He glanced around, appeared not to notice Sponer at all, and dragged Winifred over to one of the windows. There he reached behind the curtains and yanked one of the curtains cords with such force that the whole rail came crashing down. He folded the rope double and began to lash the woman with it.
So far he hadn’t said a word; now, however, he began to accompany every word with a suppressed expletive. Under the blows Winifred’s thin evening dress immediately tore into shreds and red welts began to appear on her naked back. At first, when she had got her mouth free, she began to yell; however, the blows came down so thick and fast that she immediately found herself short of breath. She hid her face in her arms, stopped turning around and just groaned. The man continued to whip her.
At first Sponer observed the scene in bewilderment till his mind slowly began to comprehend what was going on. Above all he didn’t know what to make of the intruder. He now grabbed him by the shoulders, yelled at him and pushed him aside. Since the fellow nevertheless paid not the slightest attention to him and carried on lashing blindly, even catching him once or twice with the ends of the swishing rope, Sponer spun him round and with his clenched fist hit him square in the face.
The man went down immediately and the woman, too, whom he let go, fell down and lay there whimpering.
*
A couple of moments later the man began to move again, pressed his hand to his cheek, straightened himself up unsteadily and took two or three shaky steps towards Sponer.
Sponer recoiled and was ready to confront him again. However, this attack amounted to no more than that the man, in coming forward, lost his balance and merely tumbled into Sponer’s arms. Sponer pushed him away. The man took a couple of steps back, pulled out a handkerchief, pressed it to the spot where the punch had landed, and also felt his chin and the rest of his face while he eyed Sponer. Then he shook his head as though he wanted to shake something off; he began to sway again, but managed to hold onto the edge of the table. Sponer was ready to support him. The man, leaning on the table, looked at Sponer. “Who are you?” he asked.
Meanwhile Winifred had sat up, groaning, had pulled the tatters of her evening gown round her shoulders and was groping her way to the sofa. Sponer picked up the brocade cloak from the floor, approached her and threw it over her shoulders.
“Why did you hit her?” he asked the man.
“Because,” the man hissed, “she is my wife!”
“Are you Montemayor?”
“Yes.” He turned to face Winifred again and, leaning on the backrest, took a couple of steps towards her. “What did you want here?” he said in a cracked voice. “Didn’t you want to get to Mortimer?”
She shrank back even more as he approached. Sponer pushed him back.
“Leave her alone now,” he ordered. “How did you get here in the first place? How did you know your wife was here?”
“Because I heard her telephone just a while ago. Did you think,” he said, turning to Winifred, “I was asleep already? Didn’t it occur to you, I’d be expecting you to get in touch with that man?”
“What man?” she cried.
“Mortimer!”
“Where is Mortimer?”
“‘Where is Mortimer?’ she asks me!”
“Yes! He’s not here! He’s gone! Instead there’s this man here,” and she pointed at Sponer. Montemayor turned to Sponer; however, the woman went on to speak so quickly that Sponer could no longer understand her, nor the man when he answered. After that, the woman rattled on and cried ever louder, then she finally felt silent; only, her eyes kept darting from Montemayor to Sponer and back again.
Montemayor looked at Sponer.
“Are you Austrian?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sponer said after a pause.
“My wife,” Montemayor said in broken German, “says this is Mortimer’s room and these,” he pointed at the things scattered about, “are his clothes. Which they are. I know them from Paris, where he was wearing them. Where is Mortimer? How come you’re here?”
Sponer was silent for a moment, then he asked, “How is it that you speak German?”
“I studied music here.”
“In Vienna?”
“No, in Germany. So, who are you?”
“And you followed,” Sponer interrupted him, “your wife when you heard that she had phoned Mortimer?”
“Yes.”
“You said you suspected your wife would ring Jack Mortimer. What made you suspect that?”
“Because,” Montemayor replied, “even in Paris…”—and he turned to Winifred and shouted in English again—“Because even in Paris she wanted to get together with him, and because she, when we were coming here, had arranged that he’d follow. I knew all about it, I wasn’t born yesterday! And they wanted to meet here!”
Winifred glanced at him with an indescribable look on her face. “Why then,” she interrupted, “did you have to hit me if I wasn’t with Mortimer at all?”
“Because,” he yelled, “you wanted to be with him! Or maybe you didn’t want to be with him after all? Is he the one,” he said, pointing at Sponer, “you wanted to be with? How do you know him anyway?”
“I don’t know him at all! He was here when I came in, but he won’t say where Mortimer is!”
Montemayor looked at Sponer. “Well?” he asked. “Where is he?”
Sponer did not reply. Since these two, who knew Mortimer, had found him here, it made no sense to continue publicly playing Mortimer’s part to the end. It was madness to have taken it on in the first place. Because, in spite of all that he’d done, he had achieved nothing except to incriminate himself hopelessly and let the real murderer go absolutely scot-free.
He shrugged his shoulders, glanced around, went over to the table, took a cigarette and headed for the door.
Winifred sat up on the sofa, leapt to her feet, ran after Sponer and held him back by his arm.
“Where are you going?” she cried.
He looked at her, and a look of hatred came into his eyes. If it hadn’t been for this woman, he thought, if it hadn’t been for her obsession to see Mortimer, it might perhaps have been possible to fake the departure the next morning, to leave the hotel, take a cab, disappear, save himself. As it was, she had deceived her husband, saved the one who had shot her lover and ruined him, Sponer.
He turned to go.
“Where are you off to?” she cried.
He freed himself from her with a jerk. He looked at her pretty, vacuous face, staring back at him at close quarters; there was no other expression except obsession for the man with whom she wanted to double-cross her husband. Uncontrollable anger welled up in him. Had he been able to destroy her with the words he yelled into her face, he’d gladly have done so.
“Mortimer,” he yelled at her, “is dead!”
She collapsed straight away. While Montemayor, after a momentary shock, lifted her up and carried her to the sofa, Sponer went back to the table, filled a glass with water, dipped a napkin in it, and handed the napkin to Montemayor. Montemayor pressed it to her forehead. A few seconds later she came to and began to sob desperately, mumble something and cry out the same question over and over again. She was in total shock.
At last she buried her face in her hands and grew calmer, only now and again her whole body would convulse with a shudder.
Leaning against the table, Sponer looked at her closely.
“Listen,” he said finally, “I didn’t do it. I’m a taxi driver, my name’s Ferdinand Sponer. I’d never seen Mortimer until he got into my cab tonight. When I reached the Opera House, he was dead. I don’t know who shot him. I saw so little of what had happened that I said to myself, ‘If I’m unable to give any evidence, I’ll be taken for the murderer.’ I wanted to play Mortimer’s role to avoid being suspected myself. All I’ve achieved as a result is that I’ll be taken for the murderer. I can’t disprove it. You can report me. If you do that, however, you’ll ensure that the real murderer is never found.”