Helen Grant - The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

“You are an idiot, Stefan,” I snapped, not adding, as I might have, You nearly gave the old man a heart attack . “It was only Pluto.”

Pluto was a well-known fixture in Bad Münstereifel, at least among those who lived in the old part of the town. A large, foul-tempered, and unsterilized inky-black tomcat, he had once made it onto the front page of the local free newspaper (admittedly during a quiet week as regards other news) after a resident of the town accused him of making an unprovoked attack on her pet dachshund. Describing him as “only Pluto” was rather like describing Baron Münchhausen as a bit of a fibber.

Still, I was annoyed with Stefan, not least because I was afraid that this piece of high drama really would spell the end of my visits to Herr Schiller. That evening my suspicions seemed to be confirmed, since Herr Schiller seemed suddenly tired and quite relieved to see us go. Normally he would stand on his doorstep watching me as I went off up the street, but this evening Stefan and I were scarcely on the cobblestones before we heard the door quietly click closed behind us.

I set off up the street at a fast pace, half wanting to leave Stefan behind. StinkStefan . I might have known he would mess it all up. I considered just running home at top speed without speaking to him, but as I reached the bridge over the Erft I heard him coming up behind me, panting with exertion, and I relented. Still, I was not going to make things easy for him. I stood on the bridge looking down into the shallow but fast-flowing waters of the river, and waited for Stefan to speak first.

“Why did you run off like that?”

Typical StinkStefan question. Like all those others: Why won’t you let me play with you? Why can’t I be on your team? Why won’t you be friends with me? This was not a good start.

“Because you nearly blew it. In fact you may have blown it. He’s never sent me off like that before.”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Stefan, brushing a strand of dirty blond hair out of his eyes. “That monster cat gave me the fright of my life.”

“It’s only Pluto,” I pointed out frostily. “You’ve seen him hundreds of times.”

“He made me jump, creeping out of the dark like that. And, anyway,” Stefan went on, “didn’t you think it was a bit weird, the way he appeared just as Herr Schiller was telling us about Unshockable Hans and the witches’ cats?”

“Not particularly,” I lied. “Pluto gets into everything. Frau Nett said she found him in the kitchen of the bakery once, eating a bit of Apfelstreusel .”

Stefan’s face fell a little. “Well, all the same…” he said lamely. “I think it was creepy.” He looked down at the muddy waters below, thinking. “He certainly gave Herr Schiller a shock,” he said eventually. “Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?”

“Well, Pluto’s not his cat,” I pointed out. “He probably wasn’t expecting to see the old fleabag practically sitting on his shoulder.”

“Hmmmm…” I looked at Stefan sideways and could see a familiar expression on his face, one that meant wheels were turning. “Pluto belongs to Herr Düster, doesn’t he?” he said.

“Ye-e-es,” I conceded suspiciously.

“Well, don’t you think it’s odd that-”

“Oh, come on !” I snapped, cutting him off midsentence. “What do you think, that Herr Düster set Pluto on him or something?”

“I don’t know,” said Stefan, but you could see the idea had appeal. “I mean, those two hate each other, don’t they? Maybe Pluto didn’t get in there by himself. Maybe Herr Düster put him in through the window or something, to give Herr Schiller a fright. Maybe he was hoping it would give him a heart attack.”

“Nice idea,” I said untruthfully. “But who’s going to leave a window open in this weather?”

Stefan shook his head, as though he were an inspirational leader frustrated at the inability of his followers to see the bigger picture.

“It didn’t have to be the window. Maybe he put him in through that old chute where they used to put coal and stuff in the cellar.”

“Quatsch,” I said rudely. “That’s absolute Quatsch . And, anyway, how was Herr Düster to know we had been talking about Unshockable Hans and the cats? You think he’s psychic or something?”

The thought seemed to strike Stefan. “Maybe he is.” He pushed himself away from the parapet of the bridge and began to walk slowly toward the Marktstrasse. This time it was my turn to tag along after him. It was almost dark now, and as we passed the red Rathaus the first few flakes of falling snow were dancing in the air.

“Stefan, I have to get home. My mother will go nuts-it’s already dark.”

“I know. It’s all right.”

Stefan didn’t need to make any remark about his own mother. I remember thinking that Frau Breuer probably wouldn’t notice if Stefan didn’t come home at all, a thought that seems horribly callous in the light of what came afterward, when other children really did fail to come home.

We stopped for a moment by the old pillory in front of the Rathaus . Stefan kicked it idly with the scuffed toe of his sneaker as we stood there, awkwardly saying our goodbyes. Eventually I said, “See you tomorrow, then,” and turned to walk away.

I had hardly taken three steps when I found there was someone blocking my path. I looked up, snowflakes whirling into my face, and found myself looking up into the gargoyle features of Herr Düster. In his dark coat he looked like an undertaker. His expression was hostile. Heart thumping, I froze.

Herr Düster’s eyes slid over me and then his gaze seemed to snag on Stefan, half visible in the colonnade behind me. With a snarl he pushed past me and disappeared into the Fibergasse, the alley at the side of the Rathaus .

“What did he say?” said Stefan, coming back up to me.

I shook my head. “He said, go home .”

“Go home?” Stefan shrugged. “That’s all? He looked like he was swearing at you.”

“No, that’s all,” I said, and shivered.

Stefan looked at me. “You want me to walk you back to your house?”

I glanced at him. StinkStefan, my knight in shining armor.

“Yes,” I said, and meant it.

I remember once, when I was quite little, asking my mother about Herr Schiller and Herr Düster. I was puzzled about them because someone had told me they were brothers, but they didn’t look at all alike, and they had different names.

Herr Schiller was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a large-featured, benevolent face. His startlingly blue eyes were overhung with bushy white eyebrows that would not have disgraced St. Nicholas. His hair, which was dead white, was still abundant and always neatly groomed. His mouth was wide and amiable, although when he smiled he rarely opened his lips, perhaps being self-conscious about his teeth, which were stained yellow from decades of smoking.

Herr Schiller was always immaculately turned out. Sometimes he wore an ordinary dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie, and at other times he wore a traditional costume, a dark green woolen jacket with pale horn buttons, matching breeches, and woolen socks. He was considered something of a local character-not an eccentric, something still frowned upon in German society, but a gentleman of the old school, the sort you no longer see anymore, with perfect manners and a dash of gallantry. Not , as Oma Kristel used to observe in a tone of frigid disapproval, like that Herr Düster .