There was no snow the day StinkStefan met Herr Schiller, but the weather was diamond bright and bitingly cold. Huddled in the depths of a down jacket, I was stalking swiftly down the Kölner Strasse, the wide street that leads north out of the town, when I realized that Stefan was at my heels. I kept up my pace, ostensibly to keep warm; but there was also a certain satisfaction in trying to outpace Stefan.
In my haste I nearly barreled into someone on the corner by the bridge.
“Fräulein Pia.”
My eyes were level with a smart old-fashioned greatcoat with a red carnation, bright as a splash of paint, in the buttonhole. I looked up and saw a craggy face looking down at me, bushy eyebrows raised above startlingly blue eyes.
“Herr Schiller.”
My heart instantly sank. At any other time I would have been delighted to see Herr Schiller; now I saw his eyes move to the shadow behind me and I knew I’d have to introduce him to Stefan. I glanced about me as though seeking escape, but it was too late.
“Is this a friend of yours?” asked Herr Schiller, his voice faintly amused.
“Um…” While I dithered, Stefan had slipped his right glove off and was extending his hand.
“Hello, I’m Stefan Breuer.”
“Heinrich Schiller,” said Herr Schiller gravely, grasping the proffered hand. He turned to me. “And where are you going in this inclement weather, Fräulein Pia?” Herr Schiller always spoke like that; he never tried to talk down to me simply because I was a child.
“To the park in the Schleidtal.”
“I see,” said Herr Schiller. He pushed back the sleeve of his coat and looked at his watch, a great silver antique. “Well, should you wish to drop by later on when you are both thoroughly frozen to the bone, I should be delighted to offer you some hot coffee-or chocolate, should you prefer.”
I looked at Stefan. “Well, actually…” I hesitated. “I’m not really doing anything now.”
“Nor am I,” cut in Stefan, with a challenging glance at me.
“And it is quite cold,” I said, doing my best to ignore him.
Herr Schiller gave a dry, creaking laugh like a pair of old bellows. “Then please, come with me. We can stop at the Café am Fluss for cakes. You may choose the cakes, Fräulein, and Herr Breuer can carry the box.”
Obediently, we fell into step beside him. In spite of his age-he was in his eighties-Herr Schiller was surprisingly sprightly. He never used a cane, even when the ground was slick with frost; now he forged ahead. At the big gate, the Werther Tor, Herr Schiller disappeared into the tobacconist’s; Stefan and I waited outside.
“How do you know him?” said Stefan out of the corner of his mouth, glancing round to check that Herr Schiller was out of earshot.
I sighed. “I used to go and see him with my Oma.”
“The one that-?”
“Yes.” I fixed my eyes on the cobblestones and waited for the inevitable questions to follow, but Stefan said nothing. I shot him a sideways glance; he appeared to be engrossed reading a poster taped to the shopwindow, advertising an over-thirties party in the spa hotel. I relented.
“He’s old but he’s cool,” I said. “He tells me all this stuff-well, he used to, when I went round there with Oma Kristel. Things about the town in the olden days.”
Stefan looked at me dubiously. “History?”
“No, interesting stuff,” I said. “Like-well, Herr Schiller says there used to be this ghost of a white dog, and anyone who saw it-”
Herr Schiller emerged at the top of the steps outside the shop, and I stopped abruptly. But Herr Schiller was not looking at me, nor had he heard me saying his name. He was staring at someone on the other side of the street, and his face was set, although with anger or dislike I could not tell. I followed his gaze and saw a figure I recognized.
“Herr Düster,” said Stefan under his breath. He had recognized that meager form too, in spite of the battered-looking hat that was pulled low over the eyes.
Herr Schiller descended the steps. As he passed me, his elbow thumped my shoulder, but I swear he didn’t notice. He approached Herr Düster like a man backing a dangerous animal into a corner, squaring his shoulders as though he wanted to herd Herr Düster away from us.
“Guten Margen,” I heard him say, and although his words were polite his tone was accusatory.
Herr Düster raised his chin a little, so that his eyes glinted darkly under the brim of his hat. His gaze danced from Herr Schiller to us and back again. There was something threatening in it, yet at the same time wary, as though he were a feral animal driven by extreme hunger to consider attacking human beings. He growled something unintelligible, then very deliberately turned his back and slunk away. He had a curious gait, faintly furtive; he made me think of a crab creeping across the seabed. He slid past the front of the post office and disappeared around the corner.
“Come,” said Herr Schiller sharply, and we trotted after him.
I dared not ask him about Herr Düster. The old man was a legend among the schoolkids, rather like Herr Koch’s evil German shepherd, Troll, which would fling itself against the garden fence barking and snapping wildly if you passed by. Seeing Herr Schiller’s reaction somehow made Herr Düster more sinister. At that time, having to speak to Herr Düster, or meeting Troll when there was no fence between you, seemed liked the scariest things that could happen to you. Until, that is, Katharina Linden disappeared.