And the king was far too unpredictable.
“That . . . is not good,” The Excellency murmered after a few minutes of silence. “Not good. We were so close to it, so close. And now this!”
The last words were a shout, the sound of the king’s voice echoing around the grotto. But seconds later, the king was composed again.
“I want you to do everything possible to find this antiquarian bookseller,” The Royal Highness whispered. “Everything. I’m sure he has the book in his possession. I can feel it. If anyone solves the riddle, all is lost.”
One of the gorillas muttered something unintelligible. The king raised an eyebrow.
“What did you say?”
“I’m just wondering what we’re supposed to do if this guy takes the book to the police. Not that I think he will, but well, if he did, then we would have a problem.”
“We would indeed.” The Excellency breathed slowly and deeply, eyes closed, as if suffering from a migraine. “That would most definitely be a problem. One hell of a problem.”
Suddenly the king’s expression brightened, and giggles filled the room.
“But I think I know how to solve it.”
The king outlined a plan to the two paladins, who nodded along enthusiastically. Once finished, the king steered the boat out into the water again, and it glided back to the middle of the lake, where it slowly turned in a circle, bathed in blue and red light.
6
“WHO . . . WHO ARE THOSE guys?” Steven asked, staring at the screen in front of him. The three figures in hooded capes, carrying torches, looked as if they came from another time. Images of burning pyres passed through the bookseller’s mind, of priests flagellating themselves, of monasteries enveloped in mist. He could almost hear the somber polyphonic chant of monks.
“Them?” Sara tapped the monitor as if it would bring the strange figures to life. “Cowled Men. Members of a secret order that’s been around since Ludwig’s death. They preceded the casket at his funeral. They operate in the underground, and for a hundred years they’ve been trying to prove that their beloved Fairy-tale King was murdered. Sounds loopy, but it’s true.” The art historian clicked her way through a couple of websites about the hooded figures. “The Cowled Men are everywhere they think there’s danger of someone casting aspersions on the name of Ludwig the Second. At theatrical performances, musicals about Ludwig, major anniversaries . . . A few years ago they even tried to open the king’s casket, to no avail.”
Confused, Steven shook his head. “Are you kidding me? A gang of lunatics in black hooded capes. That’s absurd.”
“Absurd or not, the Cowled Men come from all over and all types of people. Garbagemen, artists, university lecturers, civil servants. It’s thought they have connections very high up in the Bavarian government.”
“Hang on a second,” Steven interjected. “Are you trying to tell me there’s a Bavarian secret society that’s been around for a hundred and twenty-five years, operating underground, with connections to the highest levels of government? It sounds more like some crazy Freemason conspiracy theory.”
“You know, Herr Lukas, the Illuminati themselves started in Bavaria. As a Berliner, I can tell you the Bavarians are surly little mountain people who have always been a little different from the rest of the world.”
“If you say so,” Steven said. “But why would these Cowled Men be interested in getting their hands on that little box? If your uncle had decoded the book and published it, then that would prove Ludwig was murdered, and the Order would have what it wanted.”
Sara dropped to the sofa again. “These Cowled Men are about as conservative as they come. They’re only slightly to the left of Genghis Khan. Remember that theory that Theodor Marot could have had a relationship with the king? What do you think would happen in Bavaria if something like that came to light? The beloved Fairy-tale King turns out to be an old queen who likes cute boys? It would be scandalous.” She took off her ballet flats, aimed, and threw them on top of a crushed pizza box in the corner of the room. “Believe me, the Cowled Men will do anything they can to get hold of that book. And they won’t publish what’s in it until they’ve removed any reference to that particular suspicion.”
“Then you genuinely think these Cowled Men murdered your uncle?” Steven asked.
Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her head raised, Sara stared straight ahead. “Think about it,” she finally replied. “They have a strong motive, and they’re definitely after that book. Your encounter with them on the Theresienweise proves that. And I’m sure that guy in the lederhosen is one of them.”
Sighing, Steven picked up the yellowing notebook again and leafed through it. “That doesn’t change the fact that the book was written in code. Nothing but odd signs, and now and then a jumble of capital letters. If I only knew . . .”
Suddenly he stopped dead.
“What is it?” asked Sara.
“The book your uncle was asking me about,” Steven began thoughtfully. “The diaries of Samuel Pepys . . .”
“What about them?”
“As far as I know, they were written in a kind of code, too. An early seventeenth-century variety of shorthand.”
Sara frowned. “What about it?”
“I bought the book online,” Steven said, “but I haven’t looked inside it yet. I may be wrong, but . . .”
He went over to the computer and typed Pepys into Search. It took him some time, but at last Steven found the right site. His heart leaped.
“I was right,” he said. “See for yourself.”
Sara jumped off the sofa and padded over to the bookseller. Together, they stared at the screen. A cryptic script flickered on the monitor, consisting mainly of flourishes, lines, and dots. Only a few recognizable English words stood out.
The art detective whistled softly through her teeth. It was the same coded script the king’s assistant had used in his diary.
