I Was Jack Mortimer

4

HE DROVE DOWN GETREIDEMARKT, past the fish market and, just before he came to Wiedner Hauptstrasse, stopped in a kind of a passageway between newly erected trading stalls and shops.

He got out and tried both the rear door handles.

They were firmly locked.

Then, leaning across the steering-wheel, he pushed shut the panels of the partition.

The car was all right here, in a sort of semi-darkness — not where it was pitch black, which could arouse suspicion.

He glanced at the car once more, went over to the corner of the street, turned, and found himself facing the brightly lit shops of Wiedner Hauptstrasse.

Right there on the left was a slot-machine bar.

He went in.

It was a large, circular, dome-shaped room with slot machines around the perimeter and tables in the middle at which people were eating and drinking.

A radio was blaring.

He walked past the machines and studied the labels.

Over one of the taps was the inscription “Sherry”.

He picked up a glass, held it under the tap, and inserted a coin in the slot.

The interior emitted a hollow gurgling and spluttering sound, and sherry — somewhat unappetisingly, he thought — gushed from the metal tap into the glass.

There are many people who don’t enjoy the luxury of having desert wines served up elegantly. Slot-machine bars are meant for the likes of them.

He picked up the glass, turned and leant his back against the railing of the machine. He took a gulp and looked around.

Next to him stood two girls seemingly perplexed in front of a fan-shaped, glass-covered carousel-type platter with sandwiches, so-called appetizers. Anything but, he thought. Did they want one?

Evidently. They were carrying on as if they didn’t know what to do. They giggled and looked across as though expecting that Sponer would help them.

One of them was slim with sharp features and brown wavy hair, neatly arranged under a hat.

The memory of someone who had been adjusting her hair under her hat welled up in him — a lady in a dark suit with a fox fur slung over her shoulders, one foot delicately poised on the running board of his car, looking at herself in her mirror. He couldn’t see her face, he only caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. Large grey eyes gazed at him from under a short veil.

When was that? Three days ago? He had a feeling it had been more like years.

He emptied the glass, put it down, mumbled something and stared at the floor.

The girls next to him laughed again.

“You couldn’t show us,” he suddenly heard one of them ask, “how you… how you work one of these machines… What you have to do?…” And the two laughed again, teasingly.

He raised his eyes. He hadn’t yet looked at the one who had just spoken. She was above average height, very pretty, with a strikingly pale complexion, slightly spoilt by too much make-up, and platinum-blonde hair. Overall she gave the impression of being too spick and span, which irritated him as might the perfectly groomed hands of a manicurist in a salon.

Too much of a good thing, he thought. A pretty doll.

They both looked at him.

“You don’t know what to do?” he asked.

“No,” the blonde said, but very casually, as though she couldn’t care less whether he believed her or not. He could see they weren’t streetwalkers. Probably some office girls who were just enjoying themselves.

He leant over and took the coin that the blonde was holding.

The touch of her hand sent a shock up his arm.

The turmoil of the last few hours had made him react much more strongly to everything. The light, too, dazzled him, the music was deafening, the behaviour of the girls affected him more than he cared to admit, and the blonde, whom he’d probably have disregarded otherwise, suddenly embarrassed him.

He threw her a glance and let the money drop in the machine. The tray turned and dispensed a sandwich.

“Thank you,” the blonde said, and took it from the machine.

The girls might have expected him to start up a conversation, but he said nothing. The blonde brought the sandwich to her mouth and took a bite. As she opened her lips, he saw her gleaming teeth.

“Are you going to stay?” the brunette asked at last.

“Here?”

“Yes. There’ll be dancing now.”

“Really?”

As they spoke, and while the radio continued to blare, a dance band consisting of four men stepped onto the stage. In the middle, between the tables, there was a free space, obviously the dance floor.

“Do you dance?” Sponer asked.

“Yes. And you?”

“Not very well,” he said.

