I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) (8 page)

Lately he had seen Consuelo only in the evenings when they performed together. He returned to his flat, packed a few things, and left New York without even seeing Consuelo or even so much as contacting his manager. The intermezzo was at an end. He would, he decided, become a peon once more, and that was that.

Two days later he got off the train in a small station in the South. It was raining. The rain was falling in sheets over the prairie, drumming on the tin roof of the station, forming puddles between the tracks. On the horizon a couple clapboard houses appeared to be sinking in a sea of mud.

He stared into the wilderness. A pair of horses saddled the Mexican way stood at the corner of a house, their shanks turned towards the weather. The tall grass swayed, the rain beat down, the gloom and the mist were closing in.

He enquired when the next train was due.

He had two hours to wait. He didn’t wait under the station canopy, but stood out in the open. His shoes, his coat, his business suit were soaking wet.

The sound of singing, shouting and laughter reached him from the house where the horses were tied up.

No one bothered about him.

At last the train came. It was heading for New Orleans.

In New Orleans he had to wait a day. He sailed on the
Jeanne d’Arc
to France.

In Paris he appeared on the stage with several artistes, whom he often changed. Day in, day out, he studied music. After a year he moved to Berlin, then back to Paris again.

He got people to write French and English lyrics to his melodies, and published them.

‘Juanita’ made him famous.

He returned to the States; however, he stayed only a short time in New York, travelled down to the South again, and bought a property in Florida near Palm Beach.

Here he composed his second great hit, ‘Castilliana’.

He made several hundred thousand dollars from this hit. He wrote the song one evening very quickly, in a matter of minutes, before driving to Palm Beach to meet some friends, and the moon over the sea was just like it had been that time over Monterey.

‘Castilliana’ was played endlessly at parties where people first danced and then the women went and deceived their husbands.

From now on he lived part of the time in Palm Beach and
part of the time in New York and Paris. The much heralded ‘Sonora’ was a flop.

In New York he learnt that Mortimer no longer lived there, but had moved to Chicago, where he ran his father’s bank.

He didn’t enquire after Consuelo, and people obviously avoided mentioning her name in his presence. No one knew whether he still thought about her. Also, her name no longer appeared anywhere. He couldn’t find her on any programme or notice.

One day he got to know George Anstruther. He was a very handsome man of about forty. They obviously didn’t talk about Consuelo. Strangely enough, though, Montemayor let slip a few words about Jack Mortimer. Anstruther smiled in a peculiar way. This was like a red rag to a bull, and Anstruther, in order not to be misinterpreted, felt obliged to justify himself why he had reacted that way: wasn’t Montemayor aware that Mortimer… “Go on!” Montemayor shouted, his heart missing a beat… that Mortimer, said Anstruther, was now more of a gangster than a banker, like so many other bankers, judges and businessmen in the States. “I see,” Montemayor mumbled, and they talked a little bit more about Mortimer’s possible connections with the underworld, and then about other things. It became clear to Montemayor that Mortimer’s bank was in financial difficulties; however, it was not uncommon even for wealthy people to get mixed up with criminals in the end.

A few days later Montemayor learnt by chance from people
who knew nothing of his sad tale, that Consuelo had been suffering from tuberculosis and had died in a sanatorium in the Rocky Mountains some three years previously.

Two months later he married Winifred Parr.

Late that autumn Montemayor travelled with Winifred to Paris. One evening after the opera, when they were having supper at Ciro’s, Montemayor noticed Winifred nod at someone who was sitting behind him, evidently to
acknowledge
a greeting. He turned around; it was Jack Mortimer.

Mortimer immediately came over to their table. He knew Winifred fleetingly from earlier times. He spoke a few inconsequential words and behaved as though nothing had ever happened between himself and Montemayor.

Before Montemayor could stop her, Winifred had invited him to join them.

What followed in the next few days was quite
inevitable
. Mortimer had never shown any particular interest in Winifred. However, when he saw that she was Montemayor’s wife, he immediately became excited.

