The Ludwig Conspiracy (54 page)

Steven was speechless for a moment. He cautiously cleared his throat.

“You are . . .”

The man made a dismissive gesture. “No names. I’m not really here at all. If the press gets wind of it, there’ll be exactly the trouble we wanted to avoid.” His eyes twinkled at Steven. “Or do you want to have the police after you for murder again?”

“They aren’t after me anymore?”

The man without a name glanced at the burning hotel. “Well, let’s say I managed to convince the investigators of the case that they were following a false trail. The gentlemen here have enough to do, keeping a deranged industrialist who thinks herself one of our family a secret from the press. Obviously the board of Manstein Systems knew about Luise Manstein’s unusual hobby, if not about its extreme degree.” He watched with interest as the firefighters tried to stifle the conflagration with foam and fire extinguishers. Flames still licked up from the ruins of the hotel.

“But first, maybe you will tell us just what happened here,” the man went on.

Steven nodded and hastily told his story about the search in the ruins of Falkenstein, the finding of the statutory declaration, and his flight from the hotel cellars.

“Luise Manstein dismantled the entire contents of Neuschwanstein and brought them here,” he ended, looking regretfully at the man before him. “Sorry as I am to say so, all the original pieces have been burned to ashes. There are only duplicates in the castle. I suppose you’ll have to tell visitors that they’re forgeries, and . . .”

The man before him was smiling so mildly that the bookseller broke off, intrigued.

“That’s an interesting theory of yours,” the bearded man said, scratching his chin. “However, I am sure that our experts will come to a different conclusion. We know that Frau Manstein had
copies
of items in Neuschwanstein made. Very good copies, in fact, but no more.”

“But that’s not true. You can’t—” Steven began. However, a glance from Sara silenced him.

“As I said, I have asked the chief of police to discontinue any investigation of you,” the man went on, in a pointedly casual manner. “However, I can always call him and ask him to resume if you would rather.”

Steven gave a start. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Wonderful.” The man nodded, satisfied. “Then I think it’s for the best if Frau Manstein died tragically in a gas explosion in her hotel. If only for the interests of our country.” Smiling, the man turned to Steven again. “I am sure the chief of police will see it the same way. He and I will discuss the matter this evening over a good bottle of wine.”

For some time there was nothing to be heard but the crackling of the fire and the shouted orders of the firefighters. Finally, Sara cleared her throat.

“It was the Wittelsbachs who hired me to find out more about the diary, Steven,” she said quietly. “I admit I was lying when I told you I was Professor Paul Liebermann’s niece. But no more lies now. My name
is
Sara Lengfeld, I
am
an art detective, and I love you.”

“And incidentally, one of the best art detectives who has ever worked for us,” the nameless man said. “Frau Lengfeld has often been extremely ingenious in tracking down valuable items from our widely dispersed family possessions. We value her experience and her . . . well, rather unusual methods. She was to get hold of the diary for us in her capacity as a go-between.”

“Unfortunately, Professor Liebermann was stubborn,” Sara went on. Shivering, she pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “Even when the Wittelsbachs offered him half a million euros for it, the idiot refused. And the next I heard, he had been abducted and murdered.” She smiled wearily at Steven. “You were my only link with him and the book. So I pretended to be his niece. You know the rest.”

“You used me,” Steven said reproachfully. “All your warnings about the police and dangerous strangers were only to get me to decode the book for you.”

“Please understand, Steven,” Sara said. “It was my job to find out what was behind all those puzzles. But that could be done only with your help. I couldn’t decode the book on my own. And I did think, at least at first, that we were safe.”

“We have been in constant contact with Frau Lengfeld,” said the elderly man. “In Munich, in Linderhof . . . although after what happened at Herrenchiemsee, we were on the point of calling the whole thing off. However, at a meeting in Prien, Frau Lengfeld convinced us that we should continue.” He sighed deeply. “If we’d guessed what dangers awaited you both at Herrenchiemsee and later at Neuschwanstein, we’d have brought the police in at once.”

“The green Bentley down at the harbor in Prien,” Steven groaned. “It wasn’t the Cowled Men, or Luise’s bodyguards; it was you.”

