I Was Jack Mortimer

8

TO THE LEFT, in a side street between the Bristol and the Grand Hotel, there were still some taxis. A few drivers, a couple of whom Sponer knew, were standing on the corner. He edged past them, went quickly to the last car and pulled the door open. “Next!” someone called out. A driver rushed up. Sponer got in hastily. He didn’t know the driver. He gave the address of his flat. The driver slammed the door shut, got in, pulled out of the rank and drove off.

He’d get a few things from his flat, money above all — he had some savings — and then make his way straight to one of the railway terminals, no matter which, but best to the Südbahnhof, from where he’d be able to get across the Yugoslav border, imagining for some reason that from there it’d be easiest of all to get to Slovenia or Croatia, and disappear; he pictured there to be vast mountain tracts and huge forests there, dotted with isolated villages that the authorities had difficulty in looking after. It was now two o’clock; he could be at the station by a quarter to three, or three at the latest, because he’d literally not need more than a couple of minutes at his flat to throw together a few necessities, and he’d get the taxi to wait for him. As a matter of fact, if he were then to drive on to the Südbahnhof, it’d be a good idea to change cabs on the way to throw them off the scent, because by morning, when the matter would already be common knowledge, the driver would more than likely make a beeline for the police. Yes, he’d driven a man and his luggage from the Bristol to Sponer’s flat and then on to the Südbahnhof, and he’d immediately become suspicious, and so on and so forth. That it’d be all over the morning papers he had no doubt; however, it no longer concerned him, because he was certain he’d reach the border first, well before the papers that carried Mortimer’s name. He had at least eighteen hours’ start on Mortimer’s passport. And yet he was pretty sure that, having left Mortimer’s luggage behind and departed so conspicuously, Montemayor himself would have to yield to his wife and make a statement. Clearly there was no way in which the latter could force the woman to keep quiet. It therefore made no difference whether the luggage had been left behind or not. The police might that very minute be in the process of taking down evidence, or have even finished doing so almost as soon as he had left the hotel room. Had the Montemayors got his name right, or just nearly right, it was likely detectives were already heading for his flat, or would do so before he had time to reach it himself, because the police operate with lightning speed in such cases, knowing full well that you’ve got to strike the iron while it’s hot.

He knocked on the glass partition. The driver turned half around. Sponer called out to him Marie Fiala’s flat.

Surely he needn’t tell her what had happened. He’d merely ask her to fetch him a few things and the money from his flat, as he’d got himself into an awkward situation upon which he needn’t elaborate; just ask her to do him a favour that she couldn’t possibly refuse. All he had to do was to make it sound sufficiently urgent.

After all, she loved him. The night before, she had even cried. She’d go, all right. Let’s face it, he thought, she ran no risk at all, because even if they found her in his flat, she could easily say…

The taxi pulled up in front of her house. He got out quickly and reached in his pocket to pay. It was empty. He’d thrown all his silver on the table at the Bristol. He had also left Mortimer’s wallet on the table, it was an unpardonable mistake, because with the money that it contained, and the cheques, he could have… All he’d taken was the passport. Dammit! He swore and searched through all his pockets, and he’d even handed in his afternoon’s takings to Haintl.

“Wait here!” he shouted to the driver, rushed up to the front door and rang the bell. At this moment he recalled that Haintl, when totting up the takings, had changed some of the coins for a banknote. Where was it? He felt in his breast pocket and found it.

While the driver was giving him his change, the front door was opened by the sleepy housekeeper, half hidden behind the main door and still in her nightclothes. He thrust a coin in her hand, said, “The Fialas’!” and started running up the stairs. The staircase was in darkness. He struck a couple of matches, and when he reached the Fialas’ flat he rang the bell, then once more a few moments later.

It was dark behind the glass door. He stood and waited. It stank on the staircase. He rang a third time, keeping his finger on the bell. At that moment a light came on in the flat; he heard footsteps, a key was turned in the lock and the door opened.

It was Marie’s father, who had thrown a coat over his shoulders and looked at Sponer.

“I’ve got to see Marie,” said Sponer, walking in.

“Now?” Fiala asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’ve got to see her.”

“Is it important?”

“Of course! Please wake her, and tell her to come out straight away.”

“You’ve woken us all up anyway!”

“What took you so long?”

“I didn’t know who it was in the middle of the night.”

“All right, all right, but get her to come out now!”

Fiala looked at him. “What is it you want see her about?”

“I can’t tell you. Just send her out. I’m in a hurry. Please!”