“We must have a go,” she said. “Let’s sit down at a table.”

“I haven’t got time,” he mumbled.

“This won’t take long.”

He thought for a moment, then straightened up and said something like, “All right then.”

The brunette smiled, and she and the blonde, who kept on eating as she listened, headed for one of the tables, followed by Sponer. They sat down, and the girls placed their handbags and gloves on the table. Then, while the brunette was taking off her coat and Sponer got up to help her, a waiter approached to take their orders.

The brunette, hanging her coat over the back of her chair, ordered a devilled egg.

The radio fell silent and the band struck up.

The blonde put the rest of her sandwich in her mouth, wiped her hands on her handkerchief and also took off her coat. The waiter asked for her order.

“What was that you were drinking?” she asked Sponer.

“Sherry,” he said.

“I’ll have one, too,” she said to the waiter.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Same again,” Sponer said, and sat down.

Some couples had already begun to dance.

“Aren’t you going to take your coat off?” the brunette asked.

“No, the fact is,” he mumbled, “I can’t… I must be going soon.” He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to the girls. The brunette declined, but the blonde helped herself, and while he was giving her a light, a young man, obviously a clerk or the like, approached her and asked her for a dance. She put the cigarette down and got up.

Sponer lit his, and the blonde and her partner walked onto the dance floor and began to dance.

“Pity you don’t want to dance,” the brunette said.

“Well,” Sponer said, but just then the waiter appeared with their orders. The girl asked for some bread, which was passed to her, and she began to eat. Sponer looked across to the blonde. He concluded she was the prettiest one there. He took a sip from the glass. The music stopped, but started up again after the dancers had clapped a few times.

While he kept looking at the dancers, Sponer suddenly again had a feeling of total unreality, this time not about what had happened, but what was actually happening. It struck him as totally incredible that, after driving like a madman for two hours with the dead man through the whole town, he should now be sitting with the girls, drinking and smoking; or, to be more precise, with his spirits raised by the music and the alcohol, he could momentarily no longer dissociate the deed of the stranger and his own flight from the consequences that were bound to follow. Since he hadn’t observed the actual murder and indeed hadn’t even seen the murderer, he was pretty sure that as soon as the crime was discovered it’d be put at his door, so that in the end he began to feel as though he had in fact perpetrated it himself. And had he really been the murderer, in all probability he wouldn’t have been behaving any differently from the way he was now. He’d just be sitting with the two girls, smoking and drinking. One knows how often criminals, after committing a crime, seek the company of women simply in order to forget.

The brunette may well have tried to engage him in small talk a couple of times, and he might have replied without thinking, but just then she repeated something to which he had apparently not responded. “There’s something on your sleeve,” he heard her repeat.

He glanced down. She had got hold of the right-hand sleeve of his coat and was looking at the material. There were a couple of dark stains at the bottom edge.

It was dried blood.

He shuddered. “Get out of here!” a voice cried within him. “Now! Immediately!”

“Oh,” he said with apparent unconcern, though haltingly, “it’s… it’s nothing. Just some… p-paint. Th-that’s all it is.” He pretended to look at it and at the same time felt sweat break out on his forehead. He stood up. “I–I’ll…” he stuttered, “I must… wash it off with some water…”

“Come with me,” she said, “I’ll do it for you.” And she, too, was about to get up. “There’s bound to be some warm water in the kitchen…”

“No,” he said. “Thanks all the same. Don’t worry. I’ll… I’ll be back in just a second…”

“But it’s no trouble,” she interjected.

“Just don’t worry!” he said. He had already taken a few steps from the table, but came back and without a word picked up his cap, which he had left behind.

The girl looked at him in amazement.

He ignored her, reached into his pocket, tossed a couple of coins on a table as he passed, and made for the exit. He almost ran the last few steps. He indicated to a waiter, who had suddenly appeared in front of him, where he had thrown the money. As he did so he could see the brunette still staring at him goggle-eyed. Next moment he was out on the street.

