If the body was found, he, Sponer, was lost.
Hundreds of people go missing in large cities every year. Without a trace. You don’t hear about it, but they disappear. There’s nothing in the newspapers about it. The papers report only the cases that have been solved. The unsolved ones are never reported in the papers. Hundreds of people, each one a grown person’s height, size and weight, disappear like something small that falls to the ground, like a matchstick that one throws away, like a button that pops off and suddenly is no longer there. Gone. Vanished into thin air. As though it never existed.
How do they do it, how do they get rid of people? Do they cut them up, burn them somewhere, throw them into the river?
Into the river!
They say that a corpse thrown into the water first of all sinks, later rises to the surface for about half an hour, then sinks once more; but for a time it’ll have been floating on the surface. If it’s to stay under, it’s got to be weighted down, and stones are best for this. In a fast-flowing river a body will be carried along by the flow; for a couple of days the corpse will float above the weights holding it down, it’ll be swept along, fish will swim around it and nibble at it, it’ll sink to the bottom, be buried and crushed in the debris, ground into pulp and be gone for ever.
Sponer had to throw the dead man into the Danube.
Not much more than an hour ago, he hadn’t even known the man existed. Now that he no longer existed, he had to get rid of him somehow, because if the body were discovered it would be even more dangerous than if he’d murdered him, which, of course, he hadn’t.
In order to turn back, he swung sharply to the left, but couldn’t make a complete U-turn and had to reverse. A man in an overcoat, carrying an umbrella and a briefcase, very likely a lawyer who was here on business and wanted to get back to the centre, hailed him from the pavement. Sponer did not answer and sped away.
Seeing as it was raining, other people, too, had probably tried to hail him, but he hadn’t noticed.
Now that he at least knew what he had to do, he began to think straight again. He could see where he was going. Previously he hadn’t taken anything in.
The long rows of lamps swung to and fro over the wet, glistening streets. A strong wind had got up, and the rain was gradually beginning to ease off. The cloud cover was torn into white fluffy patches which raced over the pitch-black sky, now exposing, now concealing a full moon. Sponer could see this every time he crossed a wide intersection.
He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past eight.
He slowed down. If he wanted to get to the Danube, he’d have to wait till he was sure he wouldn’t meet anyone there.
When he approached the inner city, he turned right to make a detour and kill time, went through Josefstadt, and finally stopped in a side street off Burggasse, in the shadow of some dilapidated old houses.
There were only a few small shops, belonging to suburban shopkeepers, with heavy, old-fashioned doors. The pavements were narrow, the cobbled surface uneven. Some of the windows in the street were lit dimly from within, and every now and then the pale moonlight fell on the tall chimney stacks and grey walls of the houses, where here and there the stucco had come away in large patches.
The 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 at all 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.