“Shelton’s shorthand from the seventeenth century,” Steven said. “Samuel Pepys used it in his diary to keep all his affairs secret from his wife. It wasn’t decoded until two hundred years later. Your uncle must have guessed something and came to me to check his suspicions.” He shook his head. “Who’d have expected a little French assistant doctor to write his diary in an antiquated secret code?”
“Theodor Marot studied history as well as medicine in Strasbourg,” Sara said. “He obviously qualified with distinction. Nice work!” She patted Steven on the shoulder. “The competitor progresses to the next round of the game. Although that brings us to another problem: how are we going to decipher the damn thing?”
Steven clicked back two pages. “It says here that Shelton wrote a manual for his shorthand in 1635. It’s called Tachygraphy. That’s ancient Greek—it means ‘fast writing,’ and . . .”
“Okay, Professor, I don’t need a lesson in ancient Greek—I need one in stenography,” Sara interrupted him impatiently. “So what about that manual?”
“You ought to let me finish what I’m saying, dear Ms. Art Detective,” Steven said. “I was about to tell you that not only do I have Pepys’s diaries in my stockroom, but I recently acquired a copy of Tachygraphy. A very rare book.” He tapped his forehead. “Nothing like keeping a good inventory in your head.”
Thoughtfully, Sara took a third menthol cigarette out of her crumpled pack.
“My compliments, Herr Lukas,” she replied dryly. “Through to yet another round of the game. At this rate, you might yet be the champion. But to do that, the two of us have something else to do first.”
“And that is?”
Sara’s face disappeared behind a cloud of white menthol-scented smoke. “We have to get over to your stockroom as fast as possible to fetch that book. Before the Cowled Men take it into their heads to rummage around there some more.”
7
WHEN THEY REACHED the westend district, it was well after midnight. Most of the trendy pubs, sushi bars, and cafeterias had closed, and there wasn?
??t much going on in the streets. A few cars searched for one of the rare parking spots; otherwise, the place was deserted. The drone of Turkish music reached their ears from somewhere. If TV sets hadn’t been flickering like strobe lighting behind several windows, one might have thought it was a dead city.
Steven wasn’t sure just how deeply he should get involved. From what Sara said, the men who were after the diary would kill for it without a second thought. They had tortured a man to death over it already. On the other hand, the discovery of Marot’s diary was a real coup, any antiquarian bookseller’s dream. If it was really written in Shelton’s coded script, and they could decode it, and if it gave information about the death of Ludwig II, all Steven’s financial worries would be over, not to mention the publicity he would get. Der Spiegel, Stern, Focus—they’d all be writing about his discovery.
But suppose it’s a forgery?
The forged Hitler diaries sprang to Steven’s mind. They had plunged Stern magazine into the greatest scandal in German media history. He decided to be wary, for safety’s sake, but the diary held an almost magical attraction for him.
It’s like a drug. Since I first leafed through it, I’ve been obsessed with it . . .
By now they had turned into Gollierstrasse and were driving slowly past his bookshop. To Steven’s great relief, he saw that the men had not made good on their threat. His shop had not been burned down, but in the dark, with its display window smashed, it looked desolate and uninviting. The little place that had dominated his life for so long didn’t seem to be his anymore; it was like a diseased part of a body that had been cut off.
“We’d better go through the backyard,” Sara whispered. “If those guys are still watching the shop, they’ll be in front.”
Steven nodded. As they slowly passed in the car, his gaze lingered on the black hole that had once been his display window. For a moment he thought he saw movement in the darkness of the shop. Were the Cowled Men in there? Or maybe some kind of vandals? The bookseller blinked and looked harder into the shop. But he must have been mistaken. Nothing. No movement, no sound, just a broken window.
Sara brought him down to earth. “What’s the matter?” she hissed. “Seeing ghosts? Come on.”
She parked the car in a dimly lit side street and got out. Steven followed her, turning up the collar of his flimsy corduroy jacket. In their frantic escape, he had left his coat and cashmere scarf in the bookshop, taking only his briefcase with him. That, with its precious contents, had stayed behind in Sara’s office. Shivering, he went with her to the street behind the shop, where the gate barred their way into the yard.
“Shit!” the art detective cursed. “Now what?”
“Leave it to me.”
Steven pressed one of the many bells beside a list of names and kept his finger on it. After a minute, a sleepy voice with a strong Bavarian accent came through the speaker.
“Christ almighty! If this is supposed to be a joke, then . . .”
“Herr Stiebner,” Steven interrupted. “It’s me, Herr Lukas from the bookshop. I forgot my key. Would you be kind enough to let me in?”
“Oh well . . .” There was a buzz, and the gate opened with a click. “You owe me a beer for this,” the voice grumbled.
“A whole case, Herr Stiebner. Genuine König Ludwig dark beer.”
Steven showed the art detective into the interior courtyard, which was overgrown with Virginia creeper. The back door of his shop was still open. The men obviously hadn’t taken the trouble to close it during the chase.
“My main stockroom is down in the cellar,” Steven whispered. “Through the door on the right.”
They entered the building and turned down a steep staircase leading downward.
“How many books do you store down there?” Sara asked quietly.
“About three thousand.”
“Three th—”
“Don’t worry,” Steven reassured her. “They’re all neatly classified. It won’t take us long, and then . . .”
