The Liar [calibre]

'Yes, I was meaning to ask you. How come Bob is involved in all this?'

'Bob is a friend.'

'Bletchley?'

'Bob has been involved in all kinds of things in his time. He had his tongue ripped out by the Japanese.'

What?'

'Yes, but he doesn't talk about it.'

'Oh ha frigging ha. You still haven't told me who the enemy is.'

Trefusis reached for a figgy oatcake.

'Enemy?'

'Yes, enemy. The people who robbed us in Germany and stole your briefcase. The people who killed Moltaj and who are,' Adrian craned his neck round, 'still hot on our arses.'

'Well now, it would seem we have two "enemies", Adrian. Moltaj was killed by a servant of the Magyar Republic of Hungary, I think there is no doubt of that. Bela's employers have no intention of letting his invention leave their country'

'And now they are following us?'

'No, we are being followed by enemy number two. It was they who robbed us in Germany last year.'

'And who are they?'

'Well,' said Trefusis, 'I was rather hoping you might know that, Adrian.'

Eleven

I

In the corridor, Rudi nearly collided with an enomously fat man with a small head and lank hair. Rudi managed, with a supreme effort of balance and co-ordination, learnt on the ski-slopes of Innsbruck, to avoid the calamity of dropping the drinks tray he was carrying and preceded, trembling, on his way, cursing under his breath the rudeness and clumsiness of the guests as he went. Probably a music journalist in Salzburg for the Festival; such gracelessness was to be expected from the press.

Rudi tapped gently on the door to the sitting room of the Franz-Josef Suite and listened for a reply. This was his first week at the Österreichischer Hof and he was not certain if it was done simply to knock and enter as he would have done at the Hotel der Post in Fuschl-am-See where he had learnt his trade. The Österreichischer Hof was altogether smarter than the Hotel der Post and things were done here on the international scale, with taste, style, courtliness, discretion and just a Schluck of Austrian Gemütlichkeit.

There was no reply from within. Yet someone had ordered a bottle of Absolut lemon vodka and three glasses, someone had commanded room-service. Surely it was reasonable to suppose that someone was in the room? He knocked again and waited.

Still nothing. Most puzzling.

Rudi balanced the tray on his shoulder, leant forward towards the door, and coughed purposefully.

From inside he heard a voice. An English voice.

'Entschuldigen Sie . . .' Rudi called through the keyhole.

He could sense that his husky tones were not penetrating the thick wood of the door. Rudi was a little nervous. In the kitchens yesterday he had caused a beautiful puff-ball of Salz-burger Nockerl, the hotel's speciality, to deflate by dropping a fork into it by mistake, and two days ago - Rudi blushed at the memory - two days ago in the dining room he had spilt some kirsch down the shirt-front of Signor Muti, the famous conductor. Fortunately the maestro had been wearing one of his famous black polo-neck shirts and the stain had not shown up so much, but the memory was painful to Rudi.

English people. Were they deaf?

'Excusing me!'

Rudi knocked again, his head leaning against the door. He heard the voice still.

'. . . incontinently and savagely beautiful, not unlike a small chaffinch, but much larger and with less of a salty after-tang . . .'

This Rudi could not understand. The word 'beautiful' was familiar certainly. English girls who came to stay with their families at the Hotel der Post liked to say that it was 'a very beautiful morning this morning, Rudi', that the mountain and the lake and the Schloss were 'simply beautiful' and sometimes, when he had been lucky, that his hair and eyes and his legs and his Schwartz were so 'beautiful'. Beautiful he knew, but what was this 'chaffinch'? Of course! a green vegetable, like Kohl or Kraut, that was chaffinch. A strange conversation this man was having.

'. . . a certain degree of Schadenfreude under the circumstances is inevitable perhaps . . .'

'Schadenfreude7' He could speak German.

Rudi knocked until his knuckles were raw.

'Entschuldigen Sie bitte, mein Herr. Hier ist der Kellner mit Ihren Trinken!'

'. . . a message delivered by motor-bicycle. A curious new phenomenon these despatch riders . . .'

Rudi could wait no longer. He swallowed twice, turned the handle and entered.

A beautiful suite, the Franz-Josef. Herr Brendel the pianist had stayed there last week and the Bosendorfer Grand that had been installed for him had not yet been collected. They should keep the piano here always, Rudi thought. With the flowers and the cigarette boxes and long flowing curtains, it conspired to give the room the look of a film set from the nineteen-thirties. With great care he set down his drinks tray on top of the piano and listened again to the English voice.

'. . . this rider, standing in the threshold holding out a clipboard to be signed, reminded me at first of a copy of Izaac Walton's Compleat Angler that I have in my possession. Bound in leather, lavishly tooled and a lasting joy . . .'

'Your drinks are arrived, my sir.'

'. . . of the package that he delivered I can say only this . . .'

The voice was coming through from the bedroom. Rudi approached nervously.

'. . . it shocked me right down to my foundation garments. From stem to stern I quivered . . .'

Rudi straightened his bow-tie and tapped loosely on the half-open bedroom door with the back of his hand.

'Sir, your drinks that you have ordered . . .'

Rudi broke off.

The door he had knocked on so lightly had swung open to reveal a man sitting on the end of the bed, soaked from head to foot in blood. He faced a writing table on which stood a small radio.

'. . . I suppose there are degrees of startlement, much as there are degrees of anything. If there is an official scale comparable to, for example, the Beaufort, Moh or Richter Scales and if that scale be measured from one to ten, I would say that on this Trefusian Scale of Abject Bestartlement I scored at least a creditable 9.7, certainly from the European judges. The East Germans would probably have been less generous, but even they could not have failed to give me 9.5 for artistic impression . . .'

Rudi hugged the door-handle and half swung from the door, staring at the dead man with innocent surprise and wonder, like a child watching donkeys copulate.

A knock on the sitting-room door brought him to his senses.

A high English voice called through the sitting room.

'Martin! Are you there? Martin!'

Rudi jumped. This was witchcraft.

Two men had entered the sitting room, one silver-haired, the other closer to Rudi's age. They were smiling.

'Ah, lemon vodka on the piano. Very much Martin's poison.'

Rudi gasped.

'Sie sind. . . sie sindF said Rudi, pointing at the older man.

'Was bin ich?' the man asked in surprise.

So he was German, this man. But the voice. The voice was...

Rudi pointed to the bedroom.

'Der sitzt ein Mensch dareinF 'Is there something wrong with him, Donald?'

'Er ist tot! 'Oh dear,' said Trefusis, hurrying forwards. 'Please not.

Please not!'

Adrian followed him into the bedroom.

'. . .I will let you know, those of you who are interested, of course, the others will simply have to guess. Meanwhile if you have been, then continue to and don't even think of stopping.'