The Ludwig Conspiracy(154)

Steven laughed out loud with relief. “I must say I’ve missed you. Even if I still don’t know why I’m going around with you.”

“Luise Manstein was right,” Sara said. “My father is a career art thief, serving time in prison at the moment, and as a teenager, I really did stand guard for him a couple of times when he was breaking in somewhere. But that had nothing to do with us.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”

Sara smiled wearily. “Maybe because you had quite enough childhood history for both of us? As for the bit about my alleged uncle . . .”

“Perhaps I can help you there,” said a deep voice with a pleasant Bavarian note to it. “I believe we owe you an explanation, Herr Lukas.”

Turning around, Steven saw a tall, elderly man standing among the firefighters. He wore a brown hunter’s coat and a large felt hat that hid much of his face. However, he took the hat off to Sara and Steven, and offered the bookseller his hand. He had a full beard and a mustache with twirled ends, an aura commanding respect, and two watchful eyes with which he scrutinized Steven in a friendly manner. Somehow he looked familiar.

“Who are you?” Steven asked while his hand was almost squashed in the other man’s large paw. “A senior police officer?”

The man smiled. “By no means. Although Frau Lengfeld’s phone call to us did bring the police on the scene particularly promptly. We have a certain . . . well, amount of influence.”

“He’s my client,” Sara said. “After my little fracas with Lancelot on the bridge, I phoned him at once. I ought to have done it much sooner.”

Once again Steven had an odd sense of having seen the man somewhere once before. On TV, perhaps, or in the magazines that were always lying around at the barber’s. Yes, that was it; there had been an article in one of them about a certain brewery that didn’t have permission to sell its product at this year’s Oktoberfest, although it brewed the beer favored by the Wittelsbachs.

Wittelsbachs?

Steven was speechless for a moment. He cautiously cleared his throat.

“You are . . .”

The man made a dismissive gesture. “No names. I’m not really here at all. If the press gets wind of it, there’ll be exactly the trouble we wanted to avoid.” His eyes twinkled at Steven. “Or do you want to have the police after you for murder again?”

“They aren’t after me anymore?”

The man without a name glanced at the burning hotel. “Well, let’s say I managed to convince the investigators of the case that they were following a false trail. The gentlemen here have enough to do, keeping a deranged industrialist who thinks herself one of our family a secret from the press. Obviously the board of Manstein Systems knew about Luise Manstein’s unusual hobby, if not about its extreme degree.” He watched with interest as the firefighters tried to stifle the conflagration with foam and fire extinguishers. Flames still licked up from the ruins of the hotel.

“But first, maybe you will tell us just what happened here,” the man went on.

Steven nodded and hastily told his story about the search in the ruins of Falkenstein, the finding of the statutory declaration, and his flight from the hotel cellars.

“Luise Manstein dismantled the entire contents of Neuschwanstein and brought them here,” he ended, looking regretfully at the man before him. “Sorry as I am to say so, all the original pieces have been burned to ashes. There are only duplicates in the castle. I suppose you’ll have to tell visitors that they’re forgeries, and . . .”

The man before him was smiling so mildly that the bookseller broke off, intrigued.

“That’s an interesting theory of yours,” the bearded man said, scratching his chin. “However, I am sure that our experts will come to a different conclusion. We know that Frau Manstein had copies of items in Neuschwanstein made. Very good copies, in fact, but no more.”

“But that’s not true. You can’t—” Steven began. However, a glance from Sara silenced him.

“As I said, I have asked the chief of police to discontinue any investigation of you,” the man went on, in a pointedly casual manner. “However, I can always call him and ask him to resume if you would rather.”

Steven gave a start. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Wonderful.” The man nodded, satisfied. “Then I think it’s for the best if Frau Manstein died tragically in a gas explosion in her hotel. If only for the interests of our country.” Smiling, the man turned to Steven again. “I am sure the chief of police will see it the same way. He and I will discuss the matter this evening over a good bottle of wine.”