When I checked my phone messages the following morning and there were three messages. I thought idiotically about the number three being sacred.
The first was from Eugenia informing me that she missed me and that her conference was extended one day. She was especially concerned about presenting a good face since this was her first year at the University and she knew that I would understand. She repeated several times that she would be anxious to see me day after next.
The second was from William Cleaves at Scotland Yard, “Hello, Robert, William Cleaves here. We apprehended the vampire slayer. If you are interested, ring me up or stop by.”
The third message was from Molnar. He apologized for his sudden departure from London; there had been a sudden death in his family. He hoped that I enjoyed his piece and he informed me that he had curtailed any plans for any future publications indefinitely. No explanation, simply no more publications.
The first message warmed my heart, the part about being missed. The second keenly piqued my interest and the third afforded me some sense of relief. I reasoned that I may never know what was in Molnar’s mind nor how he evaluated Adrian’s story, but I was not content to consign the mystery to oblivion.
I had the day to myself until my office hours that afternoon, so I decided to surf the internet for information about Doctor Ferenc Molnar. It occurred to me that the only references about him were only given to me by Molnar himself—Ferenc Molnar, Professor of History, University of Budapest. Of course, I knew that the great university in Budapest, founded in 1635, was known by its Hungarian name, Eotvos Lorand University, and it had a student body of almost 30,000. The institution first existed in Trnava, Slovakia under Jesuit administration, but moved to Budapest in 1777 when that particular order of Jesuits was dissolved.
After searching on various sites, some of them in Hungarian, I discovered that I could discover no detailed information about the faculty at the University of Budapest. Molnar never mentioned any of his publications by name; I only assumed that his university, like most universities, pressured faculty to publish.
I searched the various popular book supply sites to find references to books by Molnar, but found nothing. Of course, any books written by Molnar might have been in Hungarian.
I phoned Headley to see if the name meant anything to him. “No, Doctor Strathmore, I never heard of him before he introduced himself in the shop the other day.”
Then I remembered Doctor Elek Nemeth, a professor in the Art Department. I recalled that he had been an instructor at the University of Budapest.
I dialed his office number, hoping that it was his office hours.
“Oh yes, Doctor Strathmore,” Nemeth replied, “A pleasure to speak with you. You were asking about a faculty member at the University of Budapest? Doctor Ferenc Molnar? A chair in the Faculty of Humanities?”
“Yes,” I answered anxiously, “I realize that it is a large university, but do you know him? He visited London recently. Is the name familiar?”
“Very strange, Doctor Strathmore,” Nemeth remarked, “I was on the faculty there for twelve years and I was familiar with all the faculty in the Faculty of Humanities. There was never a faculty member by that name.”
“Thank you,” I said politely.
Who was Ferenc Molnar?