Rain glistened in the light of the street lamps.

He ran to the right and turned the corner.

A man was standing by his cab, and had his hand next to the steering wheel as he kept honking the horn for all he was worth.

“Cabby!” he shouted as Sponer rounded the corner.

Sponer was at his side in a flash.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” he hissed, and yanked the man’s hand away from the horn.

“You weren’t here!” the man yelled back. “You think I like standing out in the rain? Metternichgasse, number nine!” and he reached for the door handle as if to get in.

Sponer jumped in and turned on the engine.

“The door won’t open!” the man shouted. Instead of answering, Sponer engaged second gear, put his foot down and sped off.

The man tumbled back and swore after him.

*

Driving at speed along Wiedner Hauptstrasse, Sponer lifted up his arm to have a look at the stains on the sleeve.

“Dammit!” he swore.

At Paulanerkirche he turned left.

Not to have noticed the blood! Perhaps there were more stains on his suit and collar. He turned the mirror and looked. As the street lights flashed past, he saw only his white face with its dilated eyes, almost dark blue, lighting up and dimming at intervals.

He didn’t even notice that he had crossed Alleegasse. At the Schwarzenberg Palace he slowed down.

The large clock over the ring road showed nearly ten.

He drove down Lastenstrasse.

The interior of the car was full of blood, too, no doubt — the seat, the carpet! And the bullets, after passing through the body, must be lodged somewhere in the upholstery!

This man had messed up everything with his death.

The blood could be washed off, though one would have to explain away the damage. How though? Surely he’d find a way, provided the dead man and his luggage were disposed of, provided they simply weren’t there any more. As if they’d never existed, neither the man nor his cases. “A Mr So-and-so?”—“No record of him here.”—“He travelled to Vienna?”—“Definitely not.”—“And he didn’t check in?”—“He didn’t check in anywhere.”—“Did he check out at the other end?”—“Yes, but didn’t arrive here.”—“When did he leave?”—“Tuesday.”—“Really? Time of arrival?”—“Eighteen thirty-five… at the Westbahnhof.”—“Yes, he should have been on that train, but the fact is he wasn’t…”—“What?”—“The drivers?”—“Yes, one of them… Yes, the porter said that… Yes, to the Bristol.”—“But that must’ve been someone else. Nobody by that name had checked in at the hotel…”—“What do you mean, nobody had checked in?…”—“He must’ve though, but…”—“What was the driver’s name?”—“Ferdinand Sponer.”—“I beg your pardon?”—“Yes, of course.”—“Yes, sir, certainly. We’ll bring him in for questioning.”

There could be mail waiting at the Bristol, which was no longer being picked up; there could have been meetings arranged, which someone had failed to attend; someone might have been expected, but hadn’t turned up. In each and every case they would notice a person was missing, and in each case they’d finally ask Sponer, “Where is he?”

He who had imagined he was lost if the body were found now realized he was lost if the dead man didn’t turn up safe and well at the hotel.

Having sized up the situation, he stopped agonizing. He simply went into action.

He drove up Lastenstrasse, turned into Marxergasse, crossed the Rotunden Bridge over the Danube Canal and, taking Rustenschacherallee, ended up in Lusthausstrasse.

The huge oaks and poplars in the Prater rustled in the wind and rain.

Just before the second flower-bed island in the road, he emerged onto Hauptallee. At the Lusthaus — the Pavilion — he had planned to drive up Enzersdorfer Allee, a potholed street, overgrown with grass and lined with ancient trees, but changed his mind when he spotted a mounted policeman on patrol, who could have stopped to ask him what he was up to on that bumpy, almost impassable pitch-black road.

