The Liar

'Yes, no doubt a Dead Letter Drop would have answered perfectly. I should have thought of that. Instead I made a false copy of the manuscript and left the real one in Salzburg.'

'You did?'

'It seemed sensible,' said Trefusis.

'So the papers in the briefcase that was stolen . . .?'

'Were drivel. It must have taken them a long time to discover, read it which way they might, that the manuscript they took from us contained nothing more illuminating than pages three-two-three to three-six-seven of the Salzburg telephone directory.'

'And what exactly did you do with the real manuscript?'

'There was a very nice chambermaid at the hotel. She said she would look after it for me. Was that bad tradecraft too?'

'Well,' said Adrian. 'If she's still got it, it was good tradecraft, if she hasn't, it wasn't.'

Trefusis inclined his head gratefully. 'Don't look behind you,' he said, 'but there has been a white Citroen two cars behind us for the last twelve kilometres. As to whether it's a BX or not, I really couldn't say.'

Adrian looked behind him.

'You still haven't told me,' he said, 'who was responsible for cutting this violinist's throat. . . what was his name again?'

'Moltaj.'

'Right. Do you know who killed him?'

'So many people would love to get their hands on a machine that can inhibit pseudology, mendacity and falsehood. The police, Intelligence services, all sorts and conditions of interested agencies and institutions. Bela, like any good scientist, is worried that he may have opened the door to something rather frantic, something rather ghastly.'

'What have I done? What have I done? Have we any business 'taking away people's right to lie? That sort of thing.'

'Questions of free will certainly do seem to arise. It is perfectly possible to live a life from cradle to grave that is entirely dishonest. One might never reveal one's true identity, the yearnings and cravings of one's innermost self, even to the most intimate circle of family and friends; never really speak the truth to anyone. Priests and psychotherapists may believe that the confessional-box or the analysis session reveals truths, but you know and I know and every human being knows that we lie all the time to all the world. Lying is as much a part of us as wearing clothes. Indeed, Man's first act in Eden was to give names to everything on earth, our first act of possession and falsehood was to take away a stone's right to be a stone by imprisoning it with the name 'stone'. There are in reality, as Fenellosa said, no nouns in the Universe. Man's next great act was to cover himself up. We have been doing so ever since. We feel that our true identities shame us. Lying is a deep part of us. To take it away is to make us something less than, not more than, human. So at least Bela fears.'

'Yes,' said Adrian. 'You still haven't told me who killed Moltaj.'

'The Hungarians have a wonderful word,' said Trefusis. 'It is puszipajtas and means roughly 'someone you know well enough to kiss in the street'. They are a demonstrative and affectionate people, the Hungarians, and enthusiastic social kissers. 'Do you know young Adrian?' you might ask and they might reply, 'I know him, but we're not exactly puszipajtas.''

'I have no doubt whatever in my mind,' said Adrian, 'that all this is leading somewhere.'

'A few weeks ago Bela's grandson arrived in England. He is a chess-player of some renown, having achieved grandmaster status at last year's Olympiad in Buenos Aires. No doubt you followed his excellent match against Bent Larsen?'

'No,' said Adrian. 'I missed his match against Bent Larsen and somehow his matches against Queer Karpov and Faggoty Smyslov and Poofy Petrosian also managed to pass me by.'

'Tish and hiccups. Bent is a perfectly common Danish Christian name and it would do you no harm, Master Healey, to acquire a little more patience.'

'I'm sorry, Donald, but you do talk around a subject so.'

'Would you have said that?' Trefusis sounded surprised.

'I would.'

'I will then straight to the heart of the matter hie me. Stefan, the grandson of Bela, came to England a fortnight ago to play in the tournament at Hastings. I received a message to meet him in a park at Cambridge. Parker's Piece to be exact. It was ten o'clock of a fine June night. That is not extraneous colour, I mention the evening to give you the idea that it was light, you understand?'

Adrian nodded.

'I walked to the rendezvous point. I saw Stefan by an elm tree clutching a briefcase and looking anxious. My specifying that the tree was an elm,' said Trefusis, 'is of no consequence and was added, like this explanation of it, simply to vex you. The mention of the lad's anxiety, however, has a bearing. The existence of the briefcase is likewise germane.'

'Right.'

'As I approached, he pointed to a small shed or hut-like building behind him and disappeared into it. I followed him.'

'Ah! Don't tell me . . . the small shed or hut-like building was in fact a gentlemen's lavatory?'

'Meeting for the first time one of his grandfather's oldest friends, a man of whom he had heard much, Stefan naturally embraced me, bestowing a friendly kiss on each cheek. We were puszipajtas, do you see? Stefan then knelt to open his briefcase. It was at this point that two policemen emerged from a cubicle, making unpleasant insinuations and an arrest.'