People who’ve already once deprived a man of his wife will feel almost compelled to do it a second time.

Montemayor himself immediately sensed that in Mortimer’s eyes it wasn’t Winifred, but in actual fact Consuelo who was sitting next to Montemayor. The only difference was that he didn’t love Winifred half as much as he had loved Consuelo.
It became at once clear that he’d be able to protect her better than his previous love.

Winifred knew nothing of Consuelo, but she immediately sensed the tension between the two men, and she reacted as any pretty but empty-headed woman would in such a
situation
. Straight away she enjoyed to the full the interest that Mortimer was showing in her. Had Montemayor ignored Mortimer, she’d have done the same. However, since she noticed Montemayor’s jealousy, there was no greater pleasure for her than to fall in love with Mortimer.

At this stage, of course, it would still have been easy for Montemayor to have dashed the hopes that the two were entertaining. He could simply have gone away somewhere with Winifred, and that would have been the end of the matter. However, after his initial aversion, it occurred to him that Mortimer’s presence was right up his street. He still had a score to settle with Mortimer. An opportunity now arose for Montemayor to make out that he couldn’t care less about Mortimer’s advances. He’d be able to play with Winifred like a puppet on a string.

Truly, what was the struggle for Winifred compared to the struggle for Consuelo? Nothing. Pure vanity. Montemayor had no illusions about this. But the easier it appeared to him to defend Winifred, the more heartbroken he felt that he’d lost his Consuelo. He had almost forgotten Mortimer, but now he began to hate him again vehemently.

All this, however, robbed Montemayor of his peace of
mind. He never left Winifred’s side day and night, which made Mortimer, who always tagged along, look ridiculous. The only thing was that he began to have misgivings about himself, to such an extent that finally he began to hate the very sight of Mortimer. He couldn’t help reliving the old tragedy whenever he saw the man, and he began to drool over Winifred, for whom, when all was said and done, he couldn’t give a fig, just as much as he had drooled over Consuelo, whom he had worshipped.

Meanwhile, his opposition drove the two lovers ever closer together. They understood each other without so much as exchanging a word. In the end they really fell in love. They could read this in each other’s eyes, they passed secret notes between themselves, they spoke in a sort of code which they alone could decipher. Montemayor was aware of this, but he lost his nerve and finally decided to depart. He accepted one of the contracts that people were forever offering him, and told Winifred that in two days’ time they’d be going to Vienna, where he was to give a jazz concert.

These two days were sufficient for Mortimer to arrange with Winifred that he’d come on after her, stay in hiding in Vienna and meet up with her there. Montemayor’s decision to leave suited them even more than the present,
unsatisfactory
arrangement. They believed that Montemayor would not suspect Mortimer, who had business to conduct in Paris, of following them to Vienna, and would give his wife all the freedom that she’d enjoyed previously.

They were mistaken. Montemayor was prepared for this eventuality. True, he wasn’t able to establish anything definite, but all the same he guessed what they were up to. It was obvious enough.

He travelled with Winifred and booked in at the Imperial. He told himself that there’d be no sense in intercepting Winifred’s mail, since Mortimer would hardly risk writing to her at the hotel. Although he and Winifred for the most part went out together, when he was at rehearsals, he had to leave her on her own. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d use that opportunity to collect the letters which Mortimer had sent her. If they were poste restante, she’d need her passport to claim them. He couldn’t very well take that; however, he was in possession of her other documents, and, with the help of their marriage certificate, every time he left the hotel for any length of time he enquired at the post office if there were letters for Winifred Montemayor. He might have missed the odd one; at last, however, just as he was about to go to a rehearsal, a page boy, whom he’d drawn into his confidence, brought him secretly, as instructed, a telegram from Mortimer to Winifred. He was coming the next day at half past six in the evening, and was staying at the Bristol. She should give him a ring there at the first opportunity.