“I didn’t know that myself at first.” Sara smiled. “We didn’t meet until the next morning, when you were still asleep. I’ll admit that for a long time I still suspected Zöller.” She pointed to the ruins of Falkenstein Castle and the scene of the fire below it, which was now only smoking. “I wanted to know who was behind it. Do you understand, Steven? We might have laid hands on Lancelot and the other men, but we wouldn’t have had any evidence at all that Luise Manstein was responsible for everything here. So I kept my mouth shut, and I asked the Wittelsbachs to give me a free hand.”

“But why all this?” Steven asked, staring angrily at the bearded man. “Granted, Luise Manstein was out of her mind. But why were
you
willing to pay so much money for an old book? Half a million!” He hesitated. “You wanted to destroy it, right? You wanted to make sure that no stain on Ludwig’s reputation would ever be in the public domain.” Steven had worked himself up into a fury. “You haven’t let anyone see the files since Ludwig’s death. The archive isn’t open to the public. The coffin in St. Michael’s Church in Munich isn’t allowed to be opened for forensic investigation. You don’t want anyone to find out that the king may have been homosexual, that the prince regent, Luitpold, may have known of his murder, that the Wittelsbach family itself has Ludwig on its conscience. Isn’t that so?”

The man smiled. “Oh my goodness, Herr Lukas, all these wild conspiracy theories. The Wittelsbachs at the center of a diabolical intrigue. Could we make it any more melodramatic if we tried?” He chuckled. “Do you really think that it would bother anyone these days if my forebears, more than a hundred years ago, were involved in a murder plot? And a homosexual can get to be foreign minister now.” He waved the subject away. “No one is interested, not anymore.”

“But if that’s so,” Steven pointed out, “why don’t you open up the archive and the grave? Why did you try to steal the diary?”

“Steal it? We didn’t want to steal it.” The man lit himself a cigarillo and began puffing on it with relish. “We only wanted to know what was in it. If real evidence of the murder of Ludwig had emerged, in all probability we would have bought the book from you. Could you have resisted half a million euros, Herr Lukas?” He threw his match on the wet asphalt. “But that’s an idle question now. Or do you still have the book?”

Steven felt a momentary pang. He could have done a lot with half a million euros.

A cruise around the world with Sara, for instance, a few really rare books, a new antiquarian bookshop . . .

“It . . . I’m afraid it was burned down in the hotel,” he hesitantly admitted. “Along with the little treasure chest that contained it, the photographs, and the lock of hair.” He sighed. “And of course the statutory declaration. The whole search was for nothing.”

“A pity,” the nameless man said. “We’d have been really interested in that declaration. A fascinating document for our archive, maybe even more so than Marot’s diary.”

“Why would that sheet of paper suddenly be worth so much to you?” Steven persisted. “Didn’t you yourself say that no one today cares how Ludwig died? Or are you afraid I might demand my inheritance?”

The man in the hunter’s coat drew deeply on his cigarillo and laughed out loud. “God forbid! Whether we Wittelsbachs were or were not involved in a murder really has no legal consequences now. And, of course, no kind of claim to an inheritance could be derived from that statutory declaration. All the same, it’s a case of keeping the
secret.
”

“The secret?” asked Steven, baffled. “What secret?”

Sara sighed and nestled close to him. “Oh, Steven, don’t you understand yet? Ludwig is Germany’s best-known advertisement. It’s not just the Wittelsbachs. He’s worth millions to the tourist industry, the hotels, the whole country. And why? Because he’s the mysterious Fairy-tale King, because there’s a
secret
attached to his life and his death. If there’s no secret any more, then Ludwig becomes just any old dead-and-gone monarch.”

Steven’s jaw dropped. “You mean the Wittelsbachs would have paid half a million euros to make sure that Ludwig’s death remained a mystery?”

The man nodded. “The Wittelsbachs, and presumably the state of Bavaria, too. The Ludwig trademark has to be protected, if only for economic reasons.”

“But that’s absurd.”

