The Ludwig Conspiracy (20 page)

More than you can begin to imagine,
Steven thought.

“Not really,” he replied. “And Ludwig himself was obviously inconsistent if he wanted to live in an old-fashioned fairy tale, but at the same time he had Siemens dynamos clattering away here.”

“As I said, it’s a matter of uniting the new and the old.” Luise Manstein abruptly turned to the way out of the cave. “But now we really must go. I have a good deal to do before this evening.”

Steven hurried after her. “But I still have so many questions to ask.”

And what’s more, damn it, I still have no idea where I ought to be looking, or what for.

At the exit from the grotto, the industrialist stopped and locked the door in the rock behind them with a large, rusty key. Then she gave Steven a long, searching look.

“Did you know that Ludwig gave an interview to a newspaper only once in his life?” she suddenly asked. “It was with an American journalist, and they talked about Edgar Allan Poe. So don’t underestimate King Ludwig. In certain areas he was way ahead of his time.” She hesitated for a moment, and then her hard face relaxed and she smiled almost girlishly. “I’ll tell you something, Mr. Landsdale: I like you. Come to my little party this evening, will you? Maybe we’ll have a chance to talk some more.” She handed him two gleaming golden plastic tickets. “This is your security pass. And another for a companion in case you’d like to bring one. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

Without another word, she went away along the path and soon disappeared among the trees.

S
ARA LENGFELD TURNED
up about midday.

Her lemon yellow Mini Cooper pulled up, brakes shrieking, on the hotel forecourt as Steven, sitting in the restaurant, was leafing through Marot’s notes yet again. When he looked through the restaurant window and saw Sara coming, he hurried to meet her.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been?” he asked. “I was worried about you!”

Sara, a broad grin on her face, held up a thin white box about the size of a lady’s purse.

“I’ve been shopping in Garmisch. A MacBook Pro with a 500-gigabyte hard disk and one of those superfast Intel Core 17 processors. I’ve always wanted one of those.”

“And you had to go off to buy it now?”

“Herr Lukas, just because you’re still writing with a quill pen doesn’t mean I have to do the same. Someone wrecked my smartphone in your basement, remember? And this will make our search a whole lot easier. I’ve already downloaded a pair of deciphering programs, and if we want to surf the Net, we don’t have to go to the hotel lobby anymore. How about a word of thanks for a change?”

“Thank you, Frau Lengfeld.”

“You couldn’t manage to make it a tad chillier, maybe, Mr. Freeze?”

Steven took Sara aside and gripped her hard by the shoulders. “Listen,” he whispered, “I really don’t have time for this nonsense right now. Marot’s account indicates that there could be a clue in the Grotto of Venus. I was there early this morning, although . . .”

Sara looked at him in surprise. “You were there? I thought it was closed.”

“Believe it or not, Frau Lengfeld, I can do quite a lot with my quill pen.”

Steven filled her in about his meeting with Luise Manstein in the Grotto of Venus. He ended by telling her about the invitation.

“You want me to go to some party for a bunch of pompous idiots given by Manstein Systems?” she asked. “Warm prosecco, small talk, boring, boring, boring . . . Christ, as if I didn’t get that all year round at gallery openings.”

“Then I’m sure you can manage it one more time.” Steven looked at her hard. “Don’t you understand? This may be our last chance to search the grotto. So pull yourself together.” He raised an admonitory forefinger. “You were the one who wanted me to get involved, remember? ‘The greatest coup an antiquarian bookseller can land’—those were your words. So don’t let me down now.”

Sara sighed, then suddenly turned and walked to her car.

“Hey, where are you going?” Steven called after her.

“Where do you think? Back to Garmisch.” Wrinkling her nose, she held up the hem of her green wool skirt. “You don’t suppose I’m going to some hoity-toity party with you in this getup, do you?”