He destroyed this message and went to the rehearsal. The following day he left Winifred completely to her own devices till the evening. Come the evening, however, her
nervousness indicated to him that, even though that
particular
telegram had not reached her, she must have been informed of Mortimer’s arrival in some other way. Shortly before seven she found an opportunity to ring the Bristol. Mortimer, she was told, had booked in, but hadn’t arrived yet. From then on she had no more opportunity to call him till midnight. Montemayor did not leave her side. They went to the opera, had supper, and sat for a while in the hotel bar. Towards midnight, when she feared she’d be unable to conceal the state of her nerves any longer, she said she was going to bed.

He took her upstairs. They occupied a two-bedroom suite, separated by a sitting room. She wished him good night in the sitting room, then Winifred went into her bedroom and Montemayor into his; however, he stopped at the door and listened.

A few minutes later he heard Winifred open her door softly, presumably to see if anyone was in the sitting room. Then she closed it. Montemayor immediately opened his, darted into the sitting room and listened at Winifred’s door.

He heard her making a telephone call in a hushed voice and ask for Mortimer. Though she spoke a few words, it seemed she had got the wrong number, because she immediately rang again. Now she spoke for longer, her voice getting louder and more urgent; finally she put the receiver down and then rang once again, this time the reception at the Bristol. Then she rang off.

Montemayor at once stepped back from the door and got back to his room, not a moment too soon because he now heard Winifred enter the sitting room, lock her door, remove the key and go out.

Montemayor, hatless and without his overcoat, followed her immediately. She ran down the stairs. Once or twice she turned around, but he managed to conceal himself in the nick of time behind a corner or a pillar so that she didn’t notice him. She left the hotel, as did he, too, a couple of moments later. He saw her rush across the street, her brocade opera cloak shimmering in the light of the street lamps. It was only about a couple of hundred yards to the Bristol. She went in, and through the glass door Montemayor saw her talking to the hall porter. Then the porter made a telephone call. In the meantime she ran up the stairs. The porter, it seemed, made as if to hold her back; he called something out, but she had already disappeared behind a bend on the stairs. The next moment Montemayor also entered and ran up the stairs. He saw Winifred run along the corridor of the first floor, open a door and disappear inside; he, too, rushed towards the door.

Winifred closed the door behind her, found herself standing in a lobby, opened the next door and stood in Mortimer’s salon.

She was so ill prepared for the person she was rushing towards not to be Jack Mortimer that she discovered this only when she was nearly on top of him. She stopped dead with
a light shriek, held up her hand, sparkling with rings, to her mouth, half agape with horror, and stared at Sponer with ever widening, blazing eyes, without uttering a single word.

Sponer, too, still leaning against the mirror stand which held the telephone looked at her in motionless silence.

Finally, she mumbled something in English, probably an apology that she’d entered the wrong room, turned around and made to rush out through the door.

She had, however, barely taken a couple of steps when her eyes lit on the things that Sponer had pulled out of Mortimer’s suitcases and that were now strewn all over the place.

She hesitated, seemed to recognize them, turned round again, the cloak slid off her shoulders, and the expression in her wide-open eyes, showed that she understood everything.

She stood there stock-still for two more seconds, only that the expression of fear intensified ever more, then she let out a cry which rose in pitch, swung around and dashed towards the door.

But in two bounds Sponer was already in front of her and had barred her way. She wanted to push him aside, but, slamming the door with his left hand, he grabbed her by the shoulder with his right. He flung her on the sofa and, through clenched teeth and with an almost demented look in his eyes, hissed, “You so much as cry out or try to get away and I’ll knock you into next week!”

F
ROM THE FORCE
with which he flung her down and her overwhelming sense of fear, she lay there crouching, staring at him in utter bewilderment. Also, possibly she hadn’t understood what he had said. Yet she guessed well enough, for initially she remained subdued and then finally made a movement as if to jump up, but fell back when she saw his expression, but only in order immediately to straighten herself up and cry out:

“Where’s Jack Mortimer?”

