The Liar (21 page)
Authors: Stephen Fry
‘Well?’
‘It’s … it’s unbelievable.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘Like it? Of course I like it, but –’
‘Excellent!’ Trefusis poured out two more glasses of wine. ‘Then you’re game?’
If I refused to sleep with him, thought Adrian, would he just kick me out and abandon me in the middle of Europe without a penny? Surely not.
‘God yes!’ he said. ‘I’m game.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Trefusis. ‘Then let us drink to our Grand Tour.’
‘Right,’ said Adrian, draining his glass, ‘our Grand Tour.’
Trefusis smiled.
‘I’m so very pleased,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Adrian, ‘but …’
‘Yes?’
‘This problem you mentioned. That I may be able to help you with. What exactly …?’
‘Ah,’ said Donald. ‘I’m afraid I am not yet fully at liberty, as they say, to disclose the details.’
‘Oh.’
‘But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in my asking you to cast your mind back to last summer. You remember the Salzburg Festival?’
‘Vividly.’
‘I am sure you haven’t forgotten that terrible business in the Getreidegasse?’
‘The man in the Mozart museum?’
‘That same.’
‘I’m hardly likely to forget it. All that blood.’
Bob appeared at the door.
‘Sorry to disturb, gents. Thought you might appreciate some of this superior Armagnac brandy.’
‘How solicitous!’ said Trefusis.
‘May I enquire, sir, whether everything went well?’
‘Everything went splendidly, Bob. Splendidly.’
‘Oh goody-good,’ said Bob, taking three small brandy glasses from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll join you then, if I may.’
‘Please do, Bob, please do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so pour us each one desperate measure.’
Bob complied.
‘We were just talking about Salzburg.’
‘Ooh, nasty business that, sir. Poor old Moltaj. Throat slit from ear to ear, they tell me. But then you both saw it in the flesh, didn’t you, sirs?’
Adrian stared at him.
‘I know you’ll do right by old Moltaj, Mr Healey,’ said Bob, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Course you will, sir.’
A St Matthew’s Tie with Liberty silk handkerchief flamboyantly thrust into the breast pocket was bent double in Corridor Four of the third floor of Reddaway House next to the door marked ‘3.4. CabCom’. He seemed to be taking an unconscionable time in doing up the laces of his black Oxford shoes. It was almost impossible for him not to hear voices coming from behind the door
.
‘
I was just thinking, sir, that what with the Bikini alert over Iran and everything
…’
‘
Bugger the bloody Persians, Reeve – I have a Limit Zero Cabinet Appro on this
.’
‘
Copeland is very keen that we should co-operate
.’
‘
Listen to me. The Hairy Mullah is there to stay. You know it, I know it. Neither Copeland nor anyone at Langley nor over here has got a choirboy’s chance in Winchester of doing anything about it. Checkmate, d’you see? I don’t suppose you know what checkmate means?
’
‘
Well
…’
‘
Of course you don’t, you went to Oxford. Checkmate comes from the Arabic “shah mat” – the King is dead. Well the Shah is mat, all right, he’s as mat as a bloody doornail, and I don’t propose to waste time feeding the ambitions of his whining progeny – they can live it up in Monaco and Gstaad for the rest of their lives as far as I’m concerned. Clear the board, put the chessmen back in their box, we’ve got bigger capon to baste
.’
‘
Right, sir
.’
‘
Right. So. Report?
’
‘
Well, sir. I’m sorry to have to make report that the ObSquad lost Castor for a day
.’
‘What?’
‘
Er … if you take a look at this, sir. It’s a Cambridge police report
.’
The St Matthew’s Tie heard the wobble of a cardboard wallet being opened
.
‘
Castor and Odysseus, eh?
’
‘
We rather think so, sir
.’
‘
So are you telling me that Odysseus has got the whole box of tricks now?
’
‘
No, sir … if you remember our signal from Locksmith in Budapest, Castor may have given one part of Mendax to Odysseus but the other half will be with Pollux, sewn into the lining of his jacket
.’
‘
And Pollux is still in Troy?
’
‘
Not exactly sir. Vienna Station received another signal from Locksmith this morning, fully prioritised
.’
‘
Fully
whatted?’
‘
Er … prioritised, sir
.’
‘
Christ
.’
‘
It seems that Pollux left Troy last night
.’
