“He’s not innocent! He’s at least an accomplice!”
“No, he’s not, but even if he were, I couldn’t care less! I forbid you to compromise me! You better keep your mouth shut!”
“No, I won’t!”
They continued bawling and quarrelling like this on and on. For the most part Sponer didn’t understand what was going on; however, he saw that here was a chance for him. He doubted that Montemayor could succeed in gagging the woman for good, but this quarrel could certainly delay the investigation, at least till he could make his getaway. To where? Abroad. Anywhere.
Of course, were he to flee, there was the danger that they might catch him before he was across the border. He had mentioned his name to the two of them; true, they might not have registered it or might well have forgotten it, but they knew that he was a taxi driver. It would therefore be the easiest thing in the world to track him down. And that very moment his eyes lit on Mortimer’s passport that was lying on the table, and the idea occurred to him that it would possibly be easier to make his getaway using that rather than his own. At the border it would probably be the name of the suspect rather than that of the victim that was on the wanted list. He’d be safe only on Mortimer’s passport, at least until such time as the dead man’s name was reported everywhere in the papers.
He flipped open the passport. One passport photo is usually much like another, never mind the bearer. Moreover, the passports might very well be inspected en bloc, that is, collected up on the train, the names noted down, but the photos not checked for likeness with the bearers. And if it came to it, he could always try to swap his and Mortimer’s photo. Perhaps he could get away with it.
From the moment the idea with the passport occurred to him, his brain went into overdrive. He slipped the passport in his pocket, which the quarrelling pair didn’t notice. He moved towards the door. However, Winifred immediately shouted out. And, strange to say, so did Montemayor.
“Where are you going?” he cried. “Hold on!”
Sponer was already at the door. Montemayor, who was holding Winifred, couldn’t release his grip on her to stop him. Sponer rushed into the hallway, slammed the bedroom door behind him, grabbed his coat from the hook where the page boy had hung it, pulled the key from the main door, stepped into the hall while slamming the door behind him, turned the key in the lock twice and thrust it in his pocket. Only then, as he was running along the corridor and was putting his coat on, did he realize that it must have been part of Montemayor’s plan that he, Sponer, should stay in the hotel till the next morning and then leave, but only if he took Mortimer’s things with him. It was now, of course, too late for him to go back and get them. Nor did he expect the enraged woman to keep quiet for long. Everything was collapsing about his ears. There was nothing left for him but to flee. He rushed down the stairs past the porter, who was half asleep, and dashed out into the street. The illuminated clock on the Opera House showed nearly two.
8
TO THE LEFT, in a side street between the Bristol and the Grand Hotel, there were still some taxis. A few drivers, a couple of whom Sponer knew, were standing on the corner. He edged past them, went quickly to the last car and pulled the door open. “Next!” someone called out. A driver rushed up. Sponer got in hastily. He didn’t know the driver. He gave the address of his flat. The driver slammed the door shut, got in, pulled out of the rank and drove off.
He’d get a few things from his flat, money above all — he had some savings — and then make his way straight to one of the railway terminals, no matter which, but best to the Südbahnhof, from where he’d be able to get across the Yugoslav border, imagining for some reason that from there it’d be easiest of all to get to Slovenia or Croatia, and disappear; he pictured there to be vast mountain tracts and huge forests there, dotted with isolated villages that the authorities had difficulty in looking after. It was now two o’clock; he could be at the station by a quarter to three, or three at the latest, because he’d literally not need more than a couple of minutes at his flat to throw together a few necessities, and he’d get the taxi to wait for him. As a matter of fact, if he were then to drive on to the Südbahnhof, it’d be a good idea to change cabs on the way to throw them off the scent, because by morning, when the matter would already be common knowledge, the driver would more than likely make a beeline for the police. Yes, he’d driven a man and his luggage from the Bristol to Sponer’s flat and then on to the Südbahnhof, and he’d immediately become suspicious, and so on and so forth. That it’d be all over the morning papers he had no doubt; however, it no longer concerned him, because he was certain he’d reach the border first, well before the papers that carried Mortimer’s name. He had at least eighteen hours’ start on Mortimer’s passport. And yet he was pretty sure that, having left Mortimer’s luggage behind and departed so conspicuously, Montemayor himself would have to yield to his wife and make a statement. Clearly there was no way in which the latter could force the woman to keep quiet. It therefore made no difference whether the luggage had been left behind or not. The police might that very minute be in the process of taking down evidence, or have even finished doing so almost as soon as he had left the hotel room. Had the Montemayors got his name right, or just nearly right, it was likely detectives were already heading for his flat, or would do so before he had time to reach it himself, because the police operate with lightning speed in such cases, knowing full well that you’ve got to strike the iron while it’s hot.
He knocked on the glass partition. The driver turned half around. Sponer called out to him Marie Fiala’s flat.
Surely he needn’t tell her what had happened. He’d merely ask her to fetch him a few things and the money from his flat, as he’d got himself into an awkward situation upon which he needn’t elaborate; just ask her to do him a favour that she couldn’t possibly refuse. All he had to do was to make it sound sufficiently urgent.
After all, she loved him. The night before, she had even cried. She’d go, all right. Let’s face it, he thought, she ran no risk at all, because even if they found her in his flat, she could easily say…
The taxi pulled up in front of her house. He got out quickly and reached in his pocket to pay. It was empty. He’d thrown all his silver on the table at the Bristol. He had also left Mortimer’s wallet on the table, it was an unpardonable mistake, because with the money that it contained, and the cheques, he could have… All he’d taken was the passport. Dammit! He swore and searched through all his pockets, and he’d even handed in his afternoon’s takings to Haintl.
“Wait here!” he shouted to the driver, rushed up to the front door and rang the bell. At this moment he recalled that Haintl, when totting up the takings, had changed some of the coins for a banknote. Where was it? He felt in his breast pocket and found it.
While the driver was giving him his change, the front door was opened by the sleepy housekeeper, half hidden behind the main door and still in her nightclothes. He thrust a coin in her hand, said, “The Fialas’!” and started running up the stairs. The staircase was in darkness. He struck a couple of matches, and when he reached the Fialas’ flat he rang the bell, then once more a few moments later.
It was dark behind the glass door. He stood and waited. It stank on the staircase. He rang a third time, keeping his finger on the bell. At that moment a light came on in the flat; he heard footsteps, a key was turned in the lock and the door opened.
It was Marie’s father, who had thrown a coat over his shoulders and looked at Sponer.