The Ludwig Conspiracy (38 page)

When they stopped in one of the last vacant and wildly expensive parking spots, Sara noisily drew in her breath. Steven stared through the windshield and could not help a nervous start. A police car with its engine running stood right by the kiosk at the entrance.

“Oh well,” said the bookseller, resigned. “They’ve found us. Now what?”

“What do you think?” Sara replied, defiantly. “We wait. So there’s a police car. No big deal. Maybe the nice officers want to visit Neuschwanstein. Or maybe they’re simply hungry. There, see for yourself.” She pointed to a kiosk not far away where a stout police officer stood with a curry sausage. Leisurely, the officer strolled back to the car where his colleague was waiting, looking bored and drumming out a rhythm of some kind on the instrument panel.

Relieved, Sara smiled. “What did I tell you? Nothing to worry about.”

Suddenly the stout policeman stared their way and stopped dead in the middle of the road. Steven felt as if he scrutinized them forever before he finally strode quickly toward them.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “He’s recognized us. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Right now that really would be the stupidest thing we could do,” said Zöller, speaking up from the back seat. “This is the time to keep calm. Just act bored. And Frau Lengfeld, you start the engine very slowly.”

Sara turned the key in the ignition, while Steven tried desperately to look like any other American tourist. They rolled gently past the stout officer, who went on walking straight ahead. In the rearview mirror, Steven saw him throw his paper napkin into a trash bin and call something to his colleague in the car. Shortly after, Sara’s Mini turned into a nearby parking lot, and the police officers did not reappear.

“Three cheers for German bureaucracy and the sanctity of the lunch break,” Sara said. “Half an hour later, and you can bet they would have checked up on us. Now, quick, let’s get lost in the crowd.” She grinned. “At least
that
shouldn’t be too difficult here.”

Steven squeezed out of the Mini and looked at the teeming mass of school classes, tourists, and shouting kids holding hands with their parents and obviously getting on their nerves. Horse-drawn carriages without a single vacant seat rattled along the road, and farther back a bus crammed as full as possible was trying to drive up to the castle.

“How we’re going to find a keyword to solve the puzzle in all this hustle and bustle is a mystery to me,” Sara said a few minutes later as they and Zöller were buying their tickets to the castle. “Sure you don’t know a night watchman here, too—someone who’d let us into the castle when it’s closed for the night?”

Sadly, the old man shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Security at Neuschwanstein was taken over by a new outfit recently. And even if I did, I don’t think that after what happened at Herrenchiemsee, any of my contacts would let us in.”

Before they entered, Steven went to one of the souvenir shops and bought himself a crooked Bavarian walking stick, a T-shirt with a castle motif printed on it, and a cheap Bavarian hat. He took his entrance ticket without a word and strode ahead in his new garb. “Not one word,” he said on seeing Zöller’s grin. “The sight of that fat cop just now was too much for me. At least no one will recognize me so easily in this ridiculous getup. Now, bus, period carriage, or on foot? Any preferences?”

The bookseller was about to change to the other side of the street when a white Maserati raced past him so close that he had to jump back.

“Bloody bastard!” he shouted at its driver. “This is Neuschwanstein, not the autobahn!”

The car suddenly stopped and reversed.

Wonderful,
thought Steven. Not only are you wanted by the police, and there’s a lunatic trying to shoot you, but now you get some provincial in a Maserati trying to kill you in a fit of road rage.

The tinted driver’s window lowered, and so did Steven’s jaw.

“Hello, Mr. Landsdale. Is that folksy Bavarian costume for back home in Milwaukee?”

Luise Manstein gave him a friendly smile. She had pushed her sunglasses up into her short gray hair, and she wore a close-fitting pantsuit like the one she had worn on their meeting outside the Grotto of Venus at Linderhof.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” Steven stammered.

“I could ask you the same question, Mr. Landsdale.” The president of Manstein Systems neatly raised her right eyebrow. “You left my birthday party rather suddenly. Was your plane taking off in the middle of the night, I wonder?”

“No, no.” Steven forced a smile. At the last minute it occurred to him to fake an American accent. He was frantically wondering what newspaper he had said he worked for. At least Luise Manstein didn’t seem to know about the gruesome events at Linderhof.

