I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Lernet-Holenia

  A man in an overcoat got in and said, “Hotel Bristol.”

  The porter slammed the door shut.

  Sponer turned to the right out of the station, then left, drove between two dimly lit parks on either side, heard several loud explosions coming from the exhaust of a lorry he was overtaking, and emerged two turnings later at Mariahilfer Strasse. It was busy; there was a lot of traffic at this time of night. A couple of minutes later, he veered off to the right into a less well-lit street, which ran uphill, drove straight on in the direction of the city, crossed over Getreidemarkt, turned right into a residential district, then left again, and came out on the ring road, just in front of the Opera House. Reaching back with his left hand, he slid open the glass partition separating him from the back of the cab, and spoke over his shoulder.

  “The Old or the New Bristol?”

  As there was no answer, he said, as he joined the ring road, “There are two Bristols, the old and the new one. Which do you want?” While he was speaking, he turned off the main carriageway immediately in front of the Opera House, swung into the parallel slip road, and pulled up next to the front steps, since the lights at the Opera intersection were against him.

  There was still no answer from the man in the back.

  Sponer turned round and saw him leaning back in the right-hand corner, staring impassively out of the widow at Kärntner Strasse.

  “Old or New Bristol, which one?” he repeated.

  The man did not react in the slightest.

  Sponer turned on the interior light and saw him leaning back heavily. His coat was undone and he was clutching his right side with both hands as though looking for something in his pocket. His head was slumped to one side and his mouth was half open.

  He remained completely motionless.

  The man was dead.

  3

  SPONER STARED, terror-stricken, not so much seeing as sensing in a flash what had happened. A wave of fear hit him like a blow to the body. He started, pushed the door open and, freeing his coat which had snagged on the steering wheel, staggered backwards onto the pavement, before tearing the back door open and leaning inside. He grabbed the dead man by the chest with both hands and shook him. His head, as though snapped at the neck, lolled this way and that, slumped forward under its own weight; the body sagged to the floor like a sack of potatoes between the seat and the suitcase, and the head then fell back again, the face turned up blankly to the roof of the cab. The mouth fell open, and a thin trickle of blood ran from one corner over his chin and behind his shirt collar.

  As the head fell back it revealed a bullet hole in the man’s throat; the tie and shirt collar were soaked in blood. There must have been another bullet in his chest, because after Sponer withdrew his hands his gloves were wet and sticky.

  He edged backwards out of the cab, straightened up and struck his head hard against the top of the door frame. His cap fell forward over his face. He instinctively pushed it back with his forearm instead of with his blood-stained gloved hand. He turned round.

  A couple of people who were walking past some distance away took no notice. A taxi with its lights on and the driver standing next to it does not arouse anyone’s curiosity. Still dazed from the impact against the door frame, Sponer took two or three steps forward to attract someone’s attention, but, as nobody took any notice, he turned around towards a small news stand on the edge of the pavement where, despite the rain, they were still selling papers. A man had just bought a couple of evening editions and, as Sponer approached, both he and the newspaper seller turned their backs on him. Sponer wanted to say something, but couldn’t. His lips moved, but no sound issued. The man pulled out another paper from the rack and the seller passed him his change. Sponer, speechless that a dreadful thing had happened and no one seemed in the least concerned, stared at them. After a few moments he turned back to his cab as if in a trance.

  He took a couple of slow steps, then three or four very quick ones. He pulled off his blood-stained gloves and threw them into the car. Closing his eyes momentarily, he slammed the rear door shut, then got in his seat, turned off the interior light and, closing his own door with his left hand, swung the car to the right and headed towards the policeman operating the traffic signals at the centre of the crossroads. Just at that moment, the lights turned green on the ring road. A stream of cars that had started moving again drove towards the crossing, but as Sponer cut across, all hell broke loose. Some drivers cursed and slammed on their brakes right in front of Sponer’s car, others tried to swerve around him, while the majority pulled up behind with a jolt. The policeman yelled something. Sponer drove right up to him. “What the hell?” the policeman shouted. Sponer suddenly found himself front bumper to front bumper with a convertible that had been waiting in the right-hand lane at the crossing in order to join the ring road, and the driver, who was already moving, had to brake in the nick of time.

  “Get back!” the policeman yelled, and pulled out his notebook from under the cuff of his sleeve to take down Sponer’s number. Sponer leant out of the car window.

  “Officer,” he said, “I’ve…”

  “Are you mad?” the policeman yelled.

  “Officer!” Sponer called out. “I’ve got a…”

  “Get back!” the policeman shouted.

  Sponer went into reverse, but immediately collided with a car that was trying to negotiate round him. The policeman screamed at him.

