I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) by Alexander Lernet-Holenia Page B

heartbroken he felt that he’d lost his Consuelo. He had almost forgotten Mortimer, but now he began to hate him again vehemently.
    All this, however, robbed Montemayor of his peace ofmind. He never left Winifred’s side day and night, which made Mortimer, who always tagged along, look ridiculous. The only thing was that he began to have misgivings about himself, to such an extent that finally he began to hate the very sight of Mortimer. He couldn’t help reliving the old tragedy whenever he saw the man, and he began to drool over Winifred, for whom, when all was said and done, he couldn’t give a fig, just as much as he had drooled over Consuelo, whom he had worshipped.
    Meanwhile, his opposition drove the two lovers ever closer together. They understood each other without so much as exchanging a word. In the end they really fell in love. They could read this in each other’s eyes, they passed secret notes between themselves, they spoke in a sort of code which they alone could decipher. Montemayor was aware of this, but he lost his nerve and finally decided to depart. He accepted one of the contracts that people were forever offering him, and told Winifred that in two days’ time they’d be going to Vienna, where he was to give a jazz concert.
    These two days were sufficient for Mortimer to arrange with Winifred that he’d come on after her, stay in hiding in Vienna and meet up with her there. Montemayor’s decision to leave suited them even more than the present, unsatisfactory arrangement. They believed that Montemayor would not suspect Mortimer, who had business to conduct in Paris, of following them to Vienna, and would give his wife all the freedom that she’d enjoyed previously.
    They were mistaken. Montemayor was prepared for this eventuality. True, he wasn’t able to establish anything definite, but all the same he guessed what they were up to. It was obvious enough.
    He travelled with Winifred and booked in at the Imperial. He told himself that there’d be no sense in intercepting Winifred’s mail, since Mortimer would hardly risk writing to her at the hotel. Although he and Winifred for the most part went out together, when he was at rehearsals, he had to leave her on her own. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d use that opportunity to collect the letters which Mortimer had sent her. If they were poste restante, she’d need her passport to claim them. He couldn’t very well take that; however, he was in possession of her other documents, and, with the help of their marriage certificate, every time he left the hotel for any length of time he enquired at the post office if there were letters for Winifred Montemayor. He might have missed the odd one; at last, however, just as he was about to go to a rehearsal, a page boy, whom he’d drawn into his confidence, brought him secretly, as instructed, a telegram from Mortimer to Winifred. He was coming the next day at half past six in the evening, and was staying at the Bristol. She should give him a ring there at the first opportunity.
    He destroyed this message and went to the rehearsal. The following day he left Winifred completely to her own devices till the evening. Come the evening, however, hernervousness indicated to him that, even though that particular telegram had not reached her, she must have been informed of Mortimer’s arrival in some other way. Shortly before seven she found an opportunity to ring the Bristol. Mortimer, she was told, had booked in, but hadn’t arrived yet. From then on she had no more opportunity to call him till midnight. Montemayor did not leave her side. They went to the opera, had supper, and sat for a while in the hotel bar. Towards midnight, when she feared she’d be unable to conceal the state of her nerves any longer, she said she was going to bed.
    He took her upstairs. They occupied a two-bedroom suite, separated by a sitting room. She wished him good night in the sitting room, then Winifred went into her