Fiala hesitated for a moment, muttered something, then turned around quickly and shuffled in his slippers towards a small door, opened it and went in. As he was closing the door, Sponer saw him turn on the light. Then he said something, and after that Marie’s voice was heard. He reappeared shortly. “She’s coming,” he said. “Wait here in the meantime.” He opened the door to the sitting room, turned the light on and saw Sponer in. He was restless, but afraid to say anything. Sponer slumped into an armchair. Fiala stood still for a moment, but said nothing; finally, he went into an adjoining room and shut the door behind him. There was the sound of a woman’s voice asking a question to which he was heard to reply.

He was a minor clerk. Apart from Marie, he had two more children, ten and eight years of age; Sponer heard one of them talking in his sleep. Marie had also had a sister named Hedwig, but she had died.

The air in the room was stuffy and it smelt of food. On the stairs it had smelt the same, just as in the flat he rented from the Oxenbauers, and in the flats and on the stairs of the friends he had, and the acquaintances he sometimes visited. The air was stuffy and it smelt of food. Here people lived and then married, and their children in turn were brought up in flats where the air was stuffy and it smelt of food and a few other indefinable substances. Such was their life.

Sponer’s father had been a captain in an infantry regiment. In his flat it might not have been so stuffy, nor had it smelt of food as strongly, except perhaps of fish on Fridays, but Sponer no longer recollected any of it. His mother had died long ago, and he himself was only just over eight when his father died, too. All he knew was how strange it had felt when the captain had been laid out between six candles, in uniform with the neat rows of shining buttons, the draped flag and his folded hands in the white suede gloves. A lot of people had been coming and going — medals, uniforms, shakos, and at the internment it had started to rain. But after the thin blue smoke of the abrupt salvo discharged over the grave had wafted away, everything else wafted away too, once and for all, and the succession of flats in which the child then lived stank of food and the air was stuffy. True, as an officer’s son in 1917 he was accepted into a cadet school — there the air was, of course, good and the food, bad; but a year later he was back in the flats where the air was stuffy and it stank of food, and that’s how it remained. That’s what life was like. That’s what his life was like, but now that it was coming to an end, it was nevertheless mighty difficult to bid farewell to it.

When Marie entered, he emerged from his short reverie and looked at her helplessly. She wore a pair of rubber-soled shoes and had a dressing gown over her shoulders. Her hair was hastily combed back and shimmered in thousands of loose strands against the light. Her face was very white and the look in her eyes was tense and alarmed. She stopped in the doorway.

“What is it?” she asked.

He got up. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to ask you a favour.”

“Yes,” she said without taking her eyes off him. “What sort of favour?”

“Come closer,” he said. “I’ve got to keep my voice down.”

She approached him slowly. He reached in his pocket, drew out a cigarette and looked for matches. “You’ve got to,” he said, “get me something out of my flat.” He lit the cigarette.

She didn’t reply immediately.

“Now?” she asked finally.

“Yes.”

“From your flat?”

“Yes. A suit and some underwear. Preferably the dark-grey one. You know yourself where the underwear is. And a pair of shoes from under the washstand. And the things from the top of the washstand itself, together with the shaving gear. Put it all in the smaller suitcase, which is on top of the wardrobe. Not the big one, the small one. And then you’ve got to get me the money, too. It’s in an envelope in the far left-hand corner of the table drawer. Here’s the key.” He pulled out a small bunch. “This is the key to the drawer, this is the key to the main door, this is the one to the flat. The room isn’t locked… But the wardrobe is. This is the key to it.” And he pulled out a single key from his pocket.

She had turned even paler and her lips were trembling. “What,” she asked, “have you done?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve done nothing.”

“Why do you need the things?”

“Because,” he said, “I’m going away.”

“For long?”

He made a vague gesture. “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you going to get the things for me then?”

“Why can’t you get them yourself?”

“I’d rather not go back to my flat.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “I can’t tell you. Anyway, you don’t have to go. I merely asked you. You’re free to say no. Only, in that case, this is the last you’ll see of me.”

He threw the bunch of keys on the table.

“And if I,” she stammered, “get you the things? Will I see you again?”

“Then,” he said, “perhaps.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Won’t you tell me,” she asked finally, “what’s happened? Not because… because I want to pry into your affairs. But because I’m so scared for you!”

He looked at her, drew her close, kissed her and remained silent. She pressed her face against his shoulder. A few seconds later she straightened herself up again.

