I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) (13 page)

Sponer could have sworn he misheard her. Was she mad? Whom had she shot? Mortimer? Impossible! But the others, too, when it was now being dictated in German, appeared not to have understood, judging by their calm looks.

“Mortimer’s Colt,” Winifred continued, “was still lying on the table where the driver had left it, together with Mortimer’s other things. Montemayor finally said to me that even if I didn’t want to keep quiet, in spite of him begging and even ordering me to do so, I’d surely keep quiet after I found out that it was he, Montemayor, who did it because of his love
for me. I didn’t quite understand him at first. Then he said that he’d known when Mortimer was arriving, had driven to the station, waited until Mortimer had left the station and got into a taxi, whereupon he had jumped on the running board from the other side as the taxi drove off, opened the rear door, fired several shots at Mortimer, slammed the door shut, jumped off, run away, and was back in the hotel a little later. After he had finished, I took the Colt from the table and shot him.”

The reporters went on writing. The others stared silently at Winifred. The words hit Sponer like an avalanche. The car screeched, Mortimer’s car, with Montemayor on the running board, the shots echoed in his ears, the three bullets that had passed through Mortimer on that fatal journey… The dark night, the drive with the dead man on board, the streets, the surge of the river, the dark staircases, the look in Marisabelle’s eyes, the greying dawn—the scenes of the night all raced through Sponer’s brain like a terrible tornado.

“José did not love me,” Winifred continued. “It was only vanity, jealousy and hatred that drove him to kill Mortimer. But I loved Mortimer with all my heart. If I could have died for his sake, I’d have gladly done so. Now he’s really dead, and I’m alive. But my life is merely a sacrifice for him, because I killed Montemayor for his sake.”

There was a pause. The detective said something in
connection
with the statement to the effect that it would still have to be corroborated by evidence that Montemayor
had actually murdered Mortimer. The sequence of events leading up to the murder could, however, be provisionally reconstructed on the basis of the available evidence.

He opened the door to the salon. Montemayor lay there on the carpet in his evening suit and, with Winifred at the head, they all filed into the room and stood round the body in silence. By the light that poured in through the windows, the powder and rouge on her face looked strangely
incongruous
. Her bleached hair appeared unreal, and the folds of her crimson evening gown seemed to shoot up her body like tongues of flame every time she moved. Montemayor lay stretched out on his right side, his fists clenched, and his face, which was turned upwards, was already deathly white. At the same time, however, it bore a strangely calm and serene expression.

For even though an ocean separated this city and the savannas, he had fallen like the true peon that he was. He had fallen like a peon falls in a fight with his enemy, a fight for a beloved one, with a bullet, with Mortimer’s bullet, in his heart.

While the rest stood there in silence, Sponer started backing away without making a sound. Nobody took any notice of him. Slowly walking backwards, he reached the door. Feeling behind him, he opened it, bounded out of the room, slammed the door and ran along the corridor, down the stairs, through
the entrance hall and the revolving door and out into the street. He ran straight across the ring road. He knew that, come what may, he would still have to report to the police and make a statement, and would have to explain the
disappearance
of the body. But now, at that moment, he just couldn’t be restrained. He ran across Karlsplatz, through the gardens, and down Alleegasse to Marisabelle’s house, flung open the gate and dashed through the entrance hall and up the stairs. He stopped, breathless, in front of the Raschitzes’ flat and rang the bell. Still panting for breath, he pulled his cap off his head and smoothed his hair. The door was opened after a short pause. The young girl to whom he had spoken the night before stood there. He wanted to say something, but was still so out of breath that at first he was unable to utter a word.

“The Fräulein!” he finally stammered.

She stared at him. “It’s you? It’s you again?”

“The Fräulein!” he repeated. “Please call her!”

She appeared not to understand fully.

“But she hasn’t come home yet!” she finally said.

“Not home?”

“No. She isn’t back yet. What do you want to see her for? Don’t you know where she is? Has something happened? What is it you want from her?”

He was no longer paying any attention to her. Marisabelle must still be upstairs! He turned and ran up. The girl stared after him. At the Dorfmeisters’ flat he rang the bell and banged on the door with his fists. He leant one hand against
the door and rested his head on it briefly, before quickly
bringing
both hands to his face and closing his eyes, and although he was still gasping for breath, he suddenly smiled; he smiled as if in a dream, as if it were once more Marisabelle’s hands in which he had buried his face.

He heard light, hurried steps; he straightened up, and the door opened.

It was Marisabelle, woken from her sleep, her hair
dishevelled
, a fur coat slung over her shoulders. He stepped silently over the threshold, not taking his eyes off her, hands
outstretched
towards her.

She looked back at him in amazement.

“I…” he finally stammered, “I’m free! It was Montemayor.”

She shrank back.

“What?” she stuttered. “Who?”

“Montemayor! The man who killed Mortimer… It was because of his wife… He told her he jumped on the car and shot him during the ride from the station.”

She retreated a further couple of steps.

“Why are you here then?” she finally asked.

He didn’t understand. “Why am I here?” he asked, and took a breath and tried to laugh as he looked at her.

“Yes, what made you come back?”

“Where?”

“Where? Here of course!”

“Where else?” he shouted. “Where should I return other than to you!”

“Keep your voice down!” she hissed. “You’re mad! Go away!”

He didn’t understand.

“Go away!” she repeated.

“You want me to leave?”

“Yes! Immediately!”

“I don’t understand you,” he said.