T
HE PARTY THAT EVENING
outdid all expectations. Steven and Sara stood beside a statue, a little way apart from the other guests, and from that vantage point watched the high society of Bavaria celebrating with champagne and caviar. A heated marquee had been put up outside the castle, with a small string orchestra in Baroque costumes and wigs playing Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons.
Although it was nearly mid-October, many of the guests, adorned with Venetian masks, were only lightly clad as they strolled in the park, which looked like a bright fairy-tale land lit by torches and candles. Butlers in frock coats served canapés and glasses of bubbling champagne; farther off, a magician with his face painted white held onlookers spellbound with a top hat and a rabbit. Women stalked around the arbors and gardens in their cocktail dresses like exotic jungle birds, accompanied by gentlemen in classic double-breasted suits whose every gesture spoke of power and authority. Carriages drawn by teams of four horses took the guests over to the nearby hotel, where the party would continue.

With a sour expression, Sara sipped from her glass and then poured out the contents on the gravel path. “You’d think they could lay on a better champagne for such a fancy party,” she grumbled. “And the salmon rolls taste like cotton batting.”

“Oh, stop complaining. We’re not here to eat and drink,” Steven said. “Just enjoy the atmosphere a bit.”

Unobtrusively, he looked down at himself. He wore a black suit with a shirt and bow tie, all of which he had bought with the last of his cash as he shopped with Sara. He felt properly dressed for the first time in days. Only the glittering silver mask over his eyes bothered him, but he had finally let Sara persuade him to wear it. After all, it was perfectly possible that one of the guests would have seen his photograph on TV or in a newspaper. He wasn’t so conspicuous among all the other masked guests. The diary was safely locked in their hotel room’s safe.

The art detective, too, wore a Venetian mask with her dress. After much deliberation, she had opted for a red evening dress cut very low in the back, a Prada jacket, and high-heeled shoes with pointed toes. Considering that the art detective had made such a fuss about going to the party, she had spent quite a lot on her outfit. All the same, he thought it had been worth it.

If she didn’t have such a sharp tongue, it would be easy to fall in love with her,
he thought.
But no doubt I’d have to be at least ten years younger to have any chance.

“There’s some kind of Wagner event going on in the grotto,” Steven said, dismissing his thoughts. “But when it’s over we can go and have a look around.”

The art detective nodded abstractedly and went on watching the guests, frowning. You know, Manstein Systems have actually booked Mario Baldoni for the Wagner event.”

“
The
Baldoni?”

“Yep, the world-famous tenor. He’s singing right now in the seashell boat, in front of about thirty people. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve also hired a couple of genuine nymphs for the lake. Oh, and look over there.”

She pointed to a tall, stout man in a noticeably ill-fitting suit, approaching Luise Manstein. The industrialist wore a close-fitting gray jacket and skirt, with a sparkling ring on one finger. When she recognized the man, she smiled, and offered him her hand to kiss.

“Well, at least we now know why the lady there is throwing herself a party,” Sara said. “The interior minister of Bavaria himself has done her the honor of attending. Now they can negotiate the next party donation over champagne and caramel mousse.”

“Why are you always so negative?” Steven asked crossly. “I’ve made inquiries, and the money coming in here is used exclusively to restore the castle.”

“Sure, and I’m Mother Teresa.”

Sighing, Steven gave up and ate his salmon canapé. He had to admit that Sara was right; the little roll really did taste like cotton batting spread with mayonnaise. He put his plate down and watched Luise Manstein talking to the interior minister. She had not given Steven so much as a glance since the party began. Only when the minister had left her, with a bow, did her eyes chance to fall on Steven. Her lips twisted in an ironic smile as she raised her glass to him.

“Ah, our American journalist,” she called cheerfully. “I almost failed to recognize you with that mask on. Are you enjoying my birthday party?”

“It’s . . . more than spectacular,” Steven replied hesitantly. “I thought only movie stars threw parties like this.”

Smiling, Luise Manstein came a few steps closer to him. “Parties are always theatrical performances as well, don’t you agree? Think of Ludwig—I’m sure he’d have enjoyed this one. After all, his whole life was nothing but an ostentatious spectacle.”

“I admit I’ve never thought of it like that.”

“Well, you should. That explains much of his bizarre behavior, interpreted by posterity as derangement. It’s all a question of perspective.” The industrialist looked attentively at Steven. “Have we already met somewhere? You seem familiar to me somehow.”

“Sorry, no.” Steven shook his head, hoping desperately that she didn’t read the local papers. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, be that as it may—if you’ll excuse me now, I have a couple of important guests to welcome.”