Consequently, he took the right fork along the Poloplatz and the stands of the Freudenauer racecourse till he reached the Danube Canal again and finally ended up at some warehouses where he was able to turn left once more and go back the way he had come, thereby making a circuit of the racecourse. The roads here were no more than raised gravel embankments, poorly lit as was to be expected in the middle of the meadow lands. A disused tramline ran in the centre of the road.

He drove along the railings of the racecourse, under a cluster of trees which rustled in the wind, turned off into a short, dark track that abruptly became bumpy, and finally came to a wide hollow about six foot deep, densely overgrown with leafless shrubs. Instead of leaves, the shrubs were thickly covered with clumps and bunches of wine-red autumn berries. Caught in the beams of his headlights, a veritable sea of bright red and crimson suddenly lit up in the pouring rain. He resolutely drove over to where the shrubbery was less dense. Creepers became entangled in the wheels of his car.

He turned off all the lights, pushed the interior partitions apart and reached again into the interior to release one of the door handles. Then he got out and opened the door.

Darkness, redolent of death, enshrouded him. The rain drummed on the roof of the car and soaked his cap and overcoat.

He leant inside and struck a match. The corpse, shaken into an untidy heap, lay between the seat and the suitcases.

Sponer transferred the match to his left hand, and with his right hand took hold of the man’s hair and pulled him up by his head till his body sagged over backwards.

He now saw that the man was about his own age, clean-shaven, with features which, but for the wan pallor and the bloodstains, would not have been unattractive. A pair of greenish, half-shut eyes stared vacantly back at him.

He dropped the match which had burned to the end, struck another, and began to empty the man’s pockets as quickly as he could. In the breast pockets he found a passport and a couple of letters; in the waistcoat — a bundle of keys; in the overcoat pockets — cigarettes, a lighter and two French newspapers; in the left trouser pocket — some silver coins and a couple of loose, short cartridges; in the right — a handkerchief; in the left hip pocket — a wallet; and in the right hip pocket — a short-barrelled large-calibre revolver.

The man had clearly tried to reach for it, because Sponer had seen the dead man sitting with both hands on his right hip before the body collapsed in a heap. Sponer took all these things. They were partly blood-stained, as the whole of the dead man’s waistcoat was soaked in blood that had already turned sticky.

Apart from the bullet holes in his throat, the man had two more in his upper chest.

In the corner, where he had been sitting, three holes could also be seen: one in the roof lining which stretched right down to the top of the armrest, and two in the upholstery of the armrest.

Sponer got out, went in the dark to the rear and felt the bodywork to see if he could find the exit holes. He only found one, through the roof. The other two bullets had obviously not penetrated the car body. They might have become lodged somewhere. They were probably lead, rather than steel ones.

Sponer struck another match to try and throw some light on the shrubbery in the hollow. There were a lot of loose stones and gravel that had rolled down from the road.

After the match had gone out, he began to scoop up the stones with his bare hands, take them to the car and stuff them in the dead man’s pockets. Every now and again he’d listen, but there was no sound apart from the wind and rain.

He filled the dead man’s pockets as far as he could with the stones, including those of the overcoat. Finally, he also stuffed stones down the trouser legs, which he then tied fast at the bottom with his own coat belt to prevent the stones falling out, and looped the ends of the belt round both legs.

He wiped his hands on the man’s overcoat, stood for a couple of moments in the darkness, slammed the rear door shut, got back into the driver’s seat, switched on the lights and turned on the engine again.

It took him a few attempts to mount the embankment which, in the headlights, rose sharply in front of him. The wheels kept sinking deeper and deeper into the soft ground, but finally, after he had backed a little and had got some speed up, the car cleared the slope and came onto the road again.

For a distance he drove towards the city centre, then turned left at an abandoned, dilapidated inn on the quay, the Winterhafen, and passed a kind of wooden outhouse, no longer in use, like the rest of the buildings on the Winterhafen. There were only two old barges there, but without their crew, who were probably sleeping somewhere in the city rather than on board.

Another hundred yards and he found himself on the Danube.