“Is it?” The nameless man looked curiously at Steven. “People pay millions for souvenirs, books, guided tours of the castles, and for the very reason that Ludwig was mysterious, and died even more mysteriously.” He ground out his cigarillo with the heel of his shoe. “That’s what people are like, Herr Lukas. They need secrets, and we ensure that those secrets are kept. Even secrets concerning Neuschwanstein Castle.” He turned to the parking lot. “Now, come along, I’ll take you to Munich with me. Unless you’d rather be taken home in a police car.”

As Steven stumbled after him, he saw a gleaming green Bentley on the rainy tarmac in front of the still-smoking hotel. A chauffeur touched his cap and, with a smile, held the door open for him and Sara.

For a moment the bookseller wondered what it would be like to be a recognized heir to the Wittelsbachs. With a handsome castle on Lake Starnberg, a butler, and a family tree as long as the way to the moon. But then Sara moved close to him, and he smelled a mixture of smoke, sweat, and rain.

It was time to go home.

T
HEY DROVE PAST FIELDS AND
hilly meadows, and the Alpine mountain chain behind them grew smaller and smaller. By comparison with Sara’s compact little Mini Cooper—which the police had not released to her yet—the Bentley was a spacious saloon car. The leather upholstery of the interior smelled like a racing horse’s polished saddle, and the light of the sun trying to break through the clouds was reflected back from the fittings. The representative of the Wittelsbachs and his chauffeur occupied the front seats, while Sara nestled close to Steven on the rear seat and looked through the window, lost in thought.

Steven closed his eyes and, after all that had happened over the last few days, tried for the first time to calm himself again. Before they could get into the Bentley, the police had taken their personal details. The local police captain had not seemed particularly happy to let them leave, and Steven would have to go to the Munich police station to make a statement tomorrow. Too many questions were still open, and at least three cases of murder were unexplained. But the man with the twirled ends to his mustache had made it clear to the police, in his firm voice, that he was not about to take no for an answer. Steven suspected that the police captain knew about the convivial evening over a bottle of wine planned by that high-up Wittelsbach and the police chief.

“How do you feel as a great-great-grandson of Ludwig the Second?” Sara suddenly asked. She was stretched out on the soft leather, enjoying the view of the Alps’ Bavarian foothills.

“Not so different from before,” Steven said. “Except that now at least I have a good reason to be eccentric. I guess you’ll have to put up with my oddities.”

Sara couldn’t help laughing. It was good to see her in a happier mood. In the last half hour she had told him about her struggle with Lancelot, hesitantly at first, her voice then becoming firmer and firmer. Just before she fainted as she slid down the pole of the bridge structure, the local police had arrived, saving her from falling to her death at the last second
.
Now she seemed almost cheerful. It had obviously done her good to talk about that horror. She had taken off the bandage on her head; that last shot from Lancelot’s Uzi had only grazed her temple, and the wound had stopped bleeding.

“At least this is a car worthy of His Majesty’s last descendant,” Sara went on. She stroked the smooth leather. “All we need is some Wagnerian music and a swan on the hood of the car.”

“A horse-drawn coach would probably have been more suitable.” Steven leaned over her and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Or maybe your bright yellow Mini, but it would have been rather cramped for three.”

A shadow passed over Sara’s face, and Steven realized that he had made a mistake.

“I can’t help thinking of Uncle Lu,” she said. “Not that he was my uncle any more than Paul Liebermann was, but all the same, I grew very fond of him. To think that he’s not around now is . . .” She hesitated and looked into the distance.

“At least he doesn’t leave a wife or children,” Steven said. “Those last few days with us were probably the best he’d had in a long time. I wonder who will inherit his huge archive?”

“The Bavarian State Library,” the man with the twirled ends to his mustache said, speaking up for the first time from the front seat. “Zöller was well-known to the Wittelsbachs; he once told me himself that he planned to have his archive thrown open to the public after his death.”

“Then at least it won’t end up in your top-secret archive,” Steven replied acidly. He thought of Kaulbach’s portrait, and the king’s shirt with bullet holes in it down in Zöller’s cellar. “And then other people will be able to form a picture of the real life and death of Ludwig.”

“His real life and death?” The man laughed. “Do you know what Voltaire once said? ‘History is the lie commonly agreed upon.’”

“But the truth . . .” Steven objected.

“We’ll never know what really happened. There are always several versions of the truth; we all fix on the one we need.”