I Confess (27 page)

That I hadn't thought of when T had embarked on this adventure. Now I realized it. Now I knew that countless anonymous criminal investigators in various countries were waiting patiently for the day when a man would turn up who was in unbearable pain and needed help. For this man with a brain tumor they were waiting. They could wait. They had time. And they were not in pain.

Yolanda was pale and exhausted when she got home that night. "Tomorrow," she told me immediately. Her lips were trembling. "We get it tomorrow."

I closed my eyes for a moment to convey, to her that I understood.

"The man who is going to give it to us will be here at ten."

I groped for the pad and wrote, *T don't want that."

"I can't help it," she said hoarsely. "He insists on it."

I wrote, "Why?"

238

"That's his condition," she replied. Her lips were trembling as if she had a chill. "It's the only way we can get it."

I couldn't understand why this had to be, but I said nothing. Then I was astonished to see Yolanda sobbing hysterically. I would have liked to calm her, but I still found it difficult to move; speaking was quite impossible. So there was nothing I could do but watch her cry my pillow wet as she hysterically opened and closed her hands to make fists of tiiem. She had never cried before, and I felt uneasy about it. What was wrong? Had her nerves capitulated? Or was it my affair with Wilma? She lay beside me, crying softly, and it penetrated quite clearly into my otherwise befogged consciousness.

On the following morning due probably to insufficient nourishment and the now rapidly progressing deterioration of my body functions, I found I was beginning to see and hear with difficulty. But I was able to notice that at about nine, Yolanda drank a full glass of cognac. She did it as secretively as she could and thought I couldn't see her because she was in the next room. But I could see her in a piece of the broken mirror, still stuck in its frame. She was leaning against the window, staring out into the street, and I saw her double up as she swallowed such an enormous quantity of alcohol. Then she went into the bathroom and cleaned her teeth.

During the following hours she went to the bathroom again, and once more after that, each time after having gone into the other room to drink. She was wearing a high-necked blue dress, and when she came back to me and sat down beside me on my bed, I was aghast to see that she had powdered her face chalk white and made up her mouth a screaming red so that it looked like a hideous, gaping wound. Her eyes were sunken in their painted blue hollows. She looked like a ghost. Like a clown who had just died. I tried to smile, but she remained serious.

"Is he surely coming?" I wrote on my pad.

"Surely," she said without looking at me.

He came. On time. When the doorbell rang, Yolanda rose stiffly like a marionette.

"It's your fault," she said passionately, her eyes holding mine. "It's all your fault. I wanted to leave. Now it's too late," and with that she left me and walked out into the foyer.

I couldn't imagine what she meant. T had no idea what she was talking about, and for the first time it occurred to me that perhaps she was going crazy. A lot of her recent behavior indicated it. Then she came back into the room; a man was walking behind her. He smiled amiably and raised his left hand in greeting when he saw me. In his right hand he carried a small package. "HeUo, hello, Mr. Chandler!" he said.

It was Mordstein,

19

I stared at him. My tortured brain groped for a thousand thoughts and was unable to grasp any of them.

Now Yolanda was standing behind Mordstein, her white face as if carved out of stone. Mordstein sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. "You must be surprised to see me here."

I nodded.

"Can't you speak?'^

I shook my head.

"Pam?"

I nodded again.

The answer seemed to satisfy him. He crossed his legs and took a cigarette case out of his pocket. "It won't bother you if I smoke?" he asked, smiling. This time I

didn't move; all T could do was stare at him. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, turned sUghtly. "A light, please?"

Like a sonmambulist, Yolanda picked up a cigarette lighter from a nearby table and hghted his cigarette. The hand that was holdmg the lighter trembled so that she had to support it with the other.

"Thank you,'' said Mordstem, smilmg up at her, but her eyes, looking down at him, were dead.

He turned his attention to me again. "To get to the point which I know must be uppermost in your mind—^I have the morphine with me."

I let out a deep breath, like a sigh.

"You're happy about tiiat, I see."

I nodded.

"Here it is," he went on in his genial voice as he opened the little package he had brought with him and took out of it a box of ampules. "And I didn't forget the syringe," he said and laid that on the bed, too. "The doctor who sold me the stuff showed me how to give the injection. I'm as good as a nurse," and he laughed heartily as he held the syringe up to the light.