He pulled up next to the railway line.

The river, glistening under the night sky, surged past with a soft, menacing power.

Sponer turned off the engine and lights, and listened. All that was to be heard was the patter of the rain and the surge of the river.

The lights of some houses shone a long distance away.

Sponer slowly got out of his cab. After standing still for a few seconds, he suddenly swung open the rear door, reached into the darkness and dragged the corpse out. The body, weighed down with the stones, was inordinately heavy. Sponer couldn’t carry it. Holding it under the arms, he dragged it as fast as he could to the edge of the road, over the railway line and down the stony embankment. There he paused for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he pushed the body into the water.

But it remained where it was at the river’s edge. It was too heavy for him to lift up and throw into deeper water.

He therefore had to resolve to wade into the water himself and drag the body after him. He threw off his overcoat and took a few steps into the river. The bank dropped steeply, and the water almost immediately came up to his chest. It was ice-cold, and he nearly lost his footing in the current.

He grabbed hold of the dead man again and pulled the corpse towards him. He could feel the current tugging at the body. He took one more step into the deep water and then let go. With a slight gurgle the body disappeared. He himself was almost swept away. He threw himself towards the bank, felt himself being picked up by the current, but managed to hold onto some stonework, drew himself onto the embankment and, a bit farther downstream, emerged out of the water. He was soaked to the skin. He looked for his overcoat, found it, put it on, and clambered up the embankment.

He cast a quick look around. Nothing. Then he glanced again down the river. The rippling, swirling torrent rushed past at speed.

The dead man was gone.

The rain would wash away the trail of blood leading from the car to the water’s edge…

Sponer washed the blood from the interior of the car at one of the few Danube tributaries that could still be seen here and there in the marshy meadows, collecting into small ponds or pools.

Then he lifted the two suitcases onto the seat, felt for the gloves which he had thrown into the rear at the Opera House, found them and stuck them in his coat pocket. He removed the fibre mat and inspected it by the light of a match.

There were a few dark spots, but not many. The dead man’s clothing must have soaked up most of the blood.

Suddenly Sponer caught sight of the man’s hat lying before him on the running board. It had very likely rolled out when he was pulling out the floor mat.

Sponer took the mat to the edge of the pond, threw it in the water and pushed it under. Then he picked up the hat, placed a stone inside, tore off the band, tied it up so that the stone couldn’t fall out, and threw the lot into the pond. The bundle struck the water with a splash and sank.

Sponer looked for a rag in one of the side pockets next to the driver’s seat, dipped it in water, and began to wash the blood from the leather upholstery. He wrung the rag out, dipped it again in water, and washed the upholstery once more, in addition to the floor and the suitcases. He repeated this several times.

After that, he threw the rag into the reeds, pulled out the mat from the water, rinsed it, wrung it out, and replaced it in the car. He positioned the suitcases on the floor, struck another match, and looked into the back. There was no more blood to be seen.

He looked at the bullet holes once more by the light of a match, pulled out his penknife and picked at the edge of the holes until they lost their characteristic appearance and it looked as if the upholstery and roof had been damaged in some other way.

He listened all the while in case anyone was coming. But there was no one. Once, two cars sped past above on the road. That was all.

That the inside of the car was wet, he could explain by the rainy weather and the wet shoes and clothes of his fares.

And where the upholstery was damaged, he’d say it had just split. After all, the cab was not new; it had been formerly converted from a private car.

By the time he left the Prater, it was almost eleven. He now had to hurry.

First he drove to his flat, stopping at the corner of the street rather than right up at the house.

He took the suitcases out of the car, carried them to the front door, opened it and, with the suitcases in his hands, groped his way up the dark stairs.

He stopped in front of his flat and listened. It was dark on the other side of the glass door panels; his landlord, as was to be expected, was already fast asleep.

He unlocked the door, quickly crossed the entrance hall and walked into his room. He put the suitcases down and switched on the light. Then he went back and closed both doors.