  “There’s a dead man in my car!” Sponer shouted at the top of his voice, but the noise from the convertible which had braked in front of him and was now edging its way out of the jam drowned his words. The policeman raged and gesticulated; cars drove past. Sponer shouted to the policeman a few more times, but finally realized he couldn’t get through to him, engaged first gear with a curse, swung round the policeman and, changing up rapidly, raced off in the direction of Kärntner Strasse.

  He had to get to a police station. He turned left off Kärntner Strasse into Neuer Markt, sped along Plankengasse, and pulled up in front of the police station in Bräunerstrasse.

  A policeman was standing at the door, but Sponer rushed past him. He had had enough of policemen; he was going to talk directly to the inspector. When he entered the charging room he saw three or four officers who were trying to restrain a drunk who had just been brought in.

  Two of them were holding the man by his arms while a third tried to force him down on a bench. The drunk, however, was lashing out with his feet. Sponer turned to the fourth officer, who was barking out the orders.

  “Something’s happened,” he said, but received no answer. He grabbed the officer’s arm. “Inspector!” he said. The policeman turned towards him for a split second but was forced to turn round again because the drunk, having been briefly forced down onto the bench, had jumped up again and was about to break loose, whereupon all four officers hurled themselves at him. The drunk displayed extraordinary physical strength, as if the superior forces he was struggling against had driven him wild. In the end, however, the policemen overcame him by their sheer weight, and as he lay spluttering on the bench, they vented their anger in a torrent of abuse. Sponer stood in the middle of the room, and the events of the past minutes raced through his mind like short, randomly edited film clips: the dead man, the speeding cars, the news stand, the dead man, the carriageway, the blood, the dead man, the streets, the dead man. Caught a taxi at the station. “Hotel Bristol!” Ten minutes’ drive. “Old or New?” No reply. “There are two: the Old Bristol and the New.” No answer. Light on. The man sitting there, not moving. Leaves his seat, starts shaking him. He slumps forward, the head lolls back. Blood from his mouth. He’s wedged between the suitcase and the seat. Someone’s shot him through the throat. Who? He was in the cab by himself! “Who?” asks the inspector. “The dead man!”—“And the other one?”—“What other one?”—“The one who shot him!”—“There wasn’t anyone else.”—“There must’ve been a second person who’d…”—“No, he was on his own.”—�
��Where was the person who shot him then?”—“I don’t know.”—“But when you heard the shots and turned around…”—“I didn’t hear any shots.”—“You didn’t hear any shots?”—“No. I mean, yes: it was probably some exhaust backfiring…”—“What type of backfiring?”—“A lorry I was overtaking.”—“And when you turned around?”—“I didn’t turn around.”—“You didn’t turn around?”—“No.”—“Dammit, man!” the inspector yells. “Someone gets shot in your car, and you don’t so much as turn around?”—“No, I thought…”—“A murder is committed in your car as you drive along, and you don’t notice a thing? A man is bumped off so close behind you that you could reach out with your hand and touch him, and yet you see nothing, absolutely nothing of the murderer? You continue driving with the dead man in your car and expect me to believe you had no idea he was dead, and it was only after you touched him that he slumped forward, and is now lying between the seat and the suitcase, and the car’s outside the door…”

  “What do you want?”

  The policemen had overpowered the drunk at last, and the officer whose arm Sponer had pulled now stood facing him and said, “What do you want?”

  Sponer stared at him. He must’ve committed suicide. The man shot himself. That’s right! Seeing as there wasn’t anybody else there… On the other hand, if it wasn’t suicide… If the dead man didn’t even have a weapon on him… He hadn’t seen one lying there. If, however, someone had jumped on the running board, pulled the door open, fired, slammed the door shut and jumped off… And you didn’t notice a thing? Didn’t hear the shots? Thought it was backfiring? And the man in the car didn’t shout out when the other person burst in and attacked him? A person who’d just arrived is attacked and murdered before he even reaches his hotel… Why? Why on earth should anyone… I haven’t got a clue who the murdered person was or who did it! How the hell should I know why the bastards did it in my car… the bastards, for that’s what they are…

  “Well?” the policeman asked. “What’s the matter?”

  “I…” Sponer said.

  “Yes?”

  “I… I only wanted to…”

  “What did you want?”

  “I wanted to see if a…”

  “If a what?”

  “If a mate of mine…”

  “Yes?”

  “If he’s here,” Sponer gasped.

  “What mate?” the policeman asked.

  “Another… another driver.”

  “Should he be here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Sponer stuttered, “because he… was involved in an accident.”

  “Oh? Do you have any details.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Where did the accident take place?”

  “In town.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  “On the Freyung.”

  “I see. Who else was involved?”

  “It… it was a car.”

  “What type of car?”

  “Another car.”

  The policeman frowned.

