Read Online I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) by Alexander Lernet-Holenia - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexander Lernet-Holenia
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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 thefront 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 slicked-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 hisown 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.
He got in and drove three houses farther on to his garage, a large, roofed, dimly lit yard, at the entrance to which someone was still washing a car.
He asked the man why he was still at it so late.
The man mumbled that the car had to be ready first thing in the morning.
Sponer nodded in reply.
He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. Just then Georg Haintl walked into the garage to take over from him.
He had probably been in a bar, because he smelt of wine.
Sponer let him have the car together with the day’s takings. He paid with his own money what Jack Mortimer hadn’t. Or was it Jack Mortimer’s money he paid with? He didn’t know, the silver had got mixed up in his pocket.
“What’s that tie you’ve got on?” Haintl asked.
“Oh,” said Sponer, “it’s a new one. By the way,” he added,
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 thefront 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 slicked-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 hisown 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.
He got in and drove three houses farther on to his garage, a large, roofed, dimly lit yard, at the entrance to which someone was still washing a car.
He asked the man why he was still at it so late.
The man mumbled that the car had to be ready first thing in the morning.
Sponer nodded in reply.
He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. Just then Georg Haintl walked into the garage to take over from him.
He had probably been in a bar, because he smelt of wine.
Sponer let him have the car together with the day’s takings. He paid with his own money what Jack Mortimer hadn’t. Or was it Jack Mortimer’s money he paid with? He didn’t know, the silver had got mixed up in his pocket.
“What’s that tie you’ve got on?” Haintl asked.
“Oh,” said Sponer, “it’s a new one. By the way,” he added,
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