“Silence, you scoundrel!” Luise leaped off her wooden throne and pointed the little Derringer straight at Zöller. Her hands were trembling, her eyes cold and piercing. “Why I need that book is no business of anyone here. All that matters is for me to have it in my hands at last. For the damn riddle to be solved after more than a century.”
Zöller took a step back and held his tongue, but Sara intervened.
“I suspect that Uncle Lu was about to say, ‘This woman is a total nut case.’” She turned to the bookseller. “Come on, Steven! Look at her! She thinks she’s a new Ludwig, and these thugs are her paladins. You can’t get crazier than that. And this giant monkey here,” she added, turning furiously to Lancelot, who was just behind and towering above her, “is just her favorite toy knight.”
“You have made Lancelot very angry, Frau Lengfeld.” The head of Manstein Systems sat down on the stool again, but now her voice was cold as steel. “Very angry. You are part of his fee, did you know that?”
Lancelot grinned, then winked at Sara with his one sound eye.
“I’ll make you an offer, Frau Manstein,” Steven said. He opened his rucksack and went over to the gallery, holding the little cherrywood chest. “I’ll give you the book. The book and the little treasure chest. And in return, you let us go. The police would never believe us anyway, and you’ll save yourself a great deal of trouble.”
“She’ll never let us go.” Zöller shook his head. He seemed like an old man again. “We know the secret of the book, or at least almost. And what’s more, we could always tell the police about this lady’s large-scale art theft.”
“Art theft?” Sara asked, baffled. “What are you talking about?”
A slight tic on the industrialist’s face showed Steven that Zöller had found out something important. The two guards to the left and right of the throne exchanged nervous glances.
“You can deceive millions of tourists, maybe the castle administration as well, and a few self-styled experts, Frau Manstein,” Zöller growled. “But you don’t deceive me. I’ve taken a very close look at the bed, the washstand, and the rest of the furnishings of the castle, and I’ve taken photographs. It’s only a matter of tiny details, but I’ve seen too many pictures of the original fittings and furnishings to miss seeing the difference.”
“Nonsense,” hissed the industrialist. “The copies are perfect.”
“The copies?” Bewildered, Steven looked from Uncle Lu to Luise Manstein. “What copies?”
“Herr Lukas, do you really think that Manstein Systems accepted the commission in Neuschwanstein just for the prestige of it or out of pure love for humanity?” Zöller laughed quietly. “A leading German IT company renovates a dusty castle? Sees to unimportant details like personally hiring the security staff? That struck me as odd all along. When I had a chance to take a look at the furniture in the royal bedchamber today, I couldn’t believe it at first. I thought I must be mistaken. But now I know that we are witnesses to one of the greatest art thefts of the century. For that very reason alone, Madame here isn’t about to let us go.”
“Are you saying that all the furniture and works of art in the castle are only . . . duplicates?” Steven remembered how thin and cheap the wood of the king’s bedside table had looked to him just now. Could it be possible? All at once he felt as if the ground had been pulled from under his feet.
Most of this stuff is just smoke and mirrors . . .
“I don’t know exactly how many pieces of furniture,” Zöller said. “The bed, the chairs, and the washstand in the bedchamber, in any case. Presumably on the nights when Manstein Systems’ people were installing the security system, they gradually dismantled everything here, bringing in the duplicates at the same time. The furniture in the study and the dining room also struck me as a little different. And here . . .”
He looked curiously up at the ceiling, where the great chandelier hung, with nearly a hundred candles.
“We did a good job,” Luise boasted. “The chandelier weighs approximately a ton. A fragile, unique work made of Bohemian glass. I think it looks magnificent in its new location.”
Spellbound, Steven looked around him in all directions. The chandelier, the candleholders that were as tall as a man, the magnificent tables and chairs in the neighboring rooms . . . Had they all been stolen? Did nothing but duplicates still stand in Neuschwanstein?
“Where in God’s name did you take all those things?” he asked, horrified. “To a storeroom? Are you going to sell them? Surely you have enough money already.”