Sara pressed his hand. “Did you hear that?”
The bookseller went quiet. He could hear a slight dragging sound coming from the cellar. Suddenly there was a hoarse scream, then gasping from at least two men, and what sounded like a large bookcase falling over.
“What the hell is that?” Steven said, ducking low on the narrow stairway. “Sounds like a fight going on down there.”
There was another scream, but it soon turned to spluttering, gurgling sounds.
“Wrong. It sounds like someone being murdered,” Sara said. “Come on!”
They hurried down the stairs and came to a door standing ajar and leading into a dark room. Two shadowy figures wrestled with each other; he could make out the outlines of wooden racks that had been pushed over, as well as a couple of iron bars as long as a man’s arm. Steven intended to eventually use them to build a new set of shelves.
Frantically, Steven felt for the light switch to the left of the doorway. But when at last he found it and pressed it, no light came on. After clicking it on and off several times, he gave up, cursing, and stormed into the cellar. He could see the two figures more clearly now. A powerful, broad-shouldered man was forcing the other one to the floor. He was clasping his victim’s throat and throttling him. The legs of the smaller man thrashed wildly back and forth. Steven thought his movements were getting weaker.
“Stop!” Sara shouted, right beside him. “Stop it right now!” But the powerful man ignored her and tightened his grip on his adversary’s throat. Sara grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled. When she did, the man took a pistol out of the inside pocket of his jacket and aimed it at her. He looked ready to pull the trigger.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Steven saw nothing but the small black pistol and Sara with her hands held protectively in front of her face. Instinctively, he snatched up one of the iron bars and rushed toward the two of them. Raising the heavy bar high in the air and uttering a hoarse cry, he brought it crashing down on the man’s head.
There was a sound like an overripe pumpkin falling to the ground.
The man toppled, twitched a little, and then lay still, his fingers still clutching the pistol.
My God, what have I done? Steven thought. What on earth have I done?
The bar dropped from his hands and rolled away behind a bookcase. For a moment there was an unnatural silence. Steven was hesitantly approaching the lifeless body when the second man suddenly jumped up and shoved him aside. The bookseller stumbled back over a bookshelf and fell to the floor.
“Hey!” Sara shouted, but the stranger pushed her away with his elbow and ran upstairs. Steven caught a brief glimpse of a black hooded sweatshirt with some kind of slogan on it, and then the man was gone.
“Put the light on, for Christ’s sake,” Sara gasped. She clutched her right side; obviously the stranger had hit her harder than it had looked. Steven made his way out of the stockroom, groping about until he finally found the fuse box on the back wall of the corridor. Running his hand over the switches, he could tell that they were all pressed down. He clicked them up, there was a brief crackle, and then the corridor was suddenly bathed in bright light.
“Someone’s been at the fuse box . . .” he began. But Sara was already speaking, her voice low and strangely husky.
“Forget the damn fuse box. Take a look at this.”
Steven went back into the cellar, now brightly lit, and saw a chaotic scene: overturned bookshelves, crates, books with pages torn out. Among them lay the powerful stranger with the pistol. Only now, in the light, could the bookseller see him properly. He was a giant, almost six feet tall, in jeans, work boots, and a dark green tracksuit jacket. A pool of red blood had formed around his fashionably shaved skull. It was quickly spreading and had almost reached the nearest books. The man’s eyes stared at the ceiling like two blue glass marbles.
“My God, he’s dead,” Steven said, kneeling over the lifeless body. His corduroy pants were soaking up blood, but he
didn’t notice. “I killed him. I’ve killed a man.”
Sara came closer and cautiously touched the body with the toe of one of her ballet flats. The art detective, pale and trembling, was still clutching her stomach where the man had driven his elbow into it as he ran away.
“It’s one of those thugs who was after us a few hours ago, no doubt about it,” she said to herself. “But then who was the other one?”
She hesitated, then bent down to the dead man and, firmly compressing her lips, searched his pockets. At last, using just her fingertips, she pulled a wallet from his tracksuit jacket.
Sara held the opened wallet up to her eyes and peered at it. “His ID says his name is Bernd Reiser. Ever heard of him?”
Steven shook his head. Without much hope, he pressed his fingertips to the man’s carotid artery, but there was no pulse. His own pulse raced; he was incapable of rational thought. Meanwhile, Sara seemed to have regained her composure. Secretly, the bookseller admired how coolly she searched the dead body, although at the same time it made him wonder.
What is this woman? Art detective? More like a female Philip Marlowe . . .
“A man might think you’ve done something like this before,” he said. “Part of standard art detective training, is it? Robbing dead bodies?”
“Not that it’s any business of yours,” Sara replied without looking up, “but you can assume that I have a certain amount of experience.”
“As an art detective? But . . .”
“Well, what have we here?” Sara drew out a small pendant from under the dead man’s T-shirt. Engraved on it was the image of a golden swan, wings outspread. Under it there was an ornate inscription.
“Tmeicos Ettal,” she said thoughtfully, letting the pendant on its chain swing in front of Steven like a hypnotist’s pendulum. “I wonder what that means? It’s not in any language I know. Could it . . .”