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 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 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.
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, “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.