“Shut up!” he hissed, then he listened whether anyone in the corridor or in the adjacent rooms had been alerted by the shouting and slamming of the door. But everything was quiet. The woman, too, was now silent, only panic flickered in her eyes. He approached her slowly; she shrank back again. He stood in front of her and, staring down at her, formulated in his mind a few words to say in English.

“How did you get here?” he asked finally.

“Where’s Mortimer?” she mumbled again.

He gestured with his hand.

“Answer me!” he barked. “How did you get here? Were you the person who phoned earlier?”

She appeared not to understand him. He began to think that perhaps he hadn’t expressed himself clearly enough. At school he’d learnt English, but only for a fairly short time, and very superficially. He repeated slowly and clearly: “Did you phone earlier?”

“Yes,” she answered finally. “Who are you? Where’s Mortimer?” And she began once more, getting ever louder, to speak so quickly that he no longer understood her. With a flick of his hand he cut her short. She fell silent; only her eyes continued to flicker.

“I can’t tell you where Mortimer is,” he said.

“Why not?” she retorted. “How come you’re in his room? Why are his things lying about here?”

And she repeated her question when she noticed that he understood her poorly, and also added a few more.

“Can’t you speak German?” he asked. But when he
realized
that she hadn’t understood him, he said in English, “I’ve several things to ask you. When you answer, don’t say so much and”—at this point he didn’t know how to say “above all”—“not so quickly. Otherwise I won’t understand you. Who was…”—here he corrected himself—“Who is this Jack Mortimer?”

She replied with a question that he didn’t understand.

“I want to know,” he insisted, “who Jack Mortimer is.”

“Surely you must know that yourself!” she shouted. “You must!”

“No,” he said, “I don’t.”

She looked around wildly, was about to answer, but then merely pointed at Mortimer’s things.

“No,” he said. “Even so, I don’t know. But you’re going to tell me.” He thought for a moment, then took the letters from the table and held them out to her.

She immediately snatched at them and glanced at him in horror.

“Are these your letters?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Are these your letters?” he repeated. “Was he a friend of yours?”

She stayed silent and clutched the letters tightly in her hand.

“Was he a friend of yours?” he insisted. “Answer me!”

She broke into tears.

He turned away. The appearance of this woman had made his situation utterly intolerable. When he turned and looked at her again, the expression in her eyes was one of fury and unmitigated hatred.

“It’s not my fault,” he said, “that I’m now here instead of Mortimer. Believe me!”

Her eyes continued to flicker in hatred.

“It’s not my fault,” he repeated. “Do you understand?”

She remained silent.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Where did Jack Mortimer come from?” he asked finally.

He had to repeat the question twice before she answered, “From Paris.”

“And how,” he asked, “do you know him? Have you known him long?”

She didn’t reply.

“Listen,” he said, slowly searching for the right words, “you have to answer what I ask you!”

“You know it all yourself!” she retorted.

“No,” he said, “I told you already that I don’t, but you’re going to tell me. If not, I’m going to”—he searched for the right words for a moment—“make you. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to make you speak.”

He wanted to add that his position left him no choice, but this proved too difficult to translate. He reached for her hands and squeezed them together till she let out a cry.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and took a step back.

She again began to cry. He wished he hadn’t hurt her, and wanted to stroke her hair. She immediately flared up and lashed out at his hand. He shrugged his shoulders.

“So, I want an answer,” he said curtly. “Who are you?”

She clenched her teeth.

“What’s your name?” he repeated.

“None of your business!” she shouted. “I didn’t want to come to you. You’ve no right to ask my name!”

“Too bad,” he said. “You’ve got to tell me who you are!”

“No!”

“Yes,” he said, and reached for her hands again. She snatched them away.

“Well, what’s your name?” he asked.

“Jane,” she hissed.

He thought for a moment. Then he suddenly grabbed the letters out of her hand, flipped through them even though she was trying to snatch them back, found the one he wanted, and showed her the letter W.

She blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Well?” he asked.

“That’s my surname,” she mumbled. “I’m Jane Ward.”

“Since when,” he wanted to ask, “have people signed love letters with their surnames?” But again he couldn’t translate it. Looking hard at her, he pointedly touched with the tip of his shoe her evening bag, which was lying on the floor. Then he picked it up. She thought he was going to give it to her but he only pointed at the metal monogram, a W and an M.

She reddened even more, couldn’t think of anything to say, and merely tried to grab the bag. However, he drew it out of her reach, opened it hastily, saw a couple of letters inside and pulled them out. They were addressed to Mrs Winifred Montemayor: one to Vienna, the Hotel Imperial; the other was poste restante. Then he let her have the letters and the bag.

He had gained the upper hand. In the course of the next few minutes, while she was in a state of confusion and seeing that she had the bag in her possession so that she could wipe away her tearstains and powder her nose, he managed to drag her story out of her.

The name Montemayor was, of course, familiar to him.
He even remembered having heard a couple of his records. He also questioned her about Mortimer. Only there wasn’t much she could tell him, except that he was the son of a banker and that she had known him fleetingly and had then met him in Paris once more.

Suddenly he realized that she was at his feet. She had slid down from the sofa, was clinging to him and imploring him to tell her where Mortimer was.

“Did you love him a lot?” he mumbled.

Then his eyes wandered round the room. He saw the two cigarette packets: Mortimer’s on the settee; and the second one, which the waiter had brought up, on the dining table.

He extricated himself from Winifred’s grip and went over to get himself a cigarette.

He hadn’t reached the table when a sound made him look around.

Winifred had jumped to her feet, run to the door, had flung it open and was now running through the lobby towards the exit door.

Before he could take even one step in pursuit, she had torn the exit door open and was about to run out, but instead let out an almighty cry and staggered back. A man in an evening suit came in. He banged the door shut after him and clapped his hand on her mouth to stifle the cry. She struggled for air. He grabbed her with his other, free hand and dragged her into the salon. His face was so distorted with rage, the likes of which Sponer had not seen before.

He glanced around, appeared not to notice Sponer at all, and dragged Winifred over to one of the windows. There he reached behind the curtains and yanked one of the curtains cords with such force that the whole rail came crashing down. He folded the rope double and began to lash the woman with it.

So far he hadn’t said a word; now, however, he began to accompany every word with a suppressed expletive. Under the blows Winifred’s thin evening dress immediately tore into shreds and red welts began to appear on her naked back. At first, when she had got her mouth free, she began to yell; however, the blows came down so thick and fast that she immediately found herself short of breath. She hid her face in her arms, stopped turning around and just groaned. The man continued to whip her.

At first Sponer observed the scene in bewilderment till his mind slowly began to comprehend what was going on. Above all he didn’t know what to make of the intruder. He now grabbed him by the shoulders, yelled at him and pushed him aside. Since the fellow nevertheless paid not the slightest attention to him and carried on lashing blindly, even catching him once or twice with the ends of the swishing rope, Sponer spun him round and with his clenched fist hit him square in the face.

The man went down immediately and the woman, too, whom he let go, fell down and lay there whimpering.

A couple of moments later the man began to move again, pressed his hand to his cheek, straightened himself up unsteadily and took two or three shaky steps towards Sponer.

Sponer recoiled and was ready to confront him again. However, this attack amounted to no more than that the man, in coming forward, lost his balance and merely tumbled into Sponer’s arms. Sponer pushed him away. The man took a couple of steps back, pulled out a handkerchief, pressed it to the spot where the punch had landed, and also felt his chin and the rest of his face while he eyed Sponer. Then he shook his head as though he wanted to shake something off; he began to sway again, but managed to hold onto the edge of the table. Sponer was ready to support him. The man, leaning on the table, looked at Sponer. “Who are you?” he asked.