“Oh, I had a call from the editorial offices in Milwaukee,” he explained. “The boss wants another background story, on Neuschwanstein this time. So I had to get an early night. I hope you had a good time even without me.”

Luise Manstein’s glance turned to Sara and Zöller, who had approached the Maserati, suspecting nothing. “And your two companions?” she inquired.

“Er, this is only Al . . . Adolf, my German photographer,” Steven said hastily. “And the girl there is Peggy
,
my assistant.”

Steven looked desperately at Sara and Zöller, making small signals with his hand. Zöller was about to say something, but Sara was quick to get in first.

“The tickets, Mr. Landsdale,” she squawked with a broad Texan drawl. “We gotta be up at the castle at one
P.M.
” Zöller let out a small cry of pain when Sara’s heel kicked him in the shinbone.

“You’re not going up to the castle right
now,
are you?” Luise asked in surprise. “I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s a madhouse up there—you might as well write about Disneyland.”

Steven shrugged. He was beginning to feel more assured in his role as a provincial American reporter. “I know, but I have to have the story ready by tomorrow at the latest. And I wasn’t able to book a press tour at such short notice. Anyway, I’m more interested in . . . er . . . the historical facts.”

“Ah, I see. The
historical facts.
” The industrialist looked at him for some time with a narrow smile. Steven felt the sweat under his Bavarian hat beginning to run down the back of his neck.

“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Landsdale. I like you,” Luise said. “I have a weakness for the States and their way of making facts into fairy tales. We ought to have a longer talk about that sometime . . .” Her eyes twinkled as she looked at him, pausing for rather longer than was necessary. “So I’ll make you a proposition: what would you say to a nighttime tour of the castle?”

“A . . . nighttime tour?” The bookseller blinked at her in surprise. “But how . . .”

She smiled more broadly. “You don’t think I’m here at Neuschwanstein for pleasure, do you? Some time ago, Manstein Systems undertook a big contract for this place. The castle needs a general technological overhaul. An interactive museum, improvements to the logistics and transport system, new software to deal with bookings . . . but above all a modern security system with a new alarm complex.” She pointed to one of the horse-drawn carriages trotting past with a set of Japanese tourists on board. “Technologically, this place is still in the last century, although it accommodates a world cultural heritage worth billions. It’s lucky that no terrorist gang has thought of blowing the castle sky-high.” Shaking her head, she looked up at the proud building towering above them, radiant white like something out of a Disney movie. “The contract is mainly advantageous for my firm’s reputation.There really isn’t much money in it.”

“And you’d really get us into the building when it’s empty this evening?” Steven asked in surprise.

“Us?”

Steven pointed to Sara and Zöller. “I’d need my assistant and photographer with me, of course.”

“If you like.” Luise Manstein sounded several degrees cooler now. “I have to go in again myself. The new CCTV cameras were installed only yesterday, and there are still a few minor glitches in the alarm system. I’m one of those annoying bosses who likes to check up on everything herself.” Her eyes twinkled again. “And I must admit I’d be really interested to see Neuschwanstein by night, particularly the king’s bedroom.” The tinted window on the driver’s side of the car went slowly up again. “Think it over, Mr. Landsdale. I’ll be up there at the gatehouse at nine this evening. Maybe we could get a martini after. So long!”

The car’s engine roared, and the Maserati disappeared past the nearest souvenir shop.

“Peggy and Adolf!” Sara blurted. “I suppose you couldn’t think up anything sillier? Sounds like Stan and Ollie, or Tom and Jerry. And what do you mean, I’m your
assistant?
You should be so lucky.”

“I couldn’t think up anything else on the spur of the moment,” Steven replied. “Anyway, she bought it, and now we have a way to get into the castle when it’s empty, so stop complaining.”

“Oh, I’m to stop complaining, am I?” Sara said crossly. “The old cow has the hots for you, and you’re going along with her game.”

“Only because it’s a way to get us into the castle, damn it!”

“Would one of you be kind enough to tell me what’s going on?” Zöller asked. “Why am I suddenly a photographer called Adolf?”