  “Really?” he cried, clearly still furious after the struggle with the drunk. “Another car? Not his own? Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No, Inspector,” Sponer mumbled, “I only wanted to say…”

  “What did you want to say?”

  “I only wanted to ask if he was here.”

  “Who?” the policeman yelled. “What’s his name?”

  Let’s get out of here, Sponer thought. Quick, before I start saying things that aren’t true, otherwise they’ll keep me here, and in the car they’ll find the… “No, Inspector,” he mumbled, “he’s not here yet, but he’s sure to…”

  “What’s his name?” the policeman bellowed.

  “Georg… Georg Haintl,” Sponer mumbled.

  “Right!” The policeman grabbed a notepad. “And his registration number?”

  Sponer was spared the need to answer. Just at that moment the drunk, having shaken off the three men who were holding him down, noiselessly and unexpectedly leapt to his feet and launched himself with all his force in a flying tackle from the back, straight at the knees of the policeman who was questioning Sponer. The officer fell down with a crash, but was instantly back on his feet with a cry of rage, and the four again pounced on the drunk. Sponer turned on his heel and ran out.

  The policeman was still standing outside the main door. He hadn’t a clue that there was a dead man in the car just three paces away from him. Sponer jumped into his seat and sped off.

  For about ten minutes he raced aimlessly though the streets, then he came to his senses and looked round. He was in the ninth district, not far from the Liechtenstein Palace. He turned off the meter without thinking. The person for whom he’d turned it on wouldn’t be paying for the journey now.

  He drove on and tried to recall the events. He found it impossible to gather his thoughts. It was as if there were an empty space, a blank between his brain and his thoughts. He couldn’t concentrate on what he wanted to think about, because all kinds of unrelated matter kept racing through his head like mad. The moment he tried to think what he should do next, all kinds of thoughts tumbled through his head, except the one he wanted to focus on. As clearly as a maniac sees visions, he kept on seeing one of the two men get into the cab at the station, followed immediately by the other man jumping onto the running board from the other side and opening the door as the cab drove off. The two men were now screaming at each other, but he couldn’t hear this due to the noise of the traffic, and then came the shots drowned by the noise of the confounded lorry and sounding confusingly like an exhaust backfiring; a split second later, the murderer had slammed the door shut and jumped clear. Had it not been for the lorry, Sponer would have turned around when he heard the bangs and seen the bastard jump clear. As it was, he hadn’t turned around, and… But even if he had seen him, the man would still have jumped off and run away! But at least he could have claimed the man was wearing a brown coat, say, or he was tall perhaps, wearing a round hat; he could have seen him running off, he could have said the fellow looked such-and-such, but he just ran away. “What was I supposed to do? Run after him? He was going like a bat out of hell, Inspector! A man who jumps onto a moving car in the middle of the traffic and shoots someone!…” However, supposing he were to drive to a police station and simply say he’d seen the murderer jump off?… “Where, sir?”—“Right by the station, between the dark… between the patches of open ground…”—“What time?”—“Well, the train arrived at five minutes past the half hour, it’s a couple of minutes to the exit, and then one, or at most two minutes on the road… It’d be about a quarter to…”—“Hell! A quarter to seven! It’s already half past!”—“Half past seven?”—“Yes! Where have you been in the meantime?”—“Where have I been?…”—“And how did you get here from the Westbahnhof?”—“How did I get here?…”—“Yes! Didn’t you stop immediately?”—“Yes, I did… no, yes… no, it wasn’t at the West… it wasn’t at the Westbahnhof at all, it happened in Währinger Strasse…”—“Did it now? Where did the man get in then?”—“Where?… Yes, he got in… he got in at the station, of course, but in the meantime I stopped…”—“Where did you stop in the meantime?”—“I broke down…”—“What was the matter?”—“I had a puncture…”—“And where in fact did the man ask you to take him? Hotel Bristol? How then did you manage to end up in the ninth district?”—“No, he wanted to go to… to Berggasse!”—“I see. What were you doing at the Opera House intersection in that case?”—“At the Opera?…”—“Yes, it says here in the report that you drove backwards and forwards like a madman over the Opera House intersection! You must have known at the time that the man was already dead, otherwise you wouldn’t have panicked as you did…”—“Yes, I panicked…”—“For three-quarters of an hour? You heard shots, you saw a man jump off, you didn’t stop, and only three-quarters of an hour—no, it’s now nearly a whole hour—later, you come here a
nd…”—“I really… I really panicked, I can’t even think straight any longer, I don’t even know… I…” He leant forward with a groan as though about to slump over the wheel to hide his face, but then threw himself back again, clenched his teeth, and banged a couple of times with his fist on the edge of the car door. He couldn’t just carry on driving with the dead man in the car… He had to decide. He could no longer make a statement to the police. He had to get rid of the dead man.

  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?