Meanwhile Winifred had sat up, groaning, had pulled the tatters of her evening gown round her shoulders and was groping her way to the sofa. Sponer picked up the brocade cloak from the floor, approached her and threw it over her shoulders.

“Why did you hit her?” he asked the man.

“Because,” the man hissed, “she is my wife!”

“Are you Montemayor?”

“Yes.” He turned to face Winifred again and, leaning on the backrest, took a couple of steps towards her. “What did you want here?” he said in a cracked voice. “Didn’t you want to get to Mortimer?”

She shrank back even more as he approached. Sponer pushed him back.

“Leave her alone now,” he ordered. “How did you get here in the first place? How did you know your wife was here?”

“Because I heard her telephone just a while ago. Did you think,” he said, turning to Winifred, “I was asleep already? Didn’t it occur to you, I’d be expecting you to get in touch with that man?”

“What man?” she cried.

“Mortimer!”

“Where is Mortimer?”

“‘Where is Mortimer?’ she asks me!”

“Yes! He’s not here! He’s gone! Instead there’s this man here,” and she pointed at Sponer. Montemayor turned to Sponer; however, the woman went on to speak so quickly that Sponer could no longer understand her, nor the man when he answered. After that, the woman rattled on and cried ever louder, then she finally felt silent; only, her eyes kept darting from Montemayor to Sponer and back again.

Montemayor looked at Sponer.

“Are you Austrian?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sponer said after a pause.

“My wife,” Montemayor said in broken German, “says this is Mortimer’s room and these,” he pointed at the things scattered about, “are his clothes. Which they are. I know them from Paris, where he was wearing them. Where is Mortimer? How come you’re here?”

Sponer was silent for a moment, then he asked, “How is it that you speak German?”

“I studied music here.”

“In Vienna?”

“No, in Germany. So, who are you?”

“And you followed,” Sponer interrupted him, “your wife when you heard that she had phoned Mortimer?”

“Yes.”

“You said you suspected your wife would ring Jack Mortimer. What made you suspect that?”

“Because,” Montemayor replied, “even in Paris…”—and he turned to Winifred and shouted in English again—“Because even in Paris she wanted to get together with him, and because she, when we were coming here, had arranged that he’d follow. I knew all about it, I wasn’t born yesterday! And they wanted to meet here!”

Winifred glanced at him with an indescribable look on her face. “Why then,” she interrupted, “did you have to hit me if I wasn’t with Mortimer at all?”

“Because,” he yelled, “you wanted to be with him! Or maybe you didn’t want to be with him after all? Is he the one,” he said, pointing at Sponer, “you wanted to be with? How do you know him anyway?”

“I don’t know him at all! He was here when I came in, but he won’t say where Mortimer is!”

Montemayor looked at Sponer. “Well?” he asked. “Where is he?”

Sponer did not reply. Since these two, who knew Mortimer, had found him here, it made no sense to continue publicly playing Mortimer’s part to the end. It was madness to have taken it on in the first place. Because, in spite of all that he’d done, he had achieved nothing except to incriminate himself hopelessly and let the real murderer go absolutely scot-free.

He shrugged his shoulders, glanced around, went over to the table, took a cigarette and headed for the door.

Winifred sat up on the sofa, leapt to her feet, ran after Sponer and held him back by his arm.

“Where are you going?” she cried.

He looked at her, and a look of hatred came into his eyes. If it hadn’t been for this woman, he thought, if it hadn’t been for her obsession to see Mortimer, it might perhaps have been possible to fake the departure the next morning, to leave the hotel, take a cab, disappear, save himself. As it was, she had deceived her husband, saved the one who had shot her lover and ruined him, Sponer.

He turned to go.

“Where are you off to?” she cried.

He freed himself from her with a jerk. He looked at her pretty, vacuous face, staring back at him at close quarters; there was no other expression except obsession for the man with whom she wanted to double-cross her husband. Uncontrollable anger welled up in him. Had he been able to destroy her with the words he yelled into her face, he’d gladly have done so.