The Ludwig Conspiracy(121)

“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.” Luise 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?”