‘
Headed for the Greek camp?
’
‘
Best guess, sir
.’
There was a long pause
.
The St Matthew’s Tie straightened himself to allow a little blood to flow down from his head
.
‘
If you’re right, Reeve, Odysseus will make his way Greekwards in the next few days too
.’
‘
With Telemachus, do you think?
’
Another long pause was followed by the sound of a folder being dropped on a desk
.
The St Matthew’s Tie stooped to do up another shoe-lace
.
‘
Well, nothing to keep me in England now that Botham seems to have lost us the blasted Ashes. I’ll fly over the moment anything develops
.’
‘
Cricket not going too well then, sir?
’
‘
The man’s a bloody disgrace. He couldn’t captain a paraplegic netball team
.’
‘
Will you be around for initialling appropriation orders later in the afternoon, sir?
’
‘
Well, young Reeve, after a brief luncherising and half an hour’s memorandorising Cabinet, I’ll be at Lord’s
.’
‘
Right, sir
.’
‘
So if you want me to signatorise anything, send Simon Hesketh-Harvey round, he’s a member. Now I must go and lavatorise. And while I’m away for God’s sake try and learn to speak English
.’
The St Matthew’s Tie hurried along the corridor to his office. He heard the door of 3.4. CabCom opening. A voice hailed him
.
‘
Ho there, young Hesketh-H!
’
The St Matthew’s Tie turned. A Bennett, Tovey and Steele Suit was standing in the corridor
.
‘
Morning, sir
.’
‘
Snap
.’
They looked at each other’s neck-ties with a smile
.
‘
You may have to change that for the good old orange and yellow this pip emma,’ said the Bennett, Tovey and Steele
.
‘
Sir?
’
‘
If you’re a good boy, Reeve will send you over to me at Lord’s this afternoon to watch the final death throes
.’
‘
Good-o,’ said the St Matthew’s Tie. ‘I shall enjoy that, sir
.’
‘
Right. Oh, by the way
–’
‘
Sir?
’
‘
Prioritise. Ever come across that one?
’
‘
Ugh!’ said the St Matthew’s Tie. ‘Langley?
’
‘
No, that arse Reeve, of course. Last week it was “having a meet-up with”, God knows what new linguistic
macédoine
he’s going to serve up next
.’
‘
One shudders to think, sir
.’
‘
All right then, Simon, off you pop
.’
8
I
‘I HAVE TAKEN
much care in packing,’ said Trefusis as he pushed shut the boot of the Wolseley. ‘A tin of barley-sugar for you, Castrol GTX for the car, figgy oatcakes for me.’
‘Figgy oatcakes?’
‘Oatcakes are very healthy. Hotels, restaurants, cafés, they all take their toll. Salzburg is not kind to the figure. At my age travel broadens the behind. A steatopygous Trefusis is an unhappy Trefusis. The buns and tortes of Austria are whoreson binders of your whoreson stool. But a figgy oatcake laughs at constipation and favours rectal carcinoma with a haughty stare. In the grammar of health, while cream may hasten the full stop, porridge will ease the colon.’
‘Oh, ah,’ said Adrian. ‘And curry creates the dash, I suppose.’
‘Oh, I like that. Very good. “Curry creates the dash.” Yes, indeed. Most … most … er, what is the word?’
‘Amusing?’
‘No … it’ll come to me.’
The interior of the car smelt of Merton Park thrillers, Bakelite headsets and the Clothes Ration. It only needed the profile of Edgar Wallace or the voice of Edgar Lustgarten to sweep Adrian and Trefusis, with bells ringing, into a raincoat and Horlicks Britain of glistening pavements, trilbied police inspectors and poplin shirts. So familiar was the odour, so complete the vision it evoked as they swung with a whine of gears out of the college gates and onto the Trumpington Road, that Adrian could almost believe in reincarnation. He had never smelt that precise smell before, yet it was as known to him as the smell of his own socks.
Trefusis would not be drawn on the purpose of their mission to Salzburg.
‘You knew that man who was killed then?’
‘Knew him? No.’
‘But Bob said …’
‘I do hope the Bendix doesn’t give out. The Wolseley 15/50 is a marvellous saloon, but the Bendix is most terribly susceptible to trouble.’
‘Well if you didn’t know him, how come you know his name?’
