Read Online I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) by Alexander Lernet-Holenia - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alexander Lernet-Holenia
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“the upholstery’s damaged.”
“Yes?” enquired Haintl.
“That’s right,” said Sponer. He opened the door and showed Haintl the damage. Haintl leant into interior, examined the upholstery and mumbled something.
“The car’s getting old,” said Sponer. “Show it to Brandeis in the morning.”
Brandeis was the proprietor’s son. He, too, sometimes drove the cars. Brandeis was to take over from Haintl at seven in the morning, and then Sponer would take over at midday.
Haintl, without commenting on the fact that the interior of the car was wet, drew his head back, and Sponer shut the door.
They stood there for a moment, looking at the car. For one that had been driven in the city, it was excessively spattered with mud.
However, before Haintl could comment on this, Sponer quickly said goodbye and left.
He hurried back to his house, opened the front door, went up the stairs and entered his room once more.
He flung his coat and cap on the bed, but then stuck the cap in his overcoat pocket. He began yet again to rummage through Mortimer’s suitcases; he pulled out a light overcoat and a hat which happened to be rather crumpled, but he straightened it out and put it on. It came down over his ears a bit. He tore a strip off one of the two French newspapers which were still lying there and stuffed it under the lining. Now the hat fitted him. He put on Mortimer’s coat, locked the suitcases, slung his driver’s coat over his arm, picked up the cases and left the room.
He left the room door unlocked, but locked the door to the flat; he then carried the suitcases down the stairs and stepped out onto the street.
He had to carry the suitcases for about ten minutes till he saw an empty taxi, which he hailed.
“Südbahnhof,” he said, taking a good look at the driver.
The journey took about twelve minutes. At the station he got out, paid, waived a porter, and entered the station with the cases in his hands. In one of the halls he put down the cases by a side exit, threw his coat on top and waited a couple of minutes. In the meantime he smoked a cigarette. Then he picked up his things again and left the station by the exit leading into the city.
Here he took a cab.
“New Bristol,” he said.
A few minutes later the car stopped by the Bristol at the same spot where earlier he himself ought to have pulled up with Jack Mortimer.
The hotel entrance was still lit; to the right shone the red and light-blue neon sign of the hotel bar.
While Sponer was paying, a hotel attendant approached.
Sponer nodded, and the man, having greeted him, lifted the cases out of the car and carried them to the entrance.
Sponer glanced at the driver. With the coat over his arm he then entered the hotel.
The glittering marble hall dazzled him for a second. The thick pile of the carpets absorbed all sound of footsteps . Strains of dance music reached him from somewhere intermittently.
A liveried porter came up to him.
Sponer said, “My name’s Jack Mortimer.”
The porter bowed immediately. “We had been expecting you about seven, sir.” And straight away he added something else in English, which Sponer failed to understand.
“I was held up,” Sponer muttered.
Another man, in a suit, suddenly stood before him.
“Mr Mortimer?” he asked. “This way please!” And he noiselessly hurried towards a lift door. Sponer followed. They entered the lift. A bellboy was suddenly at his side to take the overcoat from his arm. The lift started, then stopped. They got out. They walked along carpeted, glittering marble corridors . A door was swung open, a chandelier lit up, mirrors of a salon gleamed all round, a bedroom with brocade bed covers was illuminated, snow-white walls, nickel and chrome fittings shone in a bathroom, and the soft-spoken manager—addressing him now in English, now in German, eager to explain and recommend—bowed again, taking a step backwards to allow a second small boy to hand Sponer his mail, comprising a
“Yes?” enquired Haintl.
“That’s right,” said Sponer. He opened the door and showed Haintl the damage. Haintl leant into interior, examined the upholstery and mumbled something.
“The car’s getting old,” said Sponer. “Show it to Brandeis in the morning.”
Brandeis was the proprietor’s son. He, too, sometimes drove the cars. Brandeis was to take over from Haintl at seven in the morning, and then Sponer would take over at midday.
Haintl, without commenting on the fact that the interior of the car was wet, drew his head back, and Sponer shut the door.
They stood there for a moment, looking at the car. For one that had been driven in the city, it was excessively spattered with mud.
However, before Haintl could comment on this, Sponer quickly said goodbye and left.
He hurried back to his house, opened the front door, went up the stairs and entered his room once more.
He flung his coat and cap on the bed, but then stuck the cap in his overcoat pocket. He began yet again to rummage through Mortimer’s suitcases; he pulled out a light overcoat and a hat which happened to be rather crumpled, but he straightened it out and put it on. It came down over his ears a bit. He tore a strip off one of the two French newspapers which were still lying there and stuffed it under the lining. Now the hat fitted him. He put on Mortimer’s coat, locked the suitcases, slung his driver’s coat over his arm, picked up the cases and left the room.
He left the room door unlocked, but locked the door to the flat; he then carried the suitcases down the stairs and stepped out onto the street.
He had to carry the suitcases for about ten minutes till he saw an empty taxi, which he hailed.
“Südbahnhof,” he said, taking a good look at the driver.
The journey took about twelve minutes. At the station he got out, paid, waived a porter, and entered the station with the cases in his hands. In one of the halls he put down the cases by a side exit, threw his coat on top and waited a couple of minutes. In the meantime he smoked a cigarette. Then he picked up his things again and left the station by the exit leading into the city.
Here he took a cab.
“New Bristol,” he said.
A few minutes later the car stopped by the Bristol at the same spot where earlier he himself ought to have pulled up with Jack Mortimer.
The hotel entrance was still lit; to the right shone the red and light-blue neon sign of the hotel bar.
While Sponer was paying, a hotel attendant approached.
Sponer nodded, and the man, having greeted him, lifted the cases out of the car and carried them to the entrance.
Sponer glanced at the driver. With the coat over his arm he then entered the hotel.
The glittering marble hall dazzled him for a second. The thick pile of the carpets absorbed all sound of footsteps . Strains of dance music reached him from somewhere intermittently.
A liveried porter came up to him.
Sponer said, “My name’s Jack Mortimer.”
The porter bowed immediately. “We had been expecting you about seven, sir.” And straight away he added something else in English, which Sponer failed to understand.
“I was held up,” Sponer muttered.
Another man, in a suit, suddenly stood before him.
“Mr Mortimer?” he asked. “This way please!” And he noiselessly hurried towards a lift door. Sponer followed. They entered the lift. A bellboy was suddenly at his side to take the overcoat from his arm. The lift started, then stopped. They got out. They walked along carpeted, glittering marble corridors . A door was swung open, a chandelier lit up, mirrors of a salon gleamed all round, a bedroom with brocade bed covers was illuminated, snow-white walls, nickel and chrome fittings shone in a bathroom, and the soft-spoken manager—addressing him now in English, now in German, eager to explain and recommend—bowed again, taking a step backwards to allow a second small boy to hand Sponer his mail, comprising a
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