The Snowman by Jörg Fauser

in the voice.
    â€œAnd a Pichelsteiner stew, that’s about all that’s worth eating in this dump.”
    â€œJust what I always say,” commented a man, sitting down with Blum, although there were several empty tables. Blum pressed his legs against the sample case under the seat and looked at his travelling companion. Roundish face, neat parting, steel-rimmed glasses, grey suit, tie and waistcoat. Could be about thirty-five, but one of those faces that never age, they just die some time or other. He placed a large book in a brown paper cover beside his cutlery and put a Lord Extra in his mouth.
    â€œDo you travel by train often?” asked Blum.
    The man nodded deliberately. Perhaps a little too much the stolid citizen to be a possible member of Rossi’s syndicate. Looked more like a cop. Which meant he probably was in the syndicate after all. Blum felt himself breaking out in a sweat. And the train had only reached the suburb of Pasing.
    â€œFar too often,” said the man, “but it’s all in the day’s work, so you have to accept it.”
    The steward brought Blum an ice-cold Pils. At least he’d hit the right note with the man. His neighbour at table ordered an Apollinaris and a Mozart Toast, a fillet steak dish.
    â€œBut not well done, medium rare,” he said almost pleadingly. The steward muttered something and moved away. “Doesn’t taste so good well done,” added the man, as if he had to justify himself.
    â€œWhy not have the Pichelsteiner?”
    â€œI had a Pichelsteiner only on Friday,” said the man, opening his book. Not until they had eaten – the Mozart Toast was overdone, of course, and the Pichelsteiner delicious – did they fall into conversation again. Blum would have talked to anyone, even a deaf mute. Anything was better than constantly looking at the door through which a man with a machine gun might appear any moment – but that was just in the movies. In real life the syndicate was sitting there at the table, pushing away his plate with the remains of the steak. He took a Lord Extra out of its packet and said, “I wonder if you’d mind doing me a favour.”
    Here we go, thought Blum.
    â€œIt’s like this, you see – I didn’t quite meet my quota yesterday evening.”
    What was all this? The confessions of an overworked killer? The man lit his cigarette and rubbed his thumb over the spine of the book. “Reptiles. I had a pet slow-worm as a boy, maybe that’s what made me think of it as a subject.”
    Blum relaxed. At the worst this character might be with Intelligence. He was quite red in the face now.
    â€œDo you have an exam ahead?”
    â€œNo, no, I’m a vacuum cleaner engineer. But these days I specialize in quiz shows. Repairing vacuum cleaners all your life – well, that’s kind of monotonous. Haven’t you seen me on TV?”
    â€œI get to see relatively little TV,” said Blum. “What do you do on television?”
    â€œOh, I appear on quiz shows. Maybe you’ve seen me after all – I mean, people don’t always watch very closely. The After Nine Quiz Show , Who’s the Brainbox ?, The Big Question ? No? We get high ratings, though. I made my debut in Movie Buffs . But you can only win the topprize on a show once, so if you’re a pro you have to be versatile.”
    Blum agreed. He leaned back. “Do you do it full time?”
    â€œWhat’s the alternative? Learning by heart is a fulltime job. Of course my good memory comes in useful. History was my strong point at school – I could remember all the dates. Try me out – ask me a question!”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œA historical event!”
    â€œWhat kind of historical event?”
    â€œOh, come on, you must know a historical event!”
    The man was getting annoyed. The classic agent type, decided Blum. Didn’t seem to be interested in coke, but