“All right,” she said, “I’ll go.” And she took the keys from the table.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I’ll just get dressed,” she said quickly and disappeared. He followed her with his eyes. In the adjoining room he heard a bed creak; shortly afterwards Fiala came in again. He wanted to ask something, but kept quiet.

“Marie,” Sponer said, “has agreed to do something for me. It won’t take her longer than half an hour. Then she’ll be back.”

“What about you?” Fiala asked.

“I’ll stay here in the meantime.”

“What,” asked Fiala, “is it that she has agreed to do?”

“She’s going to get me something.”

“From where?”

“From some friends. I’ve forgotten something there and would rather not go back myself. It’s a small favour she’s doing me, that’s all. Please don’t let it worry you. Go back to sleep, I beg you; you’ve no need to keep me company.”

“Won’t you,” Fiala asked finally, “tell me what’s going on?”

“No. It’s not very interesting either.”

“I’ve never,” Fiala said, “spoken to you about your relationship with Marie. And anyway, you’ve always been very good to her, at least as far as I know, and if you didn’t have the money to get married, there was nothing for it. But why do you have to come in the middle of the night and demand something so extraordinary? You’re not going to… you’re not going to get the girl to…”

“Mr Fiala,” Sponer cried, “I’ve told you already that it’s only a question of a small favour. Nothing to get worked up about. I…”

He fell silent because just then Marie entered. She was dressed and was wearing a coat. “I’m going now,” she said. Fiala shook his head and went back to his room.

Sponer saw Marie out. “It’s possible,” he whispered, “someone may ask you where I am. If so, tell them you don’t know, you came to my place only because you expected to find me in. For Heaven’s sake, don’t say I’m here. Do you understand?”

She just nodded.

He kissed her hands. She opened the front door. Then she went out and didn’t return.

Just after the driver Georg Haintl had taken over from Sponer, there was a phone call to the garage for a cab to 73 Kaiserstrasse.

Haintl, who, as we already know, was slightly tipsy, filled up and drove to Kaiserstrasse.

He had to wait a little in front of No. 73, but then a party of five people in evening dress came out of the front door and bade one another goodbye: three set off towards Mariahilfer Strasse; while a man, and a woman in an ermine cape, got into the car. The man said, “Hotel Ambassador”.

The journey took just over ten minutes. The hotel entrance was still lit brightly. A bellboy ran out and opened the door. The passengers alighted. The man put his hand in his pocket in order to pay, but found he had insufficient small change and wanted to offer the driver a note, whereupon the woman said she had some silver, and she went up to the driver and opened her evening bag.

“What’s that on your back?” her companion suddenly asked.

“Where?” the woman enquired.

“On your cape,” the man said. “The back’s all dirty.”

“Dirty?” the woman exclaimed.

“Yes,” the man said, and pulled off one of his gloves and bent forward. “And it’s wet, too,” he said. When he withdrew his hand, his fingers were stained with a ruddy, coagulated gunge.

“But that’s awful!” the woman shouted. “How on earth did it happen? It must be from the car!”

“From the car?” Haintl shouted loudly, still flushed with wine. “Are you saying my car’s dirty?”

“Of course!” the man shouted. “The whole cape’s dirty!”

A second bellboy came up, and the man and the boys examined the cape and confirmed that it was dirty, the woman trying all the while to turn her head sufficiently to see for herself.

“It’s quite obvious it came from where you were sitting,” the man shouted. “That’s where the dirt stains are!” He opened the car door again and shouted to Haintl, “Turn the light on!” Haintl switched on the rear compartment light, got out of his seat, opened the door and all five of them looked in the back.

“There you are!” the man shouted, and pulled back the upholstery of the backrest. “It’s all wet and dirty! The whole car’s soaking wet! I noticed it as we were driving along!”

“But it’s raining!” Haintl shouted.

“Yes, water, not shit!” the man shouted. “And the inside of the car’s absolutely filthy!”

“From your shoes!” Haintl retorted.

By now a porter had also arrived on the scene, asked what the matter was and looked at the woman’s back; the woman took off her cape and screamed that it was ruined. They all continued fingering the cape and the upholstery until they had all got their fingers dirty, and even Haintl had to admit that everything was dirty.

“What sort of dog cart is this?” the man shouted. “Whom does it belong to? We demand compensation! What is this filth! Everything’s covered in it!”

They all walked into the light of the hotel entrance and examined their fingers. “It’s all red!” one of the boys said. “Yes, reddish brown,” the porter added; and the woman, who was still clutching her cape and trying to scrape the dirt off, suddenly clicked her fingers and exclaimed, “Ugh! Looks just like blood.”

