smiled. “She is a pretty thing. And considering her emotional pressures, she did not lie badly.”
“You knew she was lying?”
“Oh, yes. You could have broken her to pieces with one more word. This was quixotic, and perhaps a bit foolish. Why did you spare her?”
“You mean, why didn’t I break her to pieces?” Beecher shrugged and turned back to the window. “She’s got to do that herself. It’s her only chance for salvation.”
“I understand now. Everything.” Don Julio glanced down at his watch. “But how much time can I allow for this experiment?”
“I don’t know. What does the police manual say? How much leeway is allowed for a strike at freedom?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. The plane from Madrid will be here shortly. The officials from Iberia and the Inspectors of the Guardia Civil will get the truth from her. And there is the end of it. Her chance will be gone.”
“The legal side of it isn’t important.”
Don Julio smiled. “Lawyers would be discouraged by your attitude. However, I understand.”
“I’m thinking of the kind of freedom you can enjoy in a jail.”
“Yes, of course. But we can’t give that to her. She must earn it.” Don Julio got to his feet and joined Beecher at the window. “She is important to you, Mike?”
“Sure,” Beecher said. “But not quite as you mean. I’ve learned to live in the present. But I know now we’re responsible for that present.”
“And she is part of your present?”
“That’s it.”
Don Julio sighed. “It seems a rather clinical approach to matters of the heart. Does it mean you’re too old for dreams?”
Beecher smiled and patted his shoulder. “No, I’m too young for them.”
“Why don’t you stay on in Spain?”
“You mean, after the interrogations and the statements and the trial?”
“Yes. I’ll miss you if you go.”
Beecher sighed. He would miss Don Julio in turn, and he would miss Spain. But he felt pleased and excited at the prospect of going home. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said. “But I’ll drink a glass of sherry to you whenever I hear Don Giovanni.”
“Thank you. And remember to smile at the memory of our long foolish talks. What is it? What’s the matter?”
Beecher had suddenly gripped his arm. Now he pulled Don Julio closer to the window. Someone was coming up the street that twisted up to the village from the sea. Through the darkness Beecher saw a small, slight figure, the flash of a white raincoat.