What was the meaning of all this? What was Mordstein doing here? Who was he really? What did Yolanda know about him? What did he know about Yolanda? These were the questions, or I should say scraps of questions, that now tortured me. I waited in great apprehension for what was to come next. Because it was quite clear to me that a great deal still lay ahead.

"Do you want me to give you an injection right away?" Mordstein asked.

I nodded.

"You're in terrible pain, aren't you?"

I nodded again. What the hell was he driving at? He knew I was in agony.

"And you realize that morphine is the only thing that can relieve your pain."

Nod.

''This morphine," he said slowly. "My morphine."

Nod.

Then I thought T understood. I took my pad and scribbled on it, "Of course I'll pay."

He read what I had written and laughed again. "I'll say you'll pay, Mr. Chandler."

I had to close my eyes. Suddenly I could no longer see the syringe or the ampules. The pain flowed over me in hot waves, stronger than ever. I forced my eyes open. He was still holding the syringe in front of my face. I must have expressed such animal greed and despair that it was more than Yolanda could bear. "For heaven's sake, get on with it," she told him tersely.

He turned slowly. "Be quiet, dear," he said without raising his voice. And now her face expressed such fear, such humiliation and clear-cut submission as I had never seen on a human face before. She walked over to the window. Her shoulders were shaking. She was crying again. It was then that I grasped the major aspect of what had confused me before. With his next words, Mordstein revealed the rest. "Forgive the interruption, Mr. Chandler,'* he said politely. "Sometimes my wife takes too much upon herself." After which there was silence, a silence that filled the room. We stared at each other for a long time, Mordstein and I. Then he said, "Yes," and nodded. "Yolanda is my wife. Didn't you know?"

20

No. I hadn't known.

I had thought I knew a lot, in fact everything, but one always made mistakes. And this was something I really should have thought of. It was so simple, right from the

start, that it should have been obvious to me. And it explained everything—^Yolanda's behavior in Munich, her disappearance, Mordstein's offer to help me, finding Yo-landa in the sleeping car, her fear in Vienna, her tears. Yes, it explained everything. Only I hadn't known it.

"To be precise," Mordstein went on, "I should say that Yolanda was my wife. Two years ago she divorced me. But except for that, and in the real sense of the word, if you know what I mean, she is still my wife. That is to say—right now she is, in this most decisive moment."

He turned to look at her, but all he could see was her back. It seemed to suffice. "We have so much in common, Mr. Chandler, so much that—^let me see, how shall I put it—that binds us together. One never completely disassociates oneself from somebody one has once loved. And that's the way it is with us. Especially with Yolanda. You mustn't hold it against her, Mr. Chandler." He leaned forward because he had heard me groan. "What did you say?"

I wrote on the pad, "Give me the morphine."

"Right away, Mr. Chandler. Right away. But first I must make a few things clear to you. My plan to appropriate your money ..."

"The morphine, pleaser

"You mustn't be impatient, Mr. Chandler. If you are,

it's only going to take longer. So—^let's see now The

plan to appropriate your money came to me right away, naturally, just as soon as you asked me for the false papers. It was my intention to blackmail you. Our dear Yolanda—you'll forgive me if I say 'our'—^was perfectly willing to help me. Later on, however, she turned out to be a dud. Which I regret. For her sake."

Again he looked in the direction of the window, then back at me. "She was supposed to blackmail you. In the sleeping car. According to my plan we should have been in possession of the money that night... .'* >

"The morphine, PLEASE!"

"Yes, Mr. Chandler, I'm getting around to it. Yolanda

didn't blackmail you; instead she used the papers I had given her to escape with you. She did explain to me yesterday, when I found her here in Vienna, that it had not been her intention to deceive me, and I am almost inclined to believe her. For who can really understand a woman? Capricious, moody, cowardly ... and we mustn*t overlook love. I think you have made an impression on my wife, Mr. Chandler. And who could blame her for wanting to escape, with you, from me?"