Steven mopped his brow. “It’s a long story,” he said with a sigh. “I’d better tell you while Sara books us a hotel. It looks like we’ll be here at least until tomorrow.”

A
FTER SOME SEARCHING
, they found an overpriced, old-fashioned place to stay in the town center of Schwangau, not far from Neuschwanstein. When Steven saw the shabby hotel furnishings down in the lobby, dating from the 1960s, he was reminded of what Luise Manstein had said. The place really was still stuck in the last century. If terrorists bombed it, there wouldn’t be much loss, apart from the two castles.

This time they booked a double room and a single room, so that Sara and Steven had a little time to themselves during the next few hours. However, their friendly conversation soon died away, and they lay in silence on the bed, staring at the wood-paneled ceiling.

“One way or another all this will soon be over,” Steven said.

Sara turned to look at him. “How do you mean?”

“Well, either we crack the puzzle of the third keyword tonight and find out what Theodor Marot was trying to say, or . . .”

“Or?”

“Or I go to the police with that damn diary. I’ve reached the point where I don’t care whether I’m wanted for two murders or even three. I just want it to be over.”

Sara sat up. “You can’t say a thing like that!” she exclaimed. “Not so close to finding the answer. Do you want it all to be for nothing? And what’s more . . .” She took Marot’s diary off the bedside table and held it in front of Steven’s nose. “Didn’t you yourself say the book held a magical fascination for you? That something about it seems to have to do with your past? If you give up now, Steven Lukas, you’ll never learn the whole truth about yourself.”

“Do I want to?” he asked. “The whole truth? I’ve managed okay without it so far.” He looked thoughtfully at Sara. “Besides, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Who are you, Sara Lengfeld? Everything I know about you would fit on a postcard. So don’t
you
talk to me about secrecy.”

For a moment Sara seemed about to say something, but then she dropped a kiss on his forehead and got off the bed. “All in good time. Right now I’m too busy making sure that wrinkled old industrialist doesn’t seduce my Parsifal. She’s crazy for you.” Her eyes sparkled. “Now let’s go for something to eat. I have a feeling we’ll both need to keep our strength up.”

On the hotel terrace, they met Uncle Lu. The wiener schnitzels were so tough that they could hardly chew them, and the beer tasted like dishwater. After that they had to kill time somehow until their date at the castle.

As if by mutual consent, neither Sara nor Steven said any more about the diary. There was tense expectation in the air. While the art detective surfed the Internet in the hotel lobby, and Uncle Lu rummaged in his crate for books about Neuschwanstein and the medieval legends, Steven went up to his room. He picked up the account written by Theodor Marot and made himself as comfortable as he could on the creaking hotel bed. There were only a few chapters left to read. Steven felt that he would soon discover the real background to the death of Ludwig II.

And maybe, also, the truth about himself.

JTI, JG

T
ime in the castle ran on inexorably slowly, like the sand in an hourglass.

In retrospect, those hours seem to me the real turning-point in the life of Ludwig. How different the history of this country would have been if he had only acted with decision! But like Hamlet, he hesitated, and when the king finally made up his mind to flee, it was already too late.

Directly after the arrest of the doctors and officials in the tower building, Ludwig telegraphed his loyal adjutant, Count Dürckheim, who was still in Steingaden after his suspension from his duties. It turned out that the Füssen telegraph office was not, as we had expected, in the hands of the enemy. Furthermore, the traitors had even neglected to tell the local gendarmes in advance about the change of regime. Yet instead of firmly giving the signal to attack, the king continued to vacillate between boundless hatred and weary apathy. Like a caged panther, he paced up and down the throne room, uttering fearsome curses.

“Put out the traitors’ eyes; whip them until the blood comes!” he shouted, as spittle flew from his lips. But the next moment, lowering his voice, he was asking the servant Mayr for the key to the tower so that he could throw himself from it.

“Your Majesty, the key . . . the key has been mislaid,” stammered Mayr, bowing low several times. Like many of the servants, he had long ago gone over to the enemy, although as yet Ludwig had no idea of this. “I . . . I’ll send people to look for it at once.”

Ludwig merely nodded in silence and went on pacing. It was as if he were waiting for his downfall.