“I’ve spoken to Bismarck,” von Strelitz was saying. “He agrees that Prince Luitpold should become prince regent. But only if the medical report is unassailable. We can’t afford civil war in Bavaria.”
“A medical report drawn up without being able to examine the king?” murmured Dr. von Gudden. “That would be difficult.”
“Doctor, you must understand this,” insisted Pfaffinger. “The danger of his having all the ministers shot is too great.”
“Oh, come along. The main danger is that he’ll have them all dismissed,” replied Gudden brusquely. “Isn’t that what you’re really afraid of? If they go on refusing him money for his castles, he’ll simply look for other ministers.”
“Ludwig trusts the Lutz cabinet,” said Pfaffinger, keeping his voice down. “He doesn’t get along with the Ultramontane party and their papacy, so he’ll stay true to us.”
“For how much longer?” Dr. von Gudden sighed before he went on. “But I understand what you mean. The king is indeed becoming more and more of a burden on his country. The condition for such a medical certificate, however, is that the populace joins in making the decision. Remember, Ludwig still has his supporters.”
“Never fear,” the secretary reassured him. “We’ll put pressure on the newspapers and have a few damaging articles printed. Our people are everywhere.”
“Good,” said von Strelitz. “Then I can tell the imperial chancellor that it will all be done to his satisfaction . . .”
He broke off, and there was a pause. Much too late, I saw the shadows beyond the opaque glass. Someone inside the private room must have seen me. The Prussian agent flung the door open and stared at me furiously. “What the devil do you think you’re—?” he began. But I had already rammed the billiard cue into his stomach. Von Strelitz collapsed, groaning, while loud voices clamored behind him.
“Who in God’s name is that?” cried the agitated Pfaffinger.
“Presumably an agent of the king’s pretending to be our driver,” groaned von Strelitz, who was back on his feet much faster than I liked.
By now I had gone around one of the billiard tables and was about to run for it through the front door, when I heard a pistol shot. Something hissed past my left ear, coming within a hairsbreadth of it.
“Stay where you are,” snarled von Strelitz, aiming a small Derringer at me, “or my next shot will blow your brains out.” Behind him stood the distraught Secretary Pfaffinger, and Dr. von Gudden, who was nervously polishing his pince-nez.
I hesitantly nodded and let my hands drop to the table in front of me. The billiard balls from my practice game were still lying on it. My fingers slid nervously over the cold ivory.
“Put your filthy hands in the air before I . . .” von Strelitz began, but then the billiard ball I had just thrown struck him in the middle of the forehead. He fell to the floor, screaming, and the next one I threw hit his shoulder. I flung one last billiard ball, then leaped over the agent, who was cursing at the top of his lungs, and as I ran past the waitress, who had just come into the room with a tray of beer glasses, I knocked her over. The glasses crashed to the floor, shattering, and I hurried past the shrieking waitress, out into the open air, and onto my cab.
Unhesitatingly, I snatched up the whip, cracked it, and the one-horse carriage set off with a clatter. When I turned, I saw to my horror that von Strelitz, too, was running into the beer garden. He was making for the second cab, whose driver was still waiting for Dr. von Gudden. Von Strelitz pushed the surprised cabby off his box, loosened the reins, and followed me into Schellingstrasse, making for Ludwigstrasse.
We raced past the tenement blocks and taverns at a fast trot and finally turned onto the impressive Ludwigstrasse. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that von Strelitz was slowly but steadily catching up. His cab was only a carriage length behind me now. I could see his face, distorted by hatred and bleeding from the impact of the billiard ball; his left hand clutched the reins, while his right hand held the pistol, aiming it at me. Another shot rang out, and as I ducked, something that sounded like a furious bee passed through the air just above me. Von Strelitz sped up. Other vehicles had to swerve to avoid his one-horse carriage. I heard their drivers cursing and saw one cab tip over sideways, horses and all, and crash on the steps of the Feldherrnhalle monument.
Drenched with sweat, I whipped my horse as its hooves clattered over the paving stones in a wild gallop. I knew that if the Prussian agent caught up, he would shoot me down in broad daylight in the middle of Munich, and never mind if the place was teeming with police officers. Stopping me from informing the king of their treason was too important.