The Unlucky Lottery

Pixner’s. Waldemar Leverkuhn had worked – for how long was it? Ten years? – at the Pixner Brewery, and the Breuwerblatt must surely be a magazine for people connected with the beer industry. There was no reason to assume that a subscription would cease when a worker retired.

‘Leverkuhn,’ said Moreno when she, Reinhart, Rooth and Jung gathered for a run-through in Reinhart’s office. ‘It comes from the Leverkuhns, I’d bet my reputation on it!’

‘Steady on,’ said Reinhart, enveloping her in a cloud of tobacco smoke. ‘We mustn’t jump to conclusions, as they say in Hollywood.’

‘Your reputation?’ said Jung.

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ said Moreno.

After a few productive telephone calls they had discovered all they needed to know about both magazines. Finanzpoost was very much a business publication with financial analyses, stock exchange reports, tax advice and speculation tips. Circulation 125,000. Came out once a week, and was sold to subscribers and also over the counter. Number of subscribers in Maardam: over 10,000.

‘Bloody bourgeois rag,’ said Reinhart.

‘For the bastards who decide the fate of the world,’ said Rooth.

Breuwerblatt was rather a different kettle of fish. It was published only four times a year, and was a sort of trade journal for brewery workers in the whole country. Print run last year: 16,500. No over-the-counter sales. Distribution in Maardam: 1,260. One of the subscribers was Waldemar Leverkuhn.

‘One thousand two hundred and sixty!’ exclaimed Rooth. ‘How the hell can there be so many brewery workers in Maardam?’

‘How many beers do you drink a week?’ wondered Jung.

‘Ah, well, yes, if you look at it like that, of course,’ said Rooth.

It was agreed unanimously to put the bankers on the shelf for now, and concentrate instead on the much more respectable producers of beer; but before they could even start there was a knock on the door and an overweight linguist by the name of Winckelhübe – a specialist in semiotics and text analysis – entered the room. Reinhart recalled contacting Maardam University the previous evening, and welcomed Winckelhübe somewhat reluctantly. He explained the situation in broad outline, gave him a photocopy of the magazine extract, a room to himself, and a request to deliver a report as soon as he thought he had anything useful to say.

While Reinhart was busy doing this, Moreno contacted the editorial office of Breuwerblatt, which luckily was located in nearby Löhr, and after a typically efficient visit by young Krause, half an hour later they had two copies of each of the last three years’ issues lying on the table.

‘Good God!’ said Rooth. ‘This is going like clockwork. We’ve barely got time to eat.’

And it was Rooth who found the right page.

‘Here we are!’ he yelled. ‘Three bloody cheers!’

‘Altho’ a poor blind boy . . .’ said Reinhart. He went over to Rooth to check.

No doubt about it. The little strip of paper sticking out of Else Van Eck’s bottom in Weyler’s Woods came from the September issue of the previous year’s Breuwerblatt. Pages eleven and twelve. At the top on the left – a two-column announcement about a working environment conference in Oostwerdingen. The picture on the reverse side was part of a table and a suit belonging to the county governor who was officially opening a new brewery in Aarlach.

‘This is pretty clear,’ said Reinhart.

‘Crystal clear,’ said Moreno.

‘It’s obvious he has cirrhosis of the liver,’ said Rooth, examining the governor close up.

There followed a few seconds of silence.

‘Did you say there were twelve hundred and sixty subscribers?’ asked Jung. ‘So it doesn’t necessarily—’

‘Don’t be such a bloody prophet of doom!’ said Rooth. ‘Of course it’s from the Leverkuhns. So she’s done in the old lady Van Eck as well, I’d stake my damned . . . house on it.’

‘Metaphorically speaking?’ asked Moreno.

‘Literally,’ said Rooth.

Reinhart cleared his throat.

‘The evidence seems to suggest it might be from the Leverkuhns,’ he said. ‘In any case, shouldn’t we order some coffee and discuss the matter in somewhat more formal circumstances?’

‘I’m with you there,’ said Rooth.

During the coffee session another report arrived from the Forensic Chemistry Lab, and Reinhart had the pleasant task of informing Intendent Mulder that they were already dealing with the matter.

Since it was rather urgent. In the unlikely event of there being other things to attend to at the lab, there was nothing now to prevent them from getting on with them.

‘I understand,’ said Mulder, and hung up.

Reinhart did the same, lit his pipe and smiled grimly.

‘So, where were we?’ he said, looking round the table.

‘Oh, bugger!’ said Inspector Moreno.

‘There speaks a real lady,’ said Rooth.

But Moreno made no attempt to comment.

‘It’s just dawned on me,’ she said instead.

‘What has?’ said Jung.

‘I think I know how it happened,’ said Moreno.