I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) (4 page)

Somewhere on the road, together with his luggage! Let the others, when they find him, work out for themselves how and when he’d been shot! He, Sponer, had nothing to do with it. Had he attacked him? No, it was rather the other way round. The chap had boarded an unsuspecting man’s cab, had snuffed it there and left the driver to pick up the pieces. How? Very simply. Out you go, my fellow, in some dark spot, suitcases and all! You can’t really expect me to do the decent thing, sit around for weeks, lose my job and get mixed up with the police, until, perhaps, one day they catch the real murderer. Or perhaps they won’t. It’s the least of my worries. You two can sort it out amongst yourselves!”

He looked around. He was now in the seventeenth district,
on the road to Dornbach. Fine! In the hills of Dornbach, between the villas, there were a number of lanes running through the gardens and the shrubbery, and poorly lit roads connecting the villas, where you hardly saw anyone after dark. He could stop there and, when the coast was clear, drag the dead man out, throw him onto the roadside, together with his bags, and clear off. He’d lie there till someone found him. They wouldn’t know how he got there. They’d find out who he was, of course. He probably had some documents on him, a passport… But he, Sponer, could take care of that. They’d obviously open the suitcases and perhaps find something there, letters and such like, which would reveal the identity of the dead man… But one could throw the suitcases away somewhere else, a few hundred yards up the street… or perhaps right here, straight away? Maybe someone would see them lying there and simply take them home because of their contents. One doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth… But what if they are were handed in?

Why not take them to his lodgings instead?

Suppose, though, they did find out who the dead man was from his distinguishing features, for the police were trained in that sort of thing.

As far as he was concerned, what did it matter if they found out? But in fact it did… it did matter. Once they’d found out who the man was… “Arrived at the Westbahnhof. And? Took a taxi? Which one?” The other drivers, put on the spot, insist, “Not ours.” But one of them could have seen Sponer drive up.
“Ferdinand Sponer from the Brandeis Garage.”—“Did you pick up a fare?”—“Yes.”—“What did he look like?”—“I don’t know.”—“You don’t know?”—“No! He got in the cab when my back was turned, I only saw…”—“What did you see?”—“He was wearing an overcoat.”—“What sort of overcoat?”—“A large grey one.”—“And you saw nothing else?”—“No, all he said was…”—“What did he say?”—“He said… He said…”—“‘The Bristol’,” the porter intervenes.—“Yes, ‘the Bristol’. Hotel Bristol.”—“And what about you?”—“Me?… I took him there.”—“To which one?”—“To… the old one.”—“But when he got out and paid, you must have seen what he looked like.”—“No… Yes. That is…”—“Well?”—“I don’t remember precisely.”—“OK, not precisely! But roughly. What do you remember roughly?”—“He… he wasn’t very tall…”—“Not tall?”—“No.”—“But not very short either?…”—“That’s right.”—“Roughly what age?”—“Not old.”—“And what about his hair? Was it fair? Brown?”—“No, not fair… but not brown either…”—“Really? Not tall, not small, not old, not young, not fair, not brown? And what did he do when he got to the Bristol?”—“He paid the fare and went into the hotel.”—“What about his suitcases?”—“A… a hotel porter took them from the cab.”—“And went into the hotel with them, too?”—“Yes.”—“What about you?”—“I drove off.”—“So, he entered the hotel and the porter carried the suitcases in after him?”—“Yes.”—“You saw all this?”—“Yes.”—“Now, I put it to you that neither he nor his suitcases ever reached the hotel!”

If the body was found, he, Sponer, was lost.

Hundreds of people go missing in large cities every year. Without a trace. You don’t hear about it, but they disappear. There’s nothing in the newspapers about it. The papers report only the cases that have been solved. The unsolved ones are never reported in the papers. Hundreds of people, each one a grown person’s height, size and weight,
disappear
like something small that falls to the ground, like a matchstick that one throws away, like a button that pops off and suddenly is no longer there. Gone. Vanished into thin air. As though it never existed.

How do they do it, how do they get rid of people? Do they cut them up, burn them somewhere, throw them into the river?

Into the river!

They say that a corpse thrown into the water first of all sinks, later rises to the surface for about half an hour, then sinks once more; but for a time it’ll have been floating on the surface. If it’s to stay under, it’s got to be weighted down, and stones are best for this. In a fast-flowing river a body will be carried along by the flow; for a couple of days the corpse will float above the weights holding it down, it’ll be swept along, fish will swim around it and nibble at it, it’ll sink to the bottom, be buried and crushed in the debris, ground into pulp and be gone for ever.

Sponer had to throw the dead man into the Danube.

Not much more than an hour ago, he hadn’t even known the man existed. Now that he no longer existed, he had to get
rid of him somehow, because if the body were discovered it would be even more dangerous than if he’d murdered him, which, of course, he hadn’t.

In order to turn back, he swung sharply to the left, but couldn’t make a complete U-turn and had to reverse. A man in an overcoat, carrying an umbrella and a briefcase, very likely a lawyer who was here on business and wanted to get back to the centre, hailed him from the pavement. Sponer did not answer and sped away.

Seeing as it was raining, other people, too, had probably tried to hail him, but he hadn’t noticed.

