The day the Herr Detektiv received the letter in the mail, I knew something was wrong. He seemed more distracted than usual. Herr Wilhelm Wolfgang was always turning something or other over in the back of his mind, but this was different. This was not one of the Herr Detektiv’s normal distractions. Little did I know this would not be one of my friend’s normal cases either.

After a whole day of an unusual silence pervading our small townhouse, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to confront Wolfgang. I entered his study, which was tucked away in the back of the house, and cleared my throat. The good detektiv looked up from his desk and I had a chance to examine his features. His face, usually ruddy in color, had paled so that it was almost frightening to look at him. Wolfgang’s dark hair, which on any other day would be painstakingly neat, was mussed, and he had an almost wild look in his dark eyes.

It took him a moment to realize I was there. Clearly something big was troubling him. The detektiv’s dark eyes searched mine for a moment and he stood from his leather armchair.

“You’re wondering what’s bothering me,” he stated, slipping back into his normal role as observant detective.

I nodded. “You haven’t spoken all day, Herr Detektiv.”

A small, amused smile stretched across Wolfgang’s face when I addressed him so. He thought it was a good joke to be called that. The great man had even greater humility.

“Well, I shouldn’t have kept you out of it, Johannes,” Wolfgang said with a resigned air. “You see, this morning I received an intriguing letter from an old schoolmate of mine. He needed help and described his predicament to me. I’ve been puzzling over the issue but I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

I let out a relieved sigh. “Is that it then? I had begun to worry it was something serious.”

Wolfgang turned his dark eyes toward me. “Is there anything more serious than not being able to solve a case for a client, Johannes?”


“Entschuldigen, Herr Detektiv,” I quickly murmured. “But just because you can’t solve a case without leaving your study doesn’t mean it's hopeless. Perhaps visiting your friend would help."

Wolfgang chuckled. “How devilishly simple!" he cried. "Yes, I suppose a visit is in order. But first an explanation is needed.”


Wolfgang told me of his friend for the next quarter of an hour. They had gone to school together as young men and had parted only after they graduated. Wolfgang’s friend moved to a quaint little village called Siebenstadt, where he had surprised everyone by becoming mayor. Soon after his term in office began, however, the disappearances started. Villagers would go missing for exactly one week and then turn up in front of the town hall… dead. Each victim had had a number gruesomely etched into the skin of his or her arm. The total number of casualties had come to six when the mayor decided to contact Wolfgang. Apparently the man had an uneasy premonition that he would be number seven.

“No wonder you couldn’t solve this in here!” I exclaimed. “There’s almost nothing to work with!”

“Well, I do know some things about Siebenstadt that I thought would help,” Wolfgang admitted. “For instance, there are several of the mayor’s relatives living there, as well as three men who ran for mayor but were beaten by my friend.”

“Do think this could be an act of revenge, Herr Detektiv?” I asked.

Wolfgang shook his head. “We simply won’t know for sure until we get to Siebenstadt.”



A week later, Wolfgang and I were on a train bound for Siebenstadt. I couldn’t help but wonder at the coincidences: Wolfgang had puzzled over his friend’s letter for seven hours. He and I were headed for Siebenstadt seven days later—on August seventh.

After exactly seven hours on the train and a pleasant meal of roast chicken and spaetzle, Wolfgang and I arrived at the Siebenstadt station. I noticed a tall man wearing a pristine suit scanning the small group of passengers getting off the train. He had high cheekbones, flaxen-colored hair, and a neat mustache of a similar color. I pointed him out to Wolfgang, who smiled cordially and called out to the man.

“Wilhelm! Wilhelm, thank goodness you’ve come,” the gentleman said with obvious relief. He shook my friend’s hand eagerly and then turned to me. “And who is this?”

Wolfgang put a hand on my shoulder. “This is my good friend and assistant, Jakob Johannes. Johannes, this is my old schoolmate, Stefan Schmidt.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir,” I said with a slight bow.

“Willkommen, Johannes,” Schmidt replied. “Now, you two must be tired. I’ll take you to my house and we can discuss my—problem over an ale or two.”

Schmidt motioned for his valet to pick up our bags and then led the way to his waiting car.



“Wait a moment,” Wolfgang said, stopping by the curb of the street. “Peter Popov, is that you?” he asked, apparently recognizing the man sweeping the street.

The man looked up and brushed his sweaty hair away from his face.

“Wilhelm?” he asked in surprise. “Wilhelm Wolfgang?”

“Johannes,” the Herr Detektiv said, turning to me, “this is Peter Popov. He, Schmidt, and I all attended school together. Peter, this is my assistant, Johannes.”

Popov laughed. “An assistant, eh? You’re quite an important man now.”

“If you say so,” the ever-humble Wolfgang said with a chuckle. “You know, you should join us for dinner tonight. It would be great fun, having the three of us together again. Just like old times, really.”

Schmidt nodded eagerly, but Popov shook his head.

