Уильям Макгиверн - Seven Lies South

“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.

He let out his breath slowly. “Can I go down to meet her?”

“Yes. I would like to hear her story alone, however. Will you stand by?”

“I’ll be here when you need me.”

Beecher opened the door and walked down the steps of Don Julio’s office. The rain seemed to be over, but the sky was heavy and close, and trailers of white fog twisted through the empty square. The wind off the sea was cool and damp and salty, and the dark flowers in the middle of the plaza were swaying gently with its drift. A lone waiter in a white jacket was removing tables and chairs from the terrace of the Bar Central.

Beecher straightened himself and walked across the square to meet her. He realized that he must have picked up a cadence from Don Julio; his heels rang in a confident rhythm on the old stones of the village.

She was walking slowly up the street with her arms stiff and unmoving at her sides; it was as if she were approaching a gallows. There were drops of rain in her dark hair, but her face was wet with tears. She saw him stop for her, but she would have walked past him if he hadn’t caught her arm. He turned her gently, his hands light on her slim shoulders.

“I was waiting for you,” he said.

She began to cry then, sobbing like a lost and frightened child. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Please. Never mind.”

“I waited for you at the Quita Pena. I waited for you and I was so happy. Some fishermen had worked on one of Don Willie’s boats in the afternoon. They were talking of him and I learned that he was alive. I couldn’t help myself. I flew to him like a steel-filing to a magnet.”

“And he begged you to lie. He said the truth would destroy him. I know that. So does Don Julio. He’s waiting for you.”

“Will you come with me?” she said, in a wistful little voice.

“He wants to talk to you alone. I’ll take you to his office.” Beecher put an arm about her shoulders and they walked across the bright empty square.

“I will destroy him,” she said, whispering the words into the wind. “But it isn’t good, it isn’t a good thing.”

“It will be good later.”

“When I’m free? Free for what?”

“I’ll be waiting. We’ll need each other for a while.”

“Yes, for a while,” she said sadly.

“Who knows?” he said, and tightened his grip around her shoulders. “Now is what counts.”

At the steps leading up to Don Julio’s office, he kissed her gravely on the forehead. Don Julio opened the door of his office and bowed to Ilse. “Please come in,” he said.

She looked quickly and uncertainly at Beecher, and he saw the fear in her dark eyes. But she tried to smile. “Please wait,” she said. “Even a little while is all right.” Then she turned and ran up the steps.

When the door closed Beecher put his hands in his pockets and strolled across the plaza toward the Bar Central. He saw a pair of candles flickering in the dark street that led down to the sea. It would be Father Miguel, he thought, on a sick call. The priest came hurrying into the square, preceded by two men with hands cupped about the fitful flames of their candles. They were almost running. Father Miguel’s hands were clasped to his breast, folded gently and lovingly over a small, flat leather case. He carried the Host close to his heart, safe from the winds of the night.

Beecher stopped and blessed himself as the priest hurried by. Father Miguel glanced sideways at him, without a nod or smile, but there was a greeting in his quick look, an acknowledgment of Beecher’s deference to the ritual of his faith.

When the priest had disappeared down the street, the candles winking out abruptly in the darkness, Beecher strolled on toward the Bar Central. He discovered a five-peseta coin in his pocket, a duro. Just one duro. He smiled at this. It seemed a fitting and happy omen. Just the price of a brandy.