‘I suppose one could call such an affliction bendicitis.’
‘When I first arrived in Cambridge there was a rumour that you recruited for MI5. Either that or for the KGB.’
‘My dear fellow, there is not a don over the age of sixty who is not said to be the fourth, fifth, sixth or seventh man in some improbable circle of spies, double agents and ruthless traitors. You should pay no attention.’
‘You worked at Bletchley during the war though, didn’t you? On the Enigma code.’
‘So did Beryl Ayliffe the college librarian. Are we to believe that she is an MI5 … what’s the word … operative?’
Adrian pictured the chain-smoking chatelaine of the St Matthew’s library.
‘Well no, of course not,’ he conceded. ‘But …’
‘Ha, ha. More fool you, because she is!’
‘What?’
‘Or is she?’ mused Trefusis. ‘So damned difficult to tell in this damned deadly game we play. Anyway, what does it matter? Isn’t it all the bloody same? Left, right? Right, wrong? The old distinctions don’t matter a damned damn any more, damn it.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Adrian, stung by the mockery. ‘I grant you it all sounds a bit stupid. But we did see a man killed last year. You can’t get away from that.’
‘Assuredly.’
‘And that’s why we’re going back to Salzburg?’
‘I don’t think we’ll eat until we get to France. There’s a surprisingly good restaurant at the railway station at Arras. See if you can find it on your map, there’s a dear.’
II
Adrian had never eaten
foie gras
before.
‘I thought it was just pâté,’ he said.
‘Oh no, the pâté is quite inferior. These are the livers themselves. Flash fried. I think you’ll be pleased.’
Adrian was.
‘It just literally melts in the mouth!’ he exclaimed. ‘Unbelievable!’
‘You’ll find the Corton Charlemagne an excellent accompaniment. Perfectly served at last. I have an ex-student who is likely to become the next editor of the
Spectator
. On his succession I shall offer for publication a little article on the iniquity of the British habit of over-chilling white Burgundies. If one’s young friends are going to disgrace themselves by writing for such low periodicals the least they can do is assuage their guilt by providing a platform for advanced ideas. I make it a point to teach all my pupils to believe in properly served wine.’
Adrian listened with half an ear to the Professor’s flow of conversation. A young man and woman had entered the restaurant a moment earlier and now floundered in the middle of the room, waiting for someone to show them to a table. Adrian’s eyes narrowed suddenly. He leant across to Trefusis.
‘Don’t look now, but that couple behind you who’ve just come in …’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘
They were on the boat with us!
I swear it’s the same two. They were behind us in the car queue. In a green BMW.’
Trefusis tore a bread roll in half and looked speculatively into a large mirror over Adrian’s shoulder.
‘Really? Bless my soul, it’s a small world and no mistake.’
‘You don’t think … you don’t think they might be …
following
us?’
Trefusis raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s possible of course. It’s always possible.’
Adrian grabbed Trefusis’s arm across the table. ‘I could go and have a pee and put their car out of action. What do you say?’
‘You think micturating over their car would put it out of action?’
‘No, I mean
pretend
to have a pee but actually wrench out the rotor arm or take the distributor cap or whatever it is you do.’
Trefusis gazed at him with only the trace of a smile on his face. ‘Do you know how they make
foie gras?
’
‘Donald, I’m serious. I’m sure they’re following us.’
With a sigh, Trefusis put down the fragment of
brioche
he had been buttering.
‘I’m serious too. It’s time, young Healey, that you knew what this trip was all about.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Now, I’ll ask you again. Do you know how to make
foie gras?
’
Adrian stared at Trefusis. ‘Er … no. No I don’t.’
‘Very well then, I’ll tell you. You rear a goose from a puppy or calf or whatever a goose is when young.’
‘Chick? Gosling?’
‘Quite possibly. You take a young Strasbourg goose-cub, chick or gosling and you feed it rich grain in a mashy pulp.’
‘Fatten it up, you mean?’
‘That’s right, but the mashy pulp is placed, you see, in a bag.’
‘A bag?’
‘That’s right. A bag or sack. The bag or sack has some species of nozzle or protuberance at the narrow end, which is forced down the goose’s gullet or throat. The bag or sack is then squeezed or compressed and the meal or fodder thus introduced or thrust into the creature or animal’s crop or stomach.’