She looked at him inquiringly.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted you to… I only wanted to say a few words to you…”
She took hold of the door handle. “I told you already that you’re not to speak to me.”
“Y-yes,” he stuttered, “not here. But I just wanted to ask if you… seeing as my car’s here…” He fell silent and looked at her.
Her lips trembled. “Leave me alone,” she said.
“Please listen!” he begged.
“No, go away,” she said, and pushed the gate open with her shoulder.
“Please, don’t go,” he pleaded.
“No, leave me alone!” she shouted, and stepped back.
He took a step forwards as though to stop her, but she slipped through the gate and slammed it shut in front of him.
For a brief moment he was about to follow her, but turned round and went over to his cab. The other drivers looked on, but pretended that nothing had happened. He got in and sat motionless for a second, then he turned the engine on, swung sharply out of the rank, and sped off.
He had to speak to her. She had got it all wrong. It wasn’t a case of someone simply chatting up a girl in the street!
After he’d calmed down a bit, he drove various fares till about half past three, then parked again in Alleegasse itself, rather than in the side street.
The drivers who were now standing on the corner were different to the ones who were there in the morning.
He waited till after six, but with no luck.
The commissionaire kept looking across, then got up and took a couple of steps towards him to strike up a conversation, but turned back, for he now found the whole thing rather odd; and besides, Sponer was giving him strange looks. He retraced his steps to his usual spot on the street corner, which he soon vacated, however, and went into the hotel.
He could keep a lookout from there.
After six, by which time it had already got dark, Marisabelle finally came out of the house. Sponer got out immediately.
She was followed closely by a young man of about eighteen, who closed the gate. Marisabelle stopped as soon as she caught sight of Sponer. When her companion drew level with her, she said something to him quickly in a soft voice. The young man raised his head, and went straight over to Sponer.
“Will you stop pestering my sister?” he said in a loud, clear voice, standing straight in front of him. “Is that understood? Clear out of here, or else! If I see you in front of this house once more, you’ll have only yourself to blame for the consequences!”
He turned round, took Marisabelle by the arm, and they walked off in the other direction.
Sponer stood rooted to the ground, then took a step forward to go after the young man and box his ears, but he restrained himself and got back into his cab.
Barely controlling his anger, he turned on the engine, screeched round the next corner and sped up the side street. At the crossing with Favoritenstrasse he slowed down, but, fuming with rage and finding himself in a maze of back streets, with no idea where he was going, he decided to head for one of the railway stations. It was beginning to rain; he raced though the city, with its brightly lit windows and cars glistening in the wet, towards the Westbahnhof. Spray thrown up by the wind blew across his path. His cheeks were burning. He pulled off a glove and wiped his face with his bare hand.
As he turned into the station approach, he nearly ran over a dog, which jumped back, barking at him.
A lot of cabs were already lined up in rows at the arrivals exit. He backed into an empty space, switched off the engine and stared straight ahead.
After a few minutes there was some movement among the parked cabs. He glanced at his watch. The Paris — Munich express had probably just pulled in. People were streaming out of the exit. The cabs edged forward, picking up fares and luggage, and disappeared in the direction of the centre. Finally it was Sponer’s turn. One of the porters standing by the taxi rank picked up two suitcases, shoved one on the seat next to Sponer and the other in the back.
A man in an overcoat got in and said, “Hotel Bristol.”
The porter slammed the door shut.
Sponer turned to the right out of the station, then left, drove between two dimly lit parks on either side, heard several loud explosions coming from the exhaust of a lorry he was overtaking, and emerged two turnings later at Mariahilfer Strasse. It was busy; there was a lot of traffic at this time of night. A couple of minutes later, he veered off to the right into a less well-lit street, which ran uphill, drove straight on in the direction of the city, crossed over Getreidemarkt, turned right into a residential district, then left again, and came out on the ring road, just in front of the Opera House. Reaching back with his left hand, he slid open the glass partition separating him from the back of the cab, and spoke over his shoulder.
“The Old or the New Bristol?”
As there was no answer, he said, as he joined the ring road, “There are two Bristols, the old and the new one. Which do you want?” While he was speaking, he turned off the main carriageway immediately in front of the Opera House, swung into the parallel slip road, and pulled up next to the front steps, since the lights at the Opera intersection were against him.
There was still no answer from the man in the back.
Sponer turned round and saw him leaning back in the right-hand corner, staring impassively out of the widow at Kärntner Strasse.
“Old or New Bristol, which one?” he repeated.
The man did not react in the slightest.
Sponer turned on the interior light and saw him leaning back heavily. His coat was undone and he was clutching his right side with both hands as though looking for something in his pocket. His head was slumped to one side and his mouth was half open.
He remained completely motionless.
The man was dead.
3
SPONER STARED, terror-stricken, not so much seeing as sensing in a flash what had happened. A wave of fear hit him like a blow to the body. He started, pushed the door open and, freeing his coat which had snagged on the steering wheel, staggered backwards onto the pavement, before tearing the back door open and leaning inside. He grabbed the dead man by the chest with both hands and shook him. His head, as though snapped at the neck, lolled this way and that, slumped forward under its own weight; the body sagged to the floor like a sack of potatoes between the seat and the suitcase, and the head then fell back again, the face turned up blankly to the roof of the cab. The mouth fell open, and a thin trickle of blood ran from one corner over his chin and behind his shirt collar.
As the head fell back it revealed a bullet hole in the man’s throat; the tie and shirt collar were soaked in blood. There must have been another bullet in his chest, because after Sponer withdrew his hands his gloves were wet and sticky.
He edged backwards out of the cab, straightened up and struck his head hard against the top of the door frame. His cap fell forward over his face. He instinctively pushed it back with his forearm instead of with his blood-stained gloved hand. He turned round.
A couple of people who were walking past some distance away took no notice. A taxi with its lights on and the driver standing next to it does not arouse anyone’s curiosity. Still dazed from the impact against the door frame, Sponer took two or three steps forward to attract someone’s attention, but, as nobody took any notice, he turned around towards a small news stand on the edge of the pavement where, despite the rain, they were still selling papers. A man had just bought a couple of evening editions and, as Sponer approached, both he and the newspaper seller turned their backs on him. Sponer wanted to say something, but couldn’t. His lips moved, but no sound issued. The man pulled out another paper from the rack and the seller passed him his change. Sponer, speechless that a dreadful thing had happened and no one seemed in the least concerned, stared at them. After a few moments he turned back to his cab as if in a trance.