He took off his overcoat. His suit was soaking wet, and so was the inside of the overcoat.

He took the dead man’s belongings out of his pockets and put them on the table. They, too, were wet to some extent, and only the passport, wallet and the letters, which he had placed in his breast pocket, had stayed almost dry.

He opened the passport.

It was American, issued in Chicago, in the name of one Jack Mortimer, bachelor, citizen of the United States, born on 12th November 1899, occupation not specified, oval face, grey eyes, brown hair.

On page three was a stamped photograph of the dead man, jejune like all passport photos; a fairly young man with slicked-back hair, signed underneath: Jack Mortimer.

Jack Mortimer!

Without taking his eyes off the passport, Sponer began to undress. He opened the wallet. Inside was some Austrian money — not a lot, a couple of hundred-franc notes and a book of traveller’s cheques.

He took the letters. There were three, written in English and fairly short.

Naked, he held them to the light and tried to read them. They had no heading and were signed only with a W.

The addressee was Jack Mortimer, Hotel Royal, Paris. They bore French stamps and had been franked in Paris.

They were love letters.

He began to feel cold; he took the bunch of keys and opened both suitcases. Underwear, clothing and personal belongings, thrown together haphazardly, tumbled forth.

He decided that he’d go through it all later; for the time being he just took a dark-grey suit, a pair of black shoes and some underwear.

The shirt that he put on was too tight at the neck, so he took one of his own out of the wardrobe and put it on. The shoes were slightly too large, but they would do. The jacket was a shade too narrow around the shoulders and the sleeves were about an inch too long. But he could wear them, all the same.

He chose a dark-red tie belonging to the dead man and put it on.

Then he took his own wet clothes except for the overcoat and locked them in the wardrobe. He removed the key. He washed the overcoat sleeve in the washbasin to remove the bloodstains — likewise the gloves, which he withdrew from the pocket — put the overcoat on even though it was still damp, put his cap on, and stuffed the man’s things as well as his own into his pockets. Then he turned off the light, left the room, locked it from the outside and put the key in his pocket.

He felt his way down the dark stairs, left the house and returned to his car.

He got in and drove three houses farther on to his garage, a large, roofed, dimly lit yard, at the entrance to which someone was still washing a car.

He asked the man why he was still at it so late.

The man mumbled that the car had to be ready first thing in the morning.

Sponer nodded in reply.

He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. Just then Georg Haintl walked into the garage to take over from him.

He had probably been in a bar, because he smelt of wine.

Sponer let him have the car together with the day’s takings. He paid with his own money what Jack Mortimer hadn’t. Or was it Jack Mortimer’s money he paid with? He didn’t know, the silver had got mixed up in his pocket.

“What’s that tie you’ve got on?” Haintl asked.

“Oh,” said Sponer, “it’s a new one. By the way,” he added, “the upholstery’s damaged.”

“Yes?” enquired Haintl.

“That’s right,” said Sponer. He opened the door and showed Haintl the damage. Haintl leant into interior, examined the upholstery and mumbled something.

“The car’s getting old,” said Sponer. “Show it to Brandeis in the morning.”

Brandeis was the proprietor’s son. He, too, sometimes drove the cars. Brandeis was to take over from Haintl at seven in the morning, and then Sponer would take over at midday.

Haintl, without commenting on the fact that the interior of the car was wet, drew his head back, and Sponer shut the door.

They stood there for a moment, looking at the car. For one that had been driven in the city, it was excessively spattered with mud.

However, before Haintl could comment on this, Sponer quickly said goodbye and left.

He hurried back to his house, opened the front door, went up the stairs and entered his room once more.