Luise laughed out loud; it was an almost girlish giggle. “I see you still don’t understand me, Herr Lukas,” she said, smiling. “Ludwig never wanted ordinary mortals walking around his castles, desecrating the pictures and furniture here by staring at them. I have had the exhibits taken to a sacred place where I alone can look at them.”
“Ah,” Sara said. “Your living room, I presume. Because you are no ordinary mortal, are you? Other people get reborn as a butterfly, Napoleon, or a potted plant, but you, of course, are the reincarnation of Ludwig the Second.”
“How dare you insult me,” Luise cried, jumping up from her temporary throne. She aimed the Derringer straight at Sara now, while her voice rang through the hall. “You’ll find out soon enough who it is you’re dealing with. Lancelot, teach this insolent bitch a lesson.”
With a swift movement, the giant pressed against the hollows of Sara’s knees from behind, so that she bent over, with a cry of surprise, and dropped to the ground. Then he swung his leg back and kicked her in the stomach with all his might. Sara folded like a pocketknife; a gurgling sound emerging from her throat, and she brought up gall and saliva.
“You . . . you bloody bastard!” she gasped, writhing in pain.
Steven watched this scene as if he were in a trance. Then he dropped Marot’s little treasure chest and ran, fists up, toward Lancelot, who stood two heads taller than he did. The giant swerved aside at the last moment and delivered a right hook to the bookseller’s chin. Fighting for breath, Steven fell to the floor. For a moment everything around him was black, and then, unsteadily, he got to his knees. He was holding his lip, and blood dripped to the mosaic flooring. Suddenly he felt incredibly weary.
“Damn it, what the hell are we doing here?” he cursed quietly. He leaned down to Sara and caressed her trembling body. A shudder ran through her; she seemed to be weeping silently. “Why did your uncle have to come to my bookshop?” Steven asked. “So many booksellers in Munich, but no, he had to pick me.”
Steven felt a hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, he saw the anxious face of Uncle Lu. For the first time he noticed the deep lines on the old man’s face and the infinite sadness in his eyes.
“Herr Lukas, it’s time you learned something very important about yourself,” Zöller began in a quiet voice. “It wasn’t by chance that Paul went to you. He knew you and your parents. And he knew that . . .”
The gunshot rocked the throne room as if lightning had struck the cupola. Albert Zöller staggered several steps back, clutching his stomach. For a moment Steven thought it was only the noise of the shot that had alarmed the old man, but then Zöller put out his hand and stared incredulously at his fingers.
They were red with blood. Thick liquid dripped from them onto the brightly colored mosaic floor.
Now Steven could also see the red stain on Zöller’s shirt, almost exactly where his navel had to be. The stain spread and spread, and soon his pants and shirt were wet with blood. Uncle Lu groaned quietly, then tipped forward and lay motionless.
Luise lowered her Derringer, from which a small puff of smoke rose to the cupola, and breathed out deeply.
“You . . . you’ve killed him.” By now Sara had scrambled to her feet. She was still bent over in pain and clutching her stomach, but at least she could speak again, more or less. “Damn you! What did that old man ever do to you?”
“He poked his nose into things that are none of his business.” Lu
ise stood up and handed the little pistol to one of her paladins. “And he’s not dead. See for yourself.” She pointed to Zöller’s body. A slight tremor passed through it; his rib cage rose and fell faintly. “I suppose the bullet didn’t hit a major organ. Maybe he can still be saved, but he doesn’t have much time left.”
“Then call a doctor!” Steven cried. “At once!”
The industrialist smiled. “I’ll call a doctor. I’ll even have a specialist flown in from Munich if it’s necessary. But not until you tell me the answer to the puzzle. So where did Marot hide it?”
“Hide what?” Steven turned Zöller’s heavy body over on its back. He looked at Luise, bewildered. “Why would Marot have hidden anything?”
“Don’t lie to me!” the industrialist screeched. Once again she seemed to have slipped into the world of her delusions. “The puzzle leads somewhere. Out with it, before I shoot another one of you.”
