“What they’re about to show on TV is much more fascinating, believe me. Now, let’s get in there before we miss the news.”
Steven followed Sara across the corridor into what was obviously her bedroom. As well as a king-sized bed and a garish orange wardrobe stuffed to bursting with crumpled cashmere sweaters and brightly colored T-shirts, it contained an intimidatingly large flat-screen TV. Sara picked up the remote control and zapped through the programs until she found the local channel. A graphic banner bearing the words Bavarian News flashed across the screen, accompanied by a jingle. Next came a smiling blonde standing in a cheap-looking studio and holding a couple of leaves of paper. Behind her was the faded, rather indistinct photograph of a man. At the sight of it, Steven almost dropped his coffee cup.
He was the man in the picture.
“Ah,” said Sara, turning up the volume slightly. “Perfect timing.”
“As we announced earlier today, more details on the gruesome ritual murder of Professor Paul Liebermann of Jena have come to light,” said the blonde, staring at her teleprompter with a smile. “The police are looking for a suspect in connection with the murder, Steven Lukas of Munich, an antiquarian bookseller, in whose shop officers found the murder victim’s coat and hat earlier today. We understand that there are traces of blood on both items of clothing.”
“That’s not possible!” Steven cried in agitation. “That professor was . . .” But Sara gently pressed his hand.
“Shhh. There’s more.”
“The police now assume that there was some sort of dispute between the two men. This suspicion is further borne out by a discovery in the cellar of the antiquarian bookshop in the Westend district of Munich,” the news anchor said, raising her right eyebrow critically. “Upon searching the building, the officer came upon a second corpse. Reports from police circles identify the dead man as a certain Bernd R., an unemployed watchman, who had several previous convictions for assault. Neighbors claim to have seen Lukas entering his shop late last night. Since then, the bookseller and suspected murderer has disappeared without trace.”
“Old Stiebner from the second floor who let us in,” Steven said with a groan. “What an idiot I am. How could I have forgotten him?” Suddenly he felt unwell. He sat down on the broad, unmade bed and listened to the newscaster, who was now asking people to keep their eyes open and report any relevant information to the police. The following story was about a puppy mill. Sara mercifully switched off the television.
“Oh my God,” Steven muttered, running his fingers through his hair. “They suspect me of murdering the professor. But . . . but that’s absurd. What kind of hat and coat do they say they found in my shop? There was nothing like that there.”
Sara frowned. “Apparently there was. Now at least we know what that thug was doing at your place last night. He must have planted the hat and coat there. And then someone told the police and press.” She took the coffee cup from Steven’s limp hand and drank what was left in it. “A pretty mean trick. I’d say there’s someone out there who doesn’t like you one little bit.”
“We ought to have gone to the police. I said so all along,” Steven said. “If only I hadn’t listened to you! Now I’m deeper in shit than ever.”
“How could I know someone would plant my uncle’s clothing in your shop and then tip off the cops? You act as if I were your mother. I wish you had gone to the police instead of sitting around here crying like a baby.” Sara reached for a pack of menthol cigarettes lying beside the bed. In silence, she fished out a crumpled cigarette and lit it.
“Anyway, arguing isn’t getting us anywhere,” she said at last. “We have to think. I’ll bet the guy who killed my uncle and is looking for that book is behind it. He’ll want to keep us from going to the police, so he makes you the main suspect. Not a bad idea really, not bad at all.”
Steven thought of the man in the Bavarian-style suit. Could he be pulling the strings? Was he the leader of those Cowled Men who were trying to get their hands on the diary?
The smoke of the menthol cigarette was making him feel even worse than he was already. He had slept for less than five hours in a worn leather chair, he’d had nothing to eat, and now he turned out to be a wanted man, chief suspect in a gruesome murder investigation. He fanned the smoke away with his hand. When Sara saw his efforts, she ground out her cigarette and looked at him sympathetically.
“I’ll make a suggestion, Herr Lukas,” she said. “I’ll conjure us up a late breakfast—coffee, croissants, butter, and honey—and while we’re eating, you can tell me what you found out from the diary. And then we’ll figure out what to do next.” She smiled. “You wait and see. The world will look quite different then.”