He flung his coat and cap on the bed, but then stuck the cap in his overcoat pocket. He began yet again to rummage through Mortimer’s suitcases; he pulled out a light overcoat and a hat which happened to be rather crumpled, but he straightened it out and put it on. It came down over his ears a bit. He tore a strip off one of the two French newspapers which were still lying there and stuffed it under the lining. Now the hat fitted him. He put on Mortimer’s coat, locked the suitcases, slung his driver’s coat over his arm, picked up the cases and left the room.

He left the room door unlocked, but locked the door to the flat; he then carried the suitcases down the stairs and stepped out onto the street.

He had to carry the suitcases for about ten minutes till he saw an empty taxi, which he hailed.

“Südbahnhof,” he said, taking a good look at the driver.

The journey took about twelve minutes. At the station he got out, paid, waived a porter, and entered the station with the cases in his hands. In one of the halls he put down the cases by a side exit, threw his coat on top and waited a couple of minutes. In the meantime he smoked a cigarette. Then he picked up his things again and left the station by the exit leading into the city.

Here he took a cab.

“New Bristol,” he said.

A few minutes later the car stopped by the Bristol at the same spot where earlier he himself ought to have pulled up with Jack Mortimer.

The hotel entrance was still lit; to the right shone the red and light-blue neon sign of the hotel bar.

While Sponer was paying, a hotel attendant approached.

Sponer nodded, and the man, having greeted him, lifted the cases out of the car and carried them to the entrance.

Sponer glanced at the driver. With the coat over his arm he then entered the hotel.

The glittering marble hall dazzled him for a second. The thick pile of the carpets absorbed all sound of footsteps. Strains of dance music reached him from somewhere intermittently.

A liveried porter came up to him.

Sponer said, “My name’s Jack Mortimer.”

The porter bowed immediately. “We had been expecting you about seven, sir.” And straight away he added something else in English, which Sponer failed to understand.

“I was held up,” Sponer muttered.

Another man, in a suit, suddenly stood before him.

“Mr Mortimer?” he asked. “This way please!” And he noiselessly hurried towards a lift door. Sponer followed. They entered the lift. A bellboy was suddenly at his side to take the overcoat from his arm. The lift started, then stopped. They got out. They walked along carpeted, glittering marble corridors. A door was swung open, a chandelier lit up, mirrors of a salon gleamed all round, a bedroom with brocade bed covers was illuminated, snow-white walls, nickel and chrome fittings shone in a bathroom, and the soft-spoken manager — addressing him now in English, now in German, eager to explain and recommend — bowed again, taking a step backwards to allow a second small boy to hand Sponer his mail, comprising a few letters and two telegrams.

“Would Sir require anything else,” Sponer heard the manager ask.

Sponer shook his head. If there was anything else he wanted he’d ring, he muttered; and the manager, the man who brought the luggage, and the two boys bowed and disappeared.

He was left standing in the middle of the room, in Mortimer’s room, in Mortimer’s clothes, in Mortimer’s life. And in his hand he held Mortimer’s letters. He planned to spend a night in the dead man’s life and be gone the next morning, no matter where, disappear, become himself again, Sponer, the taxi driver who had delivered Mortimer alive and well at the Bristol, and whom no one could accuse if he was later asked, “Where is he? Where’s Jack Mortimer?” Hadn’t he arrived at the Bristol with his luggage, spent a night, and left the following day? — Where to? — None of my business! How should I know? Go and ask someone else! He left my cab and went into the hotel; how should I know what he did after that?

For one night only he would live Mortimer’s life, and the next morning he’d return to his own. Because otherwise people might turn up who knew Mortimer, or who had business to discuss that only Mortimer could handle, or a question to put to him to which only Mortimer knew the answer.

But he, Sponer, wouldn’t be there any more. The dead man’s life into which he had stepped would be over in a few hours.

But that’s not how things turned out. It was no longer a question of hours. One doesn’t step into anyone’s life, not even a dead man’s, without having to live it to the end.

He, Sponer, was now Jack Mortimer, the living. And that’s how he would have to stay, right up to Mortimer’s death.