The cobblestones gleamed damply in the light of the gas lamps.
Darkness still hung over the rooftops of Stralsund. Only a narrow strip of pale light showed on the horizon.
Franz Meier clicked his tongue.
“Giddy up.”
He gave the reins a gentle tug. The heavy brown horse started forward, pulling the milk cart at an unhurried pace through the dark streets of Stralsund. Hooves clattered over the cobbles, harnesses creaked, and with every bump in the road, the milk cans answered with a bright metallic clink.
Franz, the milkman, sat wrapped in his coat on the driver’s seat, gazing out over the sleeping town.
From the harbor came the smell of seaweed, tar, and salt water.
Somewhere, metal struck against metal.
A seagull cried.
Franz pulled his coat more tightly around his shoulders. It was cool for the time of year.
As he turned into the courtyard, he frowned.
There was a light on in the kitchen.
He slowed the cart.
That was unusual.
At this hour, the Golden Anchor was always dark.
Franz stopped, climbed down from the driver’s seat, and looked once more toward the windows.
Yes. The light was definitely on.
He lifted two milk cans from the cart.
As he crossed the courtyard, his eyes kept returning to the illuminated windows.
As he did every morning, he carried the first churn to the boarding house, set it beside the back door, and pulled the bell cord. Somewhere inside the building, a muffled bell sounded.
Then he went around the corner into the restaurant’s rear courtyard. He was about to place the second churn on the stone steps by the back door when he noticed that the door stood slightly ajar. Light spilled through the gap, falling across him and the metal garbage cans.
Franz stopped.
The kitchen door was never left open.
He set the churn down and carefully pushed the door wider.
“Hello?”
No answer.
A mixture of broth, cooked vegetables, coal smoke, and the sour smell of damp wooden floorboards drifted from the kitchen.
Franz stepped over the threshold.
The light of a kerosene lamp flickered on the worktable. Copper pots gleamed dully against the walls. An overturned stool lay on the floor.
His gaze moved farther into the room.
He froze.
The milk can slipped from his hand.
It struck the stone tiles with a deafening crash. The lid flew off, and milk spread across the floor.
Franz staggered backwards.
“Good heavens…”
The cook was wedged headfirst inside the enormous soup cauldron.
His legs stuck motionless into the air.
Franz stumbled against a shelf. Several pots toppled over and crashed to the floor.
He was paralyzed with shock, unable to move.
Outside, his horse whinnied.
The noise echoed throughout the building.
A moment later, Franz heard something above him.
Footsteps.
Wooden floorboards creaked.
“What on earth is all that noise at this hour?”
The kitchen door was flung open.
Friedrich Ankermann appeared in the doorway.
He was wearing a dressing gown. The moustache guard he had worn during the night was still fastened around his moustache, and his hair stuck out in every direction.
“What the devil is going on here?”
Franz still couldn’t speak. With a trembling hand, he pointed toward the cauldron.
Ankermann followed his gaze.
All the color drained from his face.
“My God…”
For a moment, neither man spoke.
From the courtyard came the distant cry of a seagull.
Then Ankermann shook himself from his stupor.
“Fetch the police.”