The Liar

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.'

'Well, as the Professor has just told us, that was the last of the current series of Wireless Essays from the Desk of Donald Trefusis. Half an hour of World News in a moment, followed by Meridian. BBC World Service. This is Lond '

Adrian switched off the radio and brought his gaze to bear upon the young man on the bed.

His throat had been cut in a wide crescent from one ear to the other. It was as if a second mouth had been cut beneath the chin. Even the lining of the poor man's jacket had been ripped open. As with Moltaj the previous year, the flap of skin had a gruesomely false, plastic, made-up appearance. Adrian supposed that just as genuine gunfire was said not to sound realistic, so genuine death had a falser air than the gore of the movies.

Rudi gestured towards the radio: 'Das war Sie, nicht wahr?'

Trefusis nodded vaguely, fawohl, das war ich.'

'Aber Sie sind schon Osterreicher oder Deutscber?'

'Nein, Englander.'

'Echtr

'Echt, said Trefusis. 'Hast du die Polizei schon telefoniert?' 'Nein . . . icb bin nur zwo Minuten da . . .'

'Also:

Trefusis crossed over to the writing table and picked up the radio.

'Und hast dujemanden gesehen?'

'Nein . . . nie - Moment! Ja, ein dicker Mann . . . sehrdick . . .'

'Mit kleinem Kopfand schlichten Haare?'

'Ganz genau!'

'This young gentleman and I will await the police, Adrian.'

Adrian nodded. He felt sick, deeply sick. Sicker than when he had witnessed the death of Moltaj in Mozart's house, sicker than he had ever felt in his life. It was his fault. It was all his fault. From liar to murderer, like in the ^Esop fable.

Trefusis had sat at the table and was scribbling on a sheet of hotel writing-paper. Adrian steeled himself to turn and look at the dead man again. The torn throat and the blood soaking into the sheets were disgusting enough, but somehow the savage shredding of the viscose lining of the jacket seemed a world more obscene. It revealed a wanton animal fury that struck fear into Adrian's soul.

'Adrian, I want you to deliver this note to the British Consulate,' said Trefusis. 'It is to be placed into the hands of the addressee himself. None other.'

Adrian looked at the name written on the envelope.

'Are you sure, Donald?'

'Quite sure, thank you. The Consulate is situated in number four Alter Markt. This has all gone quite far enough.'

II

Adrian made his way across the Makart Steg bridge that connected the Osterreichischer Hof with the old town. The Salzach flowed beneath him, traffic flowed past him on the Staatsbracke, crowds of holiday-makers flowed around him and dark, dreadful thoughts flowed within him.

Some of the shops on the Franz-Josef Kai had begun to place posters in their windows of the conductors and soloists due to appear in the Festival. An umbrella and luggage shop by the taxi-rank where Adrian waited was tricolated in the yellow and black livery of the Deutsche Gramophon Gesellschaft. A huge photograph of von Karajan glowered out at him, distrust apparent in the deep frown and clenched brows, contempt all too clear in the upward thrust of the chin and the sour wrinkle about the mouth. Two-horse nacres flicked past him, bearing tourists and Festival-goers along the Mullner HauptstraBe. A bruised sky bore down. Adrian saw an image of the whole scene through a camera that was zooming outwards and outwards with himself in the centre diminishing and diminishing until he was a frozen part of a postcard pinned to a cork noticeboard in a warm suburban kitchen in England, eternally trapped, blessedly unable to move forwards or backwards in time or space.

At last, after twenty minutes, just as he was preparing to go in the shop and ask about buses, a Mercedes taxi drew up into the empty rank beside him.

'Britischen Konsulat, bitte. Alter Markt vier.'

Aber man kann es in zwo Minuten spazieren.'

'Schei?e. Never mind. Das macht nichts. Take me there anyway. Es sieht nach Regen aus.'