Escape. Escape with me. From him. It had been her intention, no doubt about it. But this too belonged in the category of things I hadn't understood. I had taken her fear for jealousy. Now I could see clearly. But now it was too late.

"But now it is too late," Mordstein said slowly. "When I heard nothing from Yolanda for such a long time, I became very uneasy. That's why I came to Vienna. And I found my fears justified. One should never depend on a woman."

The morphine. The morphine. "Please, Mordstein, I implore you...."

"We have finally arrived at the morphine, Mr. Chandler." He took one of the glass ampules, sawed off the end with a small file and drew the contents into the syringe, held it up to the light, adjusted the plunger, then he said, "But first we have a small matter to attend to. Give me the ticket for the package in Munich."

I didn't move.

"Did you understand me?"

I nodded.

"And?"

"No," I v^ote on the pad. I could see Yolanda turn away from the window.

"Mr. Chandler," Mordstein said pleasantly, "if you don't give me the ticket I shall spray the contents of this ampule into the room, which would be a great pity. So ... what do you say?"

I shook my head.

He pressed the plunger down and a thin sflvery spray shot into the air out of it in a pretty arc.

Two steps, and Yolanda was at my side. Her face was dead, burned out. Suddenly she looked ancient "Give him the money, Jimmy. It's no use.'*

I had the feeling that every tooth in my head was being pulled. My body doubled up and I vomited. It didn't soil the bed very much. Only a little yellow bile trickled out of my mouth. Yolanda wiped it away. I could see Mordstein file off a second ampule and refill the syringe.

"There were twelve ampules in the box," he said. •'Now we have only eleven. If you don't make up your mind soon, there will be only ten." He held the syringe up to the light. Yolanda stood beside me, her shoulders sagging, motionless. Her eyes were open wide, the pupils as small as pinheads.

*Wen, Mr. Chandler?"

"Jimmy, please!"

I shook my head.

Yolanda groaned, as if someone had kicked her in the stomach.

With the contents of the fourth ampule on the carpet, I gave up. "Where is the ticket?" asked Mordstein who had understood without words that Fd had it. I wrote down where I kept it. He walked over to the baroque desk and found it in one of the smaU side drawers. Then he came back to me. Yolanda held one fist pressed against her mouth as he filed off the fifth ampule and drew the contents into the syringe. For the first time in three days I was able to move. Little by little I stretched out my right arm.

"Yes, yes," said Mordstein. "Just one more thing, Mr. Chandler. Where is the receipt for the rest of the money?"

Again I lay motionless. "You must have left the second half of the sum somewhere in Germany."

I didn't move.

^'Very well then," and now there were only five ampules.

"Stop!" I said. It was the first word I had spoken m three days, and my voice sounded strange. "Wait! It's in my atta . . . atta . . . atta . . ." My jaw fell open. I babbled like a baby.

"In your attache case?" he said helpfully and nodded. He opened it, looked through it and found the ticket from the Augsburg baggage check. "Is that the receipt for the entire sum?"

I nodded.

*'Of course I don't believe you," he said, ''but since you're coming with us to Germany, I'm not risking very much. I can report you in Germany just as easily."

He pocketed the two tickets. With them a hundred thousand marks had changed owners. Actually it hadn't taken long. It had cost me fifteen minutes and five ampules of morphine. Mordstein picked up the syringe and lifted my arm. "There," he said. "Now everything's settled. I'm glad you were so sensible and saw things my way."

He was not a sadist. He wasn't torturing me for pleasure. He stuck the needle into my arm and activated the plunger. Ten minutes later I was sleeping as if dead and the pain was gone. The morphine was effective.

21

I can't remember anymore when Yolanda proposed to me for the first time that we kill Mordstein. But I do remember that she was the one who suggested it although I had

-I

also been carrying the thought in my mind. It was she, though, who had concrete ideas on how to go about it.

We began to talk about her plan four or five days after the scene just described. I had stayed in bed two more days during which the pain left me completely and I regained some of my strength. Mordstein visited us once to find out how I was doing. It had been agreed that we leave Vienna as soon as I felt strong enough for the trip. Mordstein brought along a second box of morphine ampules which he said was a present. He accepted seven thousand schillings for the first box.