“I don’t understand you either!” she shouted. “What on earth induced you to come running back here! What if someone sees you?”

He stared at her. He wanted to say something, but his lips didn’t respond.

“Did you too think,” he finally stammered, “that you wouldn’t see me again?”

“Well, at any rate not now!”

“Ah,” he stammered, “you only did it because you thought I’d be lost otherwise?”

“You’re not anymore, though, are you?” she shouted. “You say that you’ve been released!”

“Is that any reason why I should go away?”

“Someone may see you! How could you leave without waking me? How could you let me go on sleeping upstairs here? You compromised me!”

“I compromised you?”

“Of course!”

“And in the night,” he shouted, “I didn’t compromise you?”

“In the night you were on the run!”

“In other words, you only did it because you thought I’d had it?”

“Do you hold that against me?”

“I don’t, but why are you ruining everything?”

“You’re doing it yourself! You’re putting me in an
impossible
position!”

“That I should have thought of you before anyone else?”

“No, by coming here! What does that make me then?”

“The same what you were for me in the night!”

“So?” she shouted. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes. You’re now free, you say! You’re no longer what you were! And besides, it’s no longer night now. What on earth did you mean by compromising me?”

“That’s the last thing I wanted to do!” he stammered.

“Yet you’re doing it now! And what’s more, first you come to me and say you’re lost, and now you come and tell me none of it is true and nothing has happened.”

“I thought,” he mumbled, “that you’d be happy for me.”

“Of course,” she said, “but nevertheless, how on earth can you put me in such a position?”

“What position?”

She didn’t answer. They just looked at each other.

“What position?” he repeated. “You mean of seeing me again?”

She was silent.

“Are you trying to tell me I had no right to come back?”

“I’d have done anything for you, but you shouldn’t have then turned around and told me that it wasn’t necessary. It’s all over now, and you shouldn’t remind me of what I did. Don’t you understand?”

So that’s how it is, he thought. Understand? Oh yes, I do understand. At least I’m beginning to understand. There are women one shouldn’t see again, and there are men who shouldn’t make a nuisance of themselves. Drivers, for example, if they’ve had a fling with a girl from a posh family. There are girls that one shouldn’t compromise, and others who’d gladly let themselves be arrested for a man. Those whom one shouldn’t question about what they had been up to, and others who would have it splashed all over the papers that they wanted to sacrifice themselves for you. Girls to whom one mustn’t return, and others who wait for years and to whom one doesn’t return…

“Don’t you see,” she said, “you can’t just turn up here like that? You’re compromising me, you must show me some consideration! If I got carried away last night,”—she cast her eyes to the ground—“that was something else. But now you can’t just barge in like that. You’re forgetting that…” She broke off, searching for words.

“You’re quite right,” he said after a pause. “I’m forgetting that you’re not some girl from the suburbs that I can see when and where I please. I’m forgetting that you’ve got to heed your reputation, otherwise your family will disown you. I’m forgetting that it’s impossible for us to be seen together, that
everything that you did for me was just a one-night stand, just a matter of a few hours, and that you can’t be my lover. I’m forgetting that I have to forget this. Nevertheless, I thank you,” he said, and came close to her and kissed her hands. “I thank you for doing what you did.”

With that, he looked at her for a moment, then let her hands fall and turned. She grabbed his arm. “Listen,” she said, “I don’t want you to think that I…”

She fell silent. There was the sound of someone coming up the stairs. They were quick, hurried steps, two treads at a time. The next moment Marisabelle’s brother appeared in the doorway. He looked at them both, as if wanting to say something. However, when Sponer approached the door, he stepped back onto the landing.

Sponer crossed the threshold. At that moment the young Raschitz leapt from the side towards him. Sponer, as quick as a flash, turned round towards him and knocked him to the ground.

Then he walked away.

He walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, through the suburbs. In his eyes there was a strange expression, as if he didn’t quite see where he was going.

After for some time, he lit a cigarette. After a couple of puffs, however, he noticed that it tasted of honey. He still had one of Mortimer’s cigarettes. He threw it away. It was more
than half an hour before he came to his district. However, he didn’t turn off in the direction of his flat, but went to Fiala’s house instead.

He walked past an organ-grinder standing in the pouring rain. His instrument was covered by a sheet. He was playing ‘Castilliana’.

As he walked past, Sponer tossed him a coin, for the song stirred something in the depth of his soul. He had heard it before, only he no longer remembered when and where.

Then he saw Marie standing on a street corner.

For a moment he was overcome by a feeling of shame. But then he realized that he must overcome it.

When Marie noticed him, she came running towards him, almost tripping over in her excitement, and held out the envelope containing the money. Then, sobbing, she threw her arms around his neck.

He embraced her, and they stood there for a few moments without moving or speaking. A couple of people turned and glanced at them.

He stroked her hair.

“Thank you,” he said, and took the money. “But I don’t need it anymore. I’m not guilty.”

“What did you do then?” she sobbed.

He kissed her. “You probably won’t know what I’m talking about,” he said. “I was just on my way to you. I was Jack Mortimer.”

My thanks go to Jane Shuttleworth, the Dostoevsky expert, who read my translation, and Gerlinde Buchberger, who read the novel in the original; both of whom offered many kind words of support and encouragement; also to John Francis Moloney.

Last but not least, I wish to acknowledge my gratitude to the highly efficient and helpful Pushkin Press editorial team headed by Gesche Ipsen and supported by Bryan Karetnyk, but above all to the Publisher Adam Freudenheim who was a helpful and wise presence throughout.