Read I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) for Free Online Page B

few passers-by paid no heed to Sponer and his car. A cat ran across the street, jumped over the steps of a doorway, and disappeared.
    After a few minutes Sponer lit a cigarette.
    Every time he drew on the cigarette the glow shone in the windscreen, the darkness behind Sponer’s back being simultaneously reflected in front of him.
    He threw the cigarette away and turned around.
    The glass panels that separated him from the rear compartment were still slid back, with a gap of about two handbreadths between them.
    Sponer forced himself to look into the back of the car.
    In the slanting light of a distant street lamp he saw the rear seat, the edges of the suitcase and, between the two, like something incongruous, the blurred outlines of the slumped body.
    The face was cadaverously pale. Because of the jolting during the journey, the head must have shifted even farther forward.
    Just for a second he doubted that the man was still in the car. Every now and again he would be overcome by a sense of unreality. Sponer could well have imagined leaving the street, driving to a cab rank, picking up a fare, and opening the door for him. And in the car—nothing. The body and the luggage—a mere figment of the imagination.
    But the suitcase next to the driver’s seat was real enough.
    He listened to see if anyone was coming, got out of the car, took the suitcase out, opened the rear door, and pushed the suitcase on top of the one that was already there. In the process, he avoided looking at the body. He quickly slammed the door and listened again.
    As he was returning to his seat, it suddenly occurred to him that someone, a fare, could suddenly appear from behind while he was parked there, give an address, open the rear door and get in. Dammit! he thought.
    He got back into his seat, pushed the glass panels even farther apart, and leant over into the interior.
    He groped for the handles of the two doors and pushed them upwards so that the doors were locked and could no longer be opened from outside.
    While he was leaning into the rear, he avoided breathing.
    Then he pulled himself clear and sank back in his seat.

    When he looked at his watch it was about nine.
    He hadn’t eaten anything since midday, but didn’t feel atall hungry; all he had was a hollow, uncomfortable sensation in his stomach.
    If only he could find something to drink somewhere, he thought. He didn’t want beer or wine, instead something like a sherry or vermouth.
    He was already feeling a lot calmer, otherwise he wouldn’t even have thought of such a thing. He’d have something later, say in about an hour’s time, only now he had to drive to the Danube, throw the body and luggage into the river, and then he’d be safe.
    While he sat there waiting, and while for a moment he had no need to think what to do next, he began to anticipate the sense of relief he’d feel after he’d got shot of his gruesome luggage, but at the same time he also felt he had to do something to relieve the tension of the last few hours.
    If he could risk leaving the car unattended for a few minutes, he could go and get a drink somewhere.
    After all, why shouldn’t he leave the car unattended somewhere for a short time where it was dark? He’d been driving for almost two hours through the town, and no one had seen or even imagined the gruesome cargo he was ferrying. Besides, he’d left the car open by the Opera, at the crossing the policeman had shouted at him to move on, in Bräunerstrasse he’d left the car for nearly ten minutes right in front of the other policeman, and no one had even thought of suspecting him.
    And let’s face it, why should anyone suspect anythingdreadful to have happened right there in broad daylight rather than somewhere out in the outer suburbs, near some rubbish tip, under a bridge, places where traditionally such things are banished to and where, to be honest, you expect them to happen! Who, unless he’d experienced this sort of thing for himself, would