“Entschuldigen,” he apologized. “I have plans for the Sieben Festspiele.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Wolfgang said.

Peter nodded and Schmidt led Wolfgang and me to his car.

“What is the Sieben Festspiele?” I asked Schmidt as I settled into one of the car’s luxurious leather seats.

“It’s the town's Festival of Seven,” Schmidt explained. “We hold it every August seventh, or 7/7 on the calendar, if you like. Everyone here is obsessed with numbers, and not just in the 'Friday the Thirteenth' suspicious way. They constantly look for patterns, which is why everyone is so concerned about these murders. They’re so methodical that it’s almost frightening.”

“About that,” Wolfgang said, turning his gaze away from the car window and directing it toward the mayor, “what are these patterns you’ve noticed?”

Schmidt shuddered. “The victims go missing for seven days and then show up on my doorstep dead. They each have a number etched into them… A few days ago we found number six.”

Wolfgang stroked his chin. “What makes you think you will be number seven?”

Schmidt took a deep breath. “Each victim was related to me in some way. I believe somebody is trying to get to me.”

“You don’t have any enemies, do you?” Wolfgang asked.

Schmidt thought for a moment. “When I was elected mayor, the other three men were quite angry that an ‘outsider’ had managed to steal the election. Herr Henri, Herr Sebastian, and I have not exactly been on friendly terms since then.”

“Could one of them be the killer, Wolfgang?” I asked.

“There’s a rumor circulating that claims there are seven killers. The people have begun to call them the ‘Siebenmord,'” Schmidt offered.

“A ring of murderers in a quiet place like Siebenstadt?” I wondered. “How odd.”

Wolfgang grunted. “It is all very strange, but you mentioned three men, Schmidt. Who was the third?”

Schmidt chuckled. “What a dumkopf I am! The third was our schoolmate, Peter Popov. Obviously, he and I are not enemies. In fact, we are always getting together to puzzle over one of his many number riddles. He’s fascinated with them.”

“You don’t say?” Wolfgang mused, looking thoughtful. A moment later he recovered from his reverie and asked, “May I see the body of the sixth victim?”

Schmidt paled before slowly nodding. “The crime scene hasn’t been disturbed, but we did move the—the body." He coughed. "You see… Number Six was my seven year old daughter.”

I gasped and even Wolfgang looked disturbed.

“But Nummer Sieben..?” he mused thoughtfully.



When the car pulled up to the town hall, Schmidt led us up the steep steps to an area marked off with yellow tape. The outline of the small victim’s body had been drawn before she had been taken away, and there was a small pool of dried blood where the arm had rested. I shuddered as I thought of the ‘six’ that had been etched into her skin.

Wolfgang crouched down and ran his fingers across the area. He examined something on the ground closely and thought for a moment.

“That dust was everywhere when we found the body,” Schmidt explained when he saw what was on Wolfgang’s fingers. “Peter offered to come and sweep it all up.”

“Did he now?” Wolfgang asked. “What a good lad.”

Schmidt nodded and took us into the building. His daughter’s body had been placed inside a back office for Wolfgang. The sight was depressing. The pale little girl was laying there so deathly still that I couldn't help but shiver. She was so small and delicate, and her pale skin had been horribly marred by the red ‘six’ cut just above her wrist. Her father couldn’t bear the sight and turned away with glistening eyes.

Wolfgang bent over the body and then waved me over from where I stood comforting Schmidt.

“Do you notice all the dust on the body?” he asked me quietly.

I nodded. “It’s all over her skin and clothes. It looks like dust from the street,” I observed.

Wolfgang considered this for a moment. “I’ve seen enough, Schmidt. You should have someone take care of your daughter’s body,” he said at last.

The mayor nodded. “I will do that immediately. In the meantime, would you two like something to eat?”

Wolfgang shook his head. “Sorry, old friend, Johannes and I must see Herr Henri and Herr Sebastian about the ‘Siebenmord,'” he said.

Schmidt’s expression darkened at the men’s names, but he sighed and nodded. “The two men always celebrate the Sieben Festspiele at the local biergarten, the ‘777.’”

“Vielen Dank, Schmidt,” Wolfgang said. “Come, Johannes, let’s see if we can find out more about the Siebenmord.”

“You know something, don't you, Herr Detektiv?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“I’ve got a hunch, is all,” Wolfgang whispered back with a chuckle.


When we arrived at the ‘777’ biergarten, Wolfgang asked the hostess if our two men were in. She led us across a patio full of noisy roisterers and over to a small table set beside a fountain with seven small jets of water. The two men looked up from their drinks at us. Both wore dark suits that were immaculately clean and well-polished shoes—the marks of successful men.

“Guten Abend, Herr Henri, Herr Sebastian,” Wolfgang said with a tip of his head. “I am Wilhelm Wolfgang, a friend of Herr Schmidt.”

The two men’s eyes grew wide as they recognized the detective, but then narrowed suspiciously.