All at once they all fell silent. The man, wishing to lend support to his wife, said it really did look like blood, whereupon the bellboys turned pale, and the porter, now that the others agreed it was blood, added his voice, too, “Yes, yes, it’s definitely blood.” Haintl was absolutely horrified.

“How could it be?” the man shouted.

“I honestly don’t know,” Haintl stuttered, adding that he certainly wasn’t responsible and so on. By now the manager had appeared, and a couple of passers-by had stopped and were staring. Haintl stammered that he himself had just taken over the car a quarter of an hour ago, and that the blood must already have been there.

“Who had the car before you?” the manager asked.

“Another driver,” stammered Haintl, and thought of Sponer.

“Who?” the man shouted, and Haintl mentioned Sponer’s name.

In the end, Haintl had to go to the police station. The man and the woman also drove the short distance in another car; and so it was that Jack Mortimer’s blood, which Sponer had only partially succeeded in washing off in the dark, had come to be in Bräunerstrasse for the second time.

There it was established that the blood was not, as the porter at the Ambassador had first imagined, from a quarried deer, a goose or chicken whose throat had been slit and which someone had been transporting in the taxi, but the blood of someone shot just a few hours previously; they also found the two bullets that had gone through Mortimer’s body and penetrated the car’s bodywork; and Haintl, having been told to leave the car at the police station, was driven, accompanied by two detectives, first to the Brandeis garage and, since the only person there was the car washer, on to Sponer’s flat. In the meantime the Brandeis family were alarmed, but of course knew nothing. One of the detectives rang the front doorbell; the door was opened and, accompanied by the startled porter, they mounted the stairs, woke up the Oxenbauers, and entered Sponer’s room. What with the examination of the blood-stained interior of the car at the police station and everything else, it was, by then, gone two in the morning.

Of course, they hardly expected to find Sponer in his room, though it was possible he could still turn up. The manner in which he had handed the car over to Haintl gave the impression he thought he had got rid of all traces of blood. He was evidently convinced he had. After a short session with Oxenbauer and his daughter, neither of whom had anything material to say because they had both gone to bed at about half past ten and were therefore not aware of Sponer having returned to his flat twice, they were released, but told to keep to their rooms, as was the porter, though the couple did not go back to bed, but started discussing the night’s unprecedented events. In the meantime the detectives continued interrogating Haintl and began a thorough search of Sponer’s room. They noted the two French newspapers, and also broke into the wardrobe and found the wet suit.

Having got that far, however, no one had as yet thought of the table drawer (the table was covered over with a blanket), when Marie Fiala appeared. She had found the front door downstairs, which had an old-fashioned lock, closed, of course, but not locked, which the porter in his confusion and panic had forgotten to do. Her heart began to beat. Although it was dark, being on familiar territory, she rushed up the stairs confidently. The door to the flat was not fully locked, and she entered by turning the key slightly. By now she was almost convinced something was the matter, though she didn’t know what, for Sponer had said virtually nothing to her. The detectives and Haintl, as well as the Oxenbauers and the porter in the other rooms, heard the sound of the key being turned in the lock. The light was immediately switched off in Sponer’s room, and those waiting in the other rooms fell silent. Marie entered and noticed the strip of light showing under the door of the Oxenbauers’ room. For a moment she hesitated. If it had been just up to her, she’d have immediately left the place, rushed back to Sponer, and said this, that and the other had happened. The fact that she saw a strip of light under the door could, of course, have an innocent explanation. However, why couldn’t she hear anyone talking or moving about? She stood stock-still for a full two or three minutes, and listened.

But all she heard was her own heart pounding, like it had pounded the whole way there, like it had pounded when Sponer had turned up, like it had pounded all those long years when she had heard nothing else. And she followed that heart of hers, and Sponer’s urgent request to fetch his things, and entered the room.

She had hardly stepped over the threshold, when she was grabbed and held fast. She let out a cry. At the same time someone turned the light on. She saw the two detectives and Haintl, and the next moment the Oxenbauers and the porter also rushed in.

They were evidently expecting Sponer himself, because Haintl cried out the moment the light was switched on that it was only Marie.

“Who?” asked one of the detectives, a dark-haired, stocky man.

“Marie Fiala,” Haintl said. “Sponer’s girlfriend.”

“Yes, that’s right, his girlfriend,” the Oxenbauer girl added immediately.

But Haintl turned to Marie and shouted, “For God’s sake, how could he have done such a thing!”

“Done what?” Marie asked, as white as a sheet.

