The Unlucky Lottery

‘Let the knees-up in Capernaum commence!’ Palinski urged at even more regular intervals.

For Christ’s sake, I’m sick and fed up of these idiots, Leverkuhn thought.

By about eleven Wauters had told them eight or nine times how he had bought the lottery ticket. Palinski had begun to sing ‘Oh, those sinful days of youth’ about as frequently, breaking off after a line and a half because he couldn’t remember the words; and Bonger’s stomach had started playing up. For his part, Waldemar Leverkuhn established that he was probably even more drunk than he’d been at the Oktoberfest in Grünwald fifteen years ago. Or was it sixteen?

Whatever, it was about time to head for home.

If only he could find his shoes, that is. He’d been sitting in his stockinged feet for the last half-hour or so. He had realized this, somewhat to his surprise, when he had made his way to the loo for a pee; but no matter how much he fished around for them under the table with his feet, he didn’t get a bite.

This was a damned nuisance. He could smell that Bonger’s stomach had spoken once more, and when Polinski started singing yet again, he realized that his search needed to be more systematic.

He coughed by way of creating a diversion, then ducked down discreetly – but unfortunately caught the edge of the tablecloth as he collapsed onto the floor, and the chaos that ensued made him reluctant to leave his temporary exile under the table. Especially as he could see no sign of any shoes.

‘Leave me alone, damn you!’ he growled threateningly. ‘Fuck off and leave me in peace!’

He rolled over onto his back and pulled down the rest of the tablecloth and all the glasses and crockery. From the surrounding tables came a mixed chorus of roars of masculine laughter and horrified feminine shrieks. Wauters and Palinski offered well-meaning advice, and Bonger weighed in with another stinkbomb.

Then fröken Gautiers and herr Van der Valk and Freddy himself put in an appearance, and ten minutes later Waldemar Leverkuhn was standing on the pavement outside, in the rain, complete with both overcoat and shoes. Palinski and Wauters went off in a taxi, and Bonger asked right away if Leverkuhn might like to share one with him.

Most certainly not, you bloody skunk! Leverkuhn thought; and he must have said so as well because Bonger’s fist hovered threateningly under his nose for a worrying second: but then both the hand and its owner set off along Langgracht.

Touchy as usual, Leverkuhn thought as he started walking in more or less the same direction. The rain was getting heavier. But that didn’t worry him, not in the least. Despite being drunk, he felt on top of the world and could walk in a more or less straight line. It was only when he turned into the slippery slope leading to the Wagner Bridge that he slipped and fell over. Two women who happened to be passing, probably whores from the Zwille, helped him to his feet and made sure he was on steadier ground in Zuyderstraat.

The rest of the walk home was a doddle, and he reached his flat just as the clock in the Keymer church struck a quarter to twelve.

But his wife wasn’t at home yet. Waldemar Leverkuhn closed the door without locking it, left his shoes, overcoat and jacket in the hall, and crept down into bed without more ado.

Two minutes later he was asleep. On his back and with his mouth wide open; and when a little later his rasping snores were silenced by a carving knife slicing twenty-eight times through his neck and torso, it is not clear if he knew anything about it.

2

The woman was as grey as dawn.

With her shoulders hunched up in her shabby coat, she sat opposite Intendent Münster, looking down at the floor. Showed no sign of touching either the mug of tea or the sandwiches fröken Katz had been in with. There was an aura of weary resignation surrounding her, and Münster wondered for a moment if it might not be best to summon the doctor and give her an injection. Put her to bed for a rest instead of sitting here being tortured. Krause had already conducted a preliminary interrogation after all.

But as Van Veeteren used to say, the first few hours are the most important ones. And the first quarter of an hour weighs as much as the whole of the third week.

Assuming it was going to be a long-drawn-out business, of course. But you never knew.

He glanced at the clock. Six forty-five. All right, he thought. Just a quarter of an hour.

‘I’ll have to take the details one more time,’ he said. ‘Then you can get some sleep.’

She shook her head.

‘I don’t need to sleep.’

Münster read quickly through Krause’s notes.

‘So you got home at about two o’clock, is that right?’

‘Yes, about five past. There had been a power cut, and we’d been stuck in the train for over an hour. Just outside Voigtshuuis.’

‘Where had you been?’

‘Bossingen. Visiting a friend. We generally meet on a Saturday . . . not every week, but now and then. I’ve already told an officer this.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Münster. ‘What time was it when you set off from Bossingen?’