The Unlucky Lottery

They had spent a few hours eating and drinking. Shared a rather expensive Rioja in front of the television for a couple more hours. Then made love for an hour and a half. At least. He remembered looking at the clock and noting that it was twenty-five minutes to four.

The duty officer had rung at a quarter to six.

I’m a wreck today, Jung thought. But a quite young and happy wreck.

He emptied his cup of coffee and ordered another.

Palinski also looked like a wreck, but forty years older. His white shirt might possibly have been clean the previous evening, but after being exposed to a night of sweaty alcoholic fumes it was no longer particularly impressive. A pair of disconsolate, thin legs stuck out from underneath it, criss-crossed with varicose veins and wearing a pair of sagging socks. His head was balanced precariously on a fragile stick insect of a neck, and seemed to be on the point of cracking at any moment. His hands were trembling like the wings of a skylark, and his lower jaw was apparently disconnected from its anchorage.

Oh my God, Jung thought as he waved his ID in front of Palinski’s nose. I’m standing here face to face with my own future.

‘Police,’ he said. ‘Let me in.’

Palinski started coughing. Then closed his eyes.

Headache, was Jung’s diagnosis. He gritted his teeth and forced his way in.

‘What do you want? I’m not well.’

‘You’re hung over,’ said Jung. ‘Stop putting it on.’

‘No . . . er,’ said Palinski. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you saying you don’t know what is meant by a hangover?’

Palinski did not reply, but coughed up some more phlegm and swallowed it. Jung looked around for a spittoon, and took a deep breath. The air in the flat was heavy with the reek of old man. Tobacco. Unwashed clothes. Unscrubbed floors. He found his way into the kitchen and managed to open a window. Sat down at the rickety table and gestured to his host to follow suit.

‘I must take a pill first,’ croaked Palinski, and staggered into what must presumably be the bathroom.

It took five minutes. Then Palinski reappeared in a frayed dressing gown and with a newly scrubbed face. He was evidently a little more cocksure.

‘What the devil do you want, then?’ he said, sitting down opposite Jung.

‘Leverkuhn is dead,’ said Jung. ‘What can you tell me about that?’

Palinski lost control of his jaw and his cockiness simultaneously.

‘What?’

‘Murdered,’ said Jung. ‘Well?’

Palinski stared at him, his mouth half open, and began trembling again.

‘What . . . what the devil are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that somebody murdered Waldemar Leverkuhn in his home last night. You are one of the last people to see him alive, and I want to hear what you have to say for yourself.’

It looked as if Palinski was about to faint. Oh my God, Jung thought: I’m probably coming down too heavily on him.

‘You and he were out together last night,’ he said, trying to calm things down. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes . . . yes, we were.’

‘At Freddy’s in Weiskerstraat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Together with two other gents?’

‘Yes.’

Palinski closed his mouth and clung on to the table top.

‘Are you all right?’ Jung asked tentatively.

‘Ill,’ said Palinski. ‘I’m ill. Are you saying he’s dead?’

‘As dead as a doornail,’ said Jung. ‘Somebody stabbed him at least twenty times.’

‘Stabbed him?’ Palinski squeaked. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do we,’ said Jung. ‘Maybe you could make us a cup of tea or coffee, so that we can talk it through in peace and quiet?’

‘Yes . . . Of course,’ said Palinski. ‘Fucking hell! Who could have done a thing like that?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Jung.

Palinski stood up with considerable difficulty.

‘The way of all flesh,’ he said out of the blue. ‘I think I need a few drops of something strong. Fucking hell!’

‘Give me a couple as well,’ said Jung.

He left Palinski an hour later with a fairly clear head and fairly clear information. Yes, they had been at Freddy’s – as always on a Saturday night. From about half past six until eleven o’clock, or thereabouts. They’d eaten and drunk and chatted. About politics, and women, and everything under the sun.

As usual. Maybe they’d been a bit merry. Leverkuhn had fallen under the table, but it was nothing serious.

Then Palinski and Wauters had shared a taxi. He’d got home at about twenty past eleven and gone straight to bed. Bonger and Leverkuhn had walked home, he thought, but he wasn’t sure. They’d been standing outside Freddy’s, arguing about something or other, he thought, when he and Wauters went off in their taxi.

Had the gentlemen been quarrelling? Good Lord no! They were the best of friends. That’s why they kept meeting at Freddy’s every Wednesday and Saturday. And sometimes more often than that.

Any other enemies? Of Leverkuhn, that is.

No . . . Palinski shook his aching head cautiously. Enemies? How the devil could he have had any enemies? You didn’t have enemies when you were their age, for Christ’s sake. People with enemies only lived to be half their age.

And Leverkuhn didn’t show any signs of behaving oddly as the evening wore on?