“What are you raving on about?” Sara asked defiantly. “We don’t know of any place. All we have are the titles of a few poems and a whole lot of numbers, nothing more.” Meanwhile she had hurried over to Zöller and unbuttoned his shirt. Cautiously, she felt his weak pulse. “You ought to have waited a little longer before firing that shot. Without Uncle Lu, we’ll never find out what the solution to the puzzle is. Steven hasn’t even finished reading the book yet.”
Briefly, Luise Manstein closed her eyes. Steven thought she was going to give her henchmen the order to mow them both down with their Uzis, but she regained her self-control.
“Very well,” she whispered, “very well. Then I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You three stay here in the throne room with the diary. I’ll give you three hours.” She held three fingers up in the air as if swearing an oath. “Three hours, no more. If you can tell me where the secret is hidden then, I’ll call a doctor for this stubborn old man. You have my royal word of honor on that. If not . . .” She turned to go, and her henchmen followed her in silence. “If not, there’ll be another couple of mysterious deaths in the Ludwig case.”
Royal cloak billowing, The King’s Majesty stalked out of the throne room toward the study, with the two paladins. Only Lancelot lingered behind for a moment in the doorway, fixing Sara with his one good eye.
“You and I are going to have fun soon, baby,” he whispered. “And if you two cute kids think you can call for help with your cell phones or the laptop, forget it. Up here there’s no cell service, no wireless network, nothing. Tried it myself. Neuschwanstein is deep in the Middle Ages.”
The two wings of the door slammed shut.
IN THE SILENCE that followed, all they could hear was Albert Zöller’s tortured breathing. He kept his eyes closed, his eyelids flickering nervously now and then. Sara tore strips of fabric off her jacket and began improvising a bandage for the old man.
“This man needs help!” she shouted at the top of her voice, hoping that someone outside could hear her. “My God, is there no one here who’ll help us?” But the silence around them only felt more oppressive.
“What kind of situation have we gotten ourselves into?” Steven cursed, running his hands through his graying hair. “I should have burned that damn diary back in my bookshop.
“Then that madwoman would probably have burned you as well,” replied Sara. “Stop whining, and think how we can get out of here. It’s the only way Uncle Lu may have a chance.” The art detective seemed to be back in control of herself to some extent. Once more she felt Zöller’s pulse and mopped the sweat from his brow. Her improvised bandage was already wet with blood.
“I don’t think Uncle Lu can last much longer. Not three hours, anyway,” Sara whispered. “That lunatic. She really does think she’s Ludwig reborn. I’d guess she’s built herself a little palace somewhere, where she lives out her royal dreams surrounded by the original Neuschwanstein furniture. How crazy is that?”
“But then why the book?” Steven asked. “What does Marot’s diary have to do with it? And what place did she mean—this place we’re supposed to find for her?”
Sara shrugged. “The woman’s downright deranged. Who knows what goes on inside her head?”
Suddenly she got up and stood, legs apart, in the middle of the room, her face turned to one of the cameras under the ceiling. “Hey, you, Queen of Hearts!” she shouted. “Can you hear me? Ludwig would never have done a thing like this. Maybe he was a little eccentric, but you are totally deranged. Do you hear, to-tally de-ranged!”
When there was no reaction, Sara looked all around her, searching frantically, and finally hurried over to a small door on the left of the apse. She opened it, and Steven felt a cold draft of air.
“I’m sure there’s a great view from up here in the daytime,” he heard Sara saying from outside. “But the only way down is a sixty-five-foot drop. Fuck!”
She closed the door and turned back to Zöller, who was breathing heavily. Gently, she laid his head on what was left of her jacket. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but to go along with that deranged old bat’s proposition,” she said. “Not that I think Luise will let us go then, but maybe we can at least save Uncle Lu.”
“Whom, incidentally, you suspected for no good reason,” Steven interjected with annoyance.
“As if that matters now.” Sara rolled her eyes. “I guess we’ll never find out what he was doing with that private detective agency, and those phone calls to the States. Or at least, not if Uncle Lu doesn’t get to see a doctor very soon.”
