Mayor Henning Clausen had barely slept.
He had spent half the night tossing and turning while the wind swept around the house and somewhere in the village a dog barked.
He had always hated unrest.
For twenty years, he had run his office in an exemplary—and, above all, peaceful—manner.
He had made sure the volunteer fire department got a new roof.
He had attended every anniversary celebration at the village pub, even the boring ones.
Every year at the harvest festival, he had voluntarily sat beside the accordion player and bravely sung along.
That was what a mayor did.
Bertels had no idea.
You kept the village together and made sure as little as possible happened.
And now?
Rising egg prices.
People suddenly talking about epidemics.
A veterinarian on alert.
Maybe something really was heading straight for Lüttmoorsiel.
Clausen had turned over restlessly once again.
Twenty years of peace.
And now four eggs.
At around three in the morning, his wife Anne had finally had enough.
“Henning.”
“Hmm?”
“If you snort like an asthmatic moose one more time, I’m personally throwing you out of this bed.”
Clausen had continued staring grimly at the ceiling.
“You don’t understand. If this escalates, Bertels will destroy me.”
Anne had sat up wearily. Her hair was sticking out in every direction.
“Henning,” she had said dryly. “We’re missing eggs. Not the foundations of democracy.”
“But Anne…”
His wife had been silent for a moment.
“Downstairs. Sofa.”
A short while later, Clausen had indeed found himself sitting on the living room sofa, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket and glaring at the switched-off television.
Eventually, at around half past four, he had managed to fall asleep.
Which explained how exhausted he looked at the town hall now.
The dark circles under his eyes had reached a shade that even McDoven found mildly concerning.
The Englishman sat at his desk, as impeccably dressed as ever, calmly sorting paperwork with the composure of a man who would probably alphabetize the forms before reacting to a meteor strike.
Clausen was already on his third coffee when the telephone rang.
Both men looked at it at the same time.
McDoven raised an eyebrow slightly.
“I find that remarkably unsettling.”
Clausen personally picked up the receiver.
“Lüttmoorsiel Town Hall. Clausen speaking.”
With every sentence, his face grew paler.
“Yes, of course, District Administrator.”
A brief pause.
“No, no. There is absolutely no panic here.”
Another pause.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Yes… exactly… yesterday there were four.”
McDoven listened attentively and was already taking notes.
“Of course you may come by and assess the situation personally.”
As he spoke, he bowed slightly, like a hotel employee about to hand the keys to a visiting head of state.
“The District Administrator is coming,” he said tonelessly.
McDoven nodded slowly.
“How exciting.”
“Exciting?” Clausen jumped to his feet. “This is a catastrophe!”
He began pacing frantically around the office.
“If he comes here in person, we’ll have television crews next! The press! And Bertels will immediately turn it into an election campaign!”
McDoven calmly folded his hands.
“Then we should probably try to avoid appearing completely insane.”
Clausen stopped abruptly.
“The corners!”
He tore open the office door.
Out in the hallway, a frail elderly woman in a flowered smock was silently scrubbing the floor.
“Mother!” Clausen called frantically. “This time, make sure you clean the corners properly too. This isn’t the Oval Office, after all.”
The old woman slowly straightened up and regarded him patiently over the top of her glasses.
“Henning, we’re missing eggs. Not the Ark of the Covenant.”
McDoven nodded appreciatively.
“A remarkably precise analysis.”