I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Lernet-Holenia

  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 slick
ed-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.