Steven frowned. “What did he mean when he said it was no coincidence that your uncle came to see me?” he asked. “He said Paul Liebermann had known my parents. How could that be?”
“Who knows,” Sara said. “Luise shot Zöller the moment she heard him. Obviously she didn’t want you to know any more.”
“More about what? Uncle Lu said it was time I learned something very important about myself. What the hell was it?” Steven sighed and rummaged listlessly around in Zöller’s books, which were scattered all over the mosaic floor. There were smeared bloodstains on some of them. “We’ve solved the third puzzle, we’ve made it to Neuschwanstein, and we still don’t know any more than we did at the start.”
He stared at the picture of St. George fighting a green dragon in front of a small castle on a rock. That was just how Steven felt: he was fighting, struggling, thrashing about, and still he didn’t move from the spot.
“I’m beginning to feel fairly sure that all this is to do with my childhood memories,” Steven said quietly. “I don’t know how and why, but there’s some kind of connection between me and the diary. The sensation of dizziness that I get when I read it, the memories of earlier times . . . it’s as if something were knocking at the door to my consciousness with all its might. The diary takes me back to my childhood. And Zöller knows what the connection is.” His voice rose, echoing in the high cupola. “Hell, why didn’t he say something sooner? How does he know what I’m not supposed to know?”
“Crazy Luise was talking about a hiding place just now,” Sara said. “Presumably the ballad puzzle takes us there. But what can the something be? A treasure? Obviously it’s something that’s extremely important to her.”
Steven cleared his throat. “Up to this point we’ve always thought that finding out about the true background to Ludwig’s death was all that mattered. But maybe it’s something else. Something to do with my own past.” He picked up the diary, which bore a large drop of blood. “Only one thing to do,” he said, wiping the drop away with his last white handkerchief. “I have to finish reading the damn book. Luckily there are only a few pages left.”
“If Uncle Lu’s going to have any chance, you’ll have to read fast,” Sara told him, mopping the sweat off Zöller’s forehead. “I don’t think he has much time left.”
“Then you’d better listen to the end of Marot’s story. Maybe you’ll spot something that I’d miss.”
Steven sat down on the steps up to the gallery, opened the book, and read the penultimate e
ntry in the diary out loud.
32
JG, JG, JG
They came at midnight to take the king away.
By now most of the servants had already left the castle. Only four had stayed with Ludwig, and an almost unreal silence reigned. Even before this, Neuschwanstein—with its scaffolding and half-finished rooms, its bare corridors floored only with loose boards, and its fairy-tale furnishings—had seemed to me like a ghost castle. Now I actually thought I felt a touch of evil seeping through its walls.
I had lain down to get a little rest in one of the servants’ bedrooms and had fallen into a restless state of half sleep, from which I was awoken by the sudden sound of several loud voices. When I hurried up the steep spiral staircase, I saw Ludwig’s massive form standing in the bedroom doorway. Two attendants were positioned, one on his right, the other on his left, holding the king with their strong arms. Ludwig himself looked pale and bloated; he had clearly been drinking. His voice sounded soft and apathetic, as if he were already resigned to the inevitable.
“What . . . what do you want?” he stammered. “What does this mean? Let go of me!”
Dr. von Gudden, with his assistant, Dr. Müller, beside him, stepped out of the group of madhouse attendants and addressed the king.
“Your Majesty, what I have undertaken to do is the saddest task in my life. Your Majesty has been certified by four doctors who are specialists in insanity, and on the basis of their opinions, Prince Luitpold has assumed the regency.”
“But how can you call me insane?” asked Ludwig in a muted voice. “You did not come to see me and examine me first.”
“Your Majesty, that was not necessary. The material in the files is extensive and positively overwhelming.”
Ludwig suddenly looked at the doctor with a steady gaze. As so often, his mood seemed to change from one second to the next, and now he seemed extremely reasonable.
“How can you, as a serious neurologist, have so little conscience as to make out such a certificate?” he asked in an objective tone. “A certificate that decided the fate of a human being whom you have not seen for years? How can such a thing happen?”