“The mayor sent you, jah?” Herr Henri spat pugnaciously.

“He thinks we’re a part of the ‘Siebenmord’ everyone is going on about, jah?” Herr Sebastian demanded. “We may not like him, but we do not want to kill him, Herr Wolfgang.”

“Oh, I believe you, gentlemen,” Wolfgang assured them. “And this has nothing to do with the mayor or his opinion of you. I myself am curious about this Siebenmord everyone keeps talking about.”

“It’s just an urban myth the villagers have come up with to explain the disappearances,” Henri explained. “I don’t believe there are even two people in town who would harm the mayor and his family.”

“But there is one,” Wolfgang mused. “Thank you for your help. If I may ask one more thing of you both… What are your professions?”

I looked just as surprised as Henri and Sebastian, but since they knew the Herr Detektiv wasn’t the enemy they were willing to cooperate.

“After losing the election, I became a doctor,” Henri said. “In a small town one ends up doing odd jobs, jah?”

“Indeed they do,” Wolfgang agreed. “What about you, Herr Sebastian?”

“I also work at the hospital, but as a lab technician,” Sebastian said.

“Hmmm,” Wolfgang murmured.

He thanked the gentlemen for their help and walked away. I followed after him quickly.

“Where to now, Herr Detektiv?” I asked.

Wolfgang glanced at his wristwatch. “I believe we have time to visit Peter.”

I was going to ask why we had a time constraint, but Wolfgang was already heading down the street. I later learned that he had asked Schmidt for directions to Popov’s house, but at the time I was surprised when he stopped in front of a house and knocked.

A thin woman opened the door and looked out at us suspiciously.

“Good evening, Mrs. Popov,” Wolfgang said with a courteous bow. “May I speak with your husband? I was told he was at home celebrating the Sieben Festspiele.”

P-Peter’s not here,” she said nervously.
Clearly, being questioned by two men without her husband at home was bothering her. Wolfgang noticed her agitation and bowed again.

Ever the gentleman, he apologized. “Es tut mir leid. No matter, we’ll come back another time. Sorry to trouble you.”

“What now, Herr Detektiv?” I asked as the door shut behind us.

Just then the clock began to chime and Wolfgang’s eyes grew wide.

“We need to get back to the mayor,” he said quickly, beginning to run.


We arrived at the town hall in time to see a masked person come out. I noticed the stairs were dusty as I leaned over to catch my breath. Wolfgang wasn’t winded, so he made a dash for the masked figure and tackled him.

“Johannes!” he called. “Get an officer!”

I gasped as I saw the unconscious mayor, but then ran for help.
When I returned with a policeman, Wolfgang had our man pinned to the ground. The officer cuffed him and Wolfgang stood up and brushed himself off.

“You nearly did it,” he told the man, “but you were sloppy.”

“Who is it?” I asked as I sat the unconscious mayor up.

“None other than our good friend—“ Wolfgang said as he pulled off the mask. “...Peter Popov!”

Popov glared darkly at Wolfgang, his nose bleeding from their scuffle.

The officer took the murderer away, and Wolfgang and I helped the unconscious mayor home.


“How did you ever figure it out?” Schmidt asked as he held an icepack to the bump on his head.

“It was quite simple, really,” Wolfgang said as he set down his stein of beer. “When we arrived we found out that Peter was a street sweep. What did we find on the victim and at the crime scene, Johannes?”

I thought for a moment. “Dirt. Dirt from the street.”

Wolfgang nodded. “Exactly. When Peter realized he’d gotten it all over the crime scene, he offered to clean it up to get rid of the trail he’d left—a very sloppy move. Later, we learned that he, Henri, and Sebastian ran for mayor. The two other men work in a hospital—“

“So they have to be very clean,” I finished.

“Right again. And remembering what Henri said about odd jobs, it isn’t unusual that Popov became a street sweep. He clearly blamed the mayor for this—an educated man sweeping the refuse off the street!—and wanted to get even, so he began killing off his loved ones. He chose August seventh to be the day he would take the life of the mayor because the town hall would be empty since it was a town holiday. It was a perfect time to strike.”

“And you knew he would do it at seven!” I exclaimed.

Wolfgang chuckled. “He’d already proved himself to be a lover of numbers, so it was the obvious answer.”

“How did you figure out he was operating alone?” Schmidt asked, amazed.

“Henri said that there weren’t two people in town who would harm you,” Wolfgang explained. “The answer was clear: there was no Siebenmord. It was just a rumor Peter started spreading to cover his trail.”

“You, Herr Detektiv, are amazing,” Schmidt said in awe.

“It was nothing really,” Wolfgang said modestly. “Just a simple case of logic and, well, numbers.”

I chuckled. The Herr Detektiv had done it again, this time in the small town of Siebenstadt. It had been just a week since he received the letter from Schmidt and had been less than seven hours since we'd arrived in town.

This was the brilliance of my friend, Herr Wilhelm Wolfgang.