Now that he at least knew what he had to do, he began to think straight again. He could see where he was going. Previously he hadn’t taken anything in.

The long rows of lamps swung to and fro over the wet, glistening streets. A strong wind had got up, and the rain was gradually beginning to ease off. The cloud cover was torn into white fluffy patches which raced over the pitch-black sky, now exposing, now concealing a full moon. Sponer could see this every time he crossed a wide intersection.

He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past eight.

He slowed down. If he wanted to get to the Danube, he’d have to wait till he was sure he wouldn’t meet anyone there.

When he approached the inner city, he turned right to make a detour and kill time, went through Josefstadt, and finally
stopped in a side street off Burggasse, in the shadow of some dilapidated old houses.

There were only a few small shops, belonging to suburban shopkeepers, with heavy, old-fashioned doors. The pavements were narrow, the cobbled surface uneven. Some of the windows in the street were lit dimly from within, and every now and then the pale moonlight fell on the tall chimney stacks and grey walls of the houses, where here and there the stucco had come away in large patches.

The few passers-by paid no heed to Sponer and his car. A cat ran across the street, jumped over the steps of a doorway, and disappeared.

After a few minutes Sponer lit a cigarette.

Every time he drew on the cigarette the glow shone in the windscreen, the darkness behind Sponer’s back being simultaneously reflected in front of him.

He threw the cigarette away and turned around.

The glass panels that separated him from the rear
compartment
were still slid back, with a gap of about two handbreadths between them.

Sponer forced himself to look into the back of the car.

In the slanting light of a distant street lamp he saw the rear seat, the edges of the suitcase and, between the two, like
something
incongruous, the blurred outlines of the slumped body.

The face was cadaverously pale. Because of the jolting during the journey, the head must have shifted even farther forward.

Just for a second he doubted that the man was still in the car. Every now and again he would be overcome by a sense of unreality. Sponer could well have imagined leaving the street, driving to a cab rank, picking up a fare, and opening the door for him. And in the car—nothing. The body and the luggage—a mere figment of the imagination.

But the suitcase next to the driver’s seat was real enough.

He listened to see if anyone was coming, got out of the car, took the suitcase out, opened the rear door, and pushed the suitcase on top of the one that was already there. In the process, he avoided looking at the body. He quickly slammed the door and listened again.

As he was returning to his seat, it suddenly occurred to him that someone, a fare, could suddenly appear from behind while he was parked there, give an address, open the rear door and get in. Dammit! he thought.

He got back into his seat, pushed the glass panels even farther apart, and leant over into the interior.

He groped for the handles of the two doors and pushed them upwards so that the doors were locked and could no longer be opened from outside.

While he was leaning into the rear, he avoided breathing.

Then he pulled himself clear and sank back in his seat.

When he looked at his watch it was about nine.

He hadn’t eaten anything since midday, but didn’t feel at
all hungry; all he had was a hollow, uncomfortable sensation in his stomach.

If only he could find something to drink somewhere, he thought. He didn’t want beer or wine, instead something like a sherry or vermouth.

He was already feeling a lot calmer, otherwise he wouldn’t even have thought of such a thing. He’d have something later, say in about an hour’s time, only now he had to drive to the Danube, throw the body and luggage into the river, and then he’d be safe.

While he sat there waiting, and while for a moment he had no need to think what to do next, he began to anticipate the sense of relief he’d feel after he’d got shot of his
gruesome
luggage, but at the same time he also felt he had to do something to relieve the tension of the last few hours.

If he could risk leaving the car unattended for a few minutes, he could go and get a drink somewhere.

After all, why shouldn’t he leave the car unattended somewhere for a short time where it was dark? He’d been driving for almost two hours through the town, and no one had seen or even imagined the gruesome cargo he was ferrying. Besides, he’d left the car open by the Opera, at the crossing the policeman had shouted at him to move on, in Bräunerstrasse he’d left the car for nearly ten minutes right in front of the other policeman, and no one had even thought of suspecting him.

And let’s face it, why should anyone suspect anything
dreadful to have happened right there in broad daylight rather than somewhere out in the outer suburbs, near some rubbish tip, under a bridge, places where traditionally such things are banished to and where, to be honest, you expect them to happen! Who, unless he’d experienced this sort of thing for himself, would imagine that it could occur right in front of one’s eyes rather than behind the closed windows of a neighbour’s house, behind the locked door of an adjoining room, among casual passers-by in the street, or anywhere at all for that matter! It is in the nature of horror to remain hidden and for no one to discover it. Anything outrageous is generally so private that everyone involved tries to hide the fact, and it is only fortuitously that it ever comes to light. Who can ever be aware of all the awful things that happen? Least of all the police.

He could be reported for careless driving across the Opera House junction, but that would be all, whereas to park here in this dark side street was perhaps the most reckless thing he’d done so far. Here, where without a doubt nothing happens from one year to the next, the police would patrol the neighbourhood most frequently. Surely no policeman would ever think of looking for crime in the open, in the glare of bright lights.

Sponer turned on the engine, drove out of the side street, and crossed Siebensterngasse and Mariahilfer Strasse.

The route he’d been driving with the dead man on board had now come full circle.

H
E 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.