Luise Manstein turned away with something like a wink, and Sara audibly spat out her prosecco. “More than spectacular! Wow, you certainly buttered her up. If you ask me, the old trout wants to get you into bed.” She went on in a falsetto. “‘Have we already met somewheeeere?’ What a laugh!”

“That’s nonsense. It’s known as civility, Frau Lengfeld. A word that obviously isn’t part of your vocabulary.” Steven bit grimly into his smoked salmon canapé. He would have liked a little more conversation with Luise Manstein. Her brusque way of leaving just now annoyed him more than he wanted to show Sara.

Suddenly applause came from their right, where the magician had just taken two white doves out of his top hat. In his black tailcoat and with his face painted white, he looked like a music hall artiste from an earlier century. Steven caught himself thinking again, how he would have liked to live at that time. A time without laptops, cell phones, PowerPoint presentations. A world where the gentlemen still wore top hats and tailcoats, like that magician with his white face.

The magician . . .

Something about him intrigued Steven, and he looked again, more closely. At that very moment the stranger with the top hat turned his head, and their eyes met. The magician’s face was white with makeup; his eyebrows, eyelids, and lips gleamed moist and black. This, together with his tailcoat and hat, gave him the uncanny appearance of a human being who had turned into a scarecrow.

Steven started with surprise. He knew the man.

He didn’t know where, but he was sure that he had seen him before.

“Sara,” he whispered in a dry voice. “The magician over there. I think I’ve met him already.”

Sara, looking bored, shrugged. “At the circus, maybe?”

“No, no. Somewhere different. I think he’s watching us.”

“Are you sure?”

Steven nodded and went on looking at the thin, heavily made-up stranger, who was now bringing a long red scarf out of his hat. “Just about sure.”

“Then we’d better find out what he wants as quickly as possible,” Sara whispered. “I tell you what, we’ll go walking in the park and see if he follows us. Maybe then we’ll find out more about what he wants.”

She took Steven’s sleeve, and together they strolled toward the fountain from which a huge jet of water shot up at regular intervals. There were not many people here now. Steven looked around, but the magician had disappeared behind the marquee. The sound of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
drifted softly down to them.

“Maybe I was wrong,” said Steven thoughtfully, taking a deep breath. “I’m getting paranoid.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Sara said. “That sometimes happens with advancing age.”

“Very funny, Frau Lengfeld. Very funny indeed. He was staring at me, though. I’m sure of it.”

“Herr Lukas, if I took everyone who stared at me for a potential criminal, all I’d think about would be running away. Maybe he just thinks you look cute in your Silver Surfer mask, hmm?”

“For God’s sake, can’t you keep your big mouth shut for once?”

Angrily, Steven tore his mask off and marched through the park toward the Temple of Venus. He wanted to be alone. The whole situation was too much for him; he wasn’t used to this kind of life. Three days ago his greatest adventure had been getting his hands on a complete
Grimms’
Fairy Tales,
and now he was being menaced at every turn by Cowled Men and magicians with their faces painted white. If he didn’t take care, he’d end up as crazy as Ludwig himself, rocking on the water in a shell-shaped boat and breakfasting in the treetops.

This whole diary was pure farce. Presumably Theodor Marot had just scribbled any random letters to lend a touch of mystery to what he was writing. The way it looked right now, the book threatened to become a slushy romance, anyway. Vows of love carved in the trunk of a linden tree! It was the opposite of what Steven had hoped for from the diary. Romantic confessions of an academic late bloomer.

The linden tree . . .

In his fury the bookseller had marched on without looking right or left, and now he faced the mighty tree. Its leaves rustled gently in the wind. He looked up at the tall trunk and tried to imagine Marot eating there with the king more than a hundred years ago, meeting Maria, and finally carving her name in the bark of the tree.

A glimmer of an idea surfaced in his mind. Could the name possibly still be there? Or had Marot simply invented the whole love story? Steven went closer to the tree trunk. The floodlights from the marquee were so bright that they cast a faint light on the tree, far away from them as it was. The bookseller walked around the linden tree, brushing away a few cobwebs and a handful of dry leaves clinging to the bark. Suddenly, at chest height, his fingers passed over notches forming separate letters and figures. They were weatherworn and had grown together, but even after nearly three human lifespans they were still legible.