The other detective, a tall, blond, slightly thick-set man, immediately motioned to Haintl to keep quiet.

“What has he done?” Marie repeated.

“What are you looking for here?” the blond detective asked.

“What has he done?” Marie screamed.

Haintl shrugged his shoulders.

“I want to know what brought you here!” the detective shouted. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she stammered.

“So, what are you looking for here?”

“I’m looking for…” she stuttered. “I wanted…”

“What did you want?”

“I wanted to see… Ferdinand,” she finally said.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“And where have you been up to now?” the other detective enquired.

At the precise moment she didn’t know what to say, for she was still completely confused; the only thing she knew was that she mustn’t betray Sponer. She mustn’t tell them that she’d come from her house and that Sponer was still there. It was obvious something dreadful must have happened, but she had not a moment’s hesitation in her resolve not to betray him.

“Now, are you going to tell us?” the detective shouted.

She finally said she’d been at her friend’s place where they’d been darning sheets.

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“And where did you get the key from?” the blond detective asked.

“Which key?”

“The front-door key!”

“The front door,” she said, “was already open.”

They all looked at the housekeeper.

“What?” the housekeeper stammered. “Open? That means I must have…”

“And the key to the flat?” the stocky detective asked.

“The key to the flat?”

“Yes, the key to the flat!”

“The door to the flat, too, was open.”

“But you still can’t open it without a key,” the stocky man said.

She no longer knew what to say. The detective in the meantime put his hand into her coat pocket and brought out the key. “So, where did you get it?”

She was silent.

“Where did you get it?” the man repeated.

She clenched her teeth.

“You don’t want to say?”

“No.”

“It’s hardly necessary,” the blond detective said. “It’s obvious you must have got it from Sponer. Where did he give it to you? Where is he?”

She remained silent.

“If you won’t answer,” the blond detective said, “I’ll do it for you. You must have got the key just a short time ago, otherwise you’d have come earlier. And where were you till now? Darning sheets? A likely story! You were at home. Sponer could have given you the key only when you were at home. He stayed at your place and sent you here with the key. Obviously he wants you to get something for him. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” she said. She realized that she had made a terrible mistake in not answering the questions. Her silence had revealed more than answers would have done, for it enabled the others to draw the obvious conclusion. Now that they’d caught her out, they’d also search her flat. They’d do it in any case, because she was Sponer’s girlfriend. Unless she managed to distract the detectives, they would find Sponer.

“And what was it that he wanted you to bring him?” the blond detective asked.

“Money,” she answered. “But for Heaven’s sake, tell me what he has…”

“What does he need money for? Is he planning to escape?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He just wanted it. But if you don’t want to tell me…”

“Where is the money?” the other one asked.

They didn’t disclose what had happened. She looked at Haintl, but he only shrugged his shoulders.

“Where is the money?” the stocky one repeated.

“In the drawer,” she said after a moment’s pause. The blond one removed the cover from the desk, but couldn’t pull the drawer out.

“You’ve got the key,” she suddenly added, “It’s with the other ones.”

The stocky detective gave the blond one the key.

“It’s on the left at the back,” she said.

They took out the envelope.

“Is this it?” the stocky one asked.

“Yes.”

They looked inside. All the others also stared with curiosity. The envelope contained just a few notes. “Is that all?” the stocky one asked.

“Yes,” she said.

They had evidently expected to find more, obviously all the money that Sponer had taken from the murdered person, whoever he was. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they also wanted to investigate the robbery, they wouldn’t have remained there a moment longer, but would have left immediately to apprehend Sponer. Now, however, they were disappointed to find only Sponer’s meagre savings. The stocky one threw the envelope on the table.

“And where,” he asked, “is the rest of the money?”

It had not yet dawned on the two detectives why it was that Marie was suddenly so willing to answer their questions. Now that the main object of her mission was lying there on the table, she could take it to Sponer.

Quick as a flash she grabbed the money, made a dash for the door, ran out and slammed the door of the flat. Before the amazed company had realized what was happening, she had slammed the door behind her and was standing in the dark; then she ran not down the stairs, but up without a moment’s hesitation. A woman almost always does the right thing instinctively.

She was already on the landing and round the bend before the others stormed out of the flat. They naturally all ran down the stairs, continually stumbling, cursing and striking matches. The detectives were more astute, however; instead of running, they slid down the banister. They were also the first to reach the front door, which they tore open, and ran out into the street. A few moments later the others were also at the bottom of the stairs and likewise ran out into the street.