The Ludwig Conspiracy(35)

“Hey, wait!” Steven jumped up and followed her out into the corridor. “I didn’t exactly say no. I just wanted to . . . to express a few doubts. Besides . . .” He made one last desperate attempt. “What about the cops? Don’t forget, they’re after me. My photo will probably be in every paper by morning.”

Sara grinned and pointed through the open door to her bedroom, more specifically, to her wardrobe.

“Don’t worry about that, Herr Lukas. We’ll just have to make our respectable bookseller into a different kind of guy.” She looked him up and down. “Did I mention that you and David, my cute ex-boyfriend, are exactly the same size?”





10





THE KING LAY, eyes closed, on a gently rocking waterbed, wearing padded leather headphones and listening to the overture from Wagner’s Tannhäuser. The bed was carved entirely from oak, with an elaborate Gothic canopy over it. The door to the house’s chapel stood ajar, displaying the triptych of the altarpiece before which the king knelt to pray every morning before going about the tiresome duty of making money.

The Royal Highness had accumulated a great deal of it over the last few years, far more than the few million Ludwig had had at his disposal. But like Ludwig himself, the king took no real satisfaction in hoarding it, raking it in, having it to command. Money was only an abstract entity enabling one to live more and more entirely in one’s own dreams. The last step to that goal was the book. Its secret was the last stone in the mosaic. Once that was in place, nothing would be as it had been before. If it had turned up at any other time, who knows, perhaps it would have changed the history of the country. Perhaps it might yet do so.

The book . . .

The king’s annoyance mingled with Wagner’s blaring horns and trumpets. Not that there was doubt about acquiring Theodor Marot’s account. The king was, however, getting impatient. It had been too long a wait already. That damn professor had pulled a fast one, and now the antiquarian bookseller had simply vanished.

The king licked dry lips and turned up the volume of the music. At least the man couldn’t go to the police. If he did, he’d risk spending the rest of his life in prison, without any of his beloved books. The Excellency smiled. The antiquarian bookseller’s actions had proven no problem to anticipate. It was so easy to see through people.

Planting the hat and coat was a stroke of genius. Both items of clothing had still been in the car after Gareth and Gawain had dispatched the professor. Gareth had only to plant them, bloodstained as they were, in the bookshop, and after that, a well-placed phone call had been enough to bring the cops out like a swarm of angry bees.

The Royal Highness gave a thoughtful tilt of the head. In spite of everything, that scrawny man could be dangerous, as Gareth’s death had shown. The king would never have believed the bookseller capable of killing one of the strongest knights in cold blood, but at least it had put this Lukas under more pressure. Soon he’d come scurrying out of hiding like a mouse out of its hole, and then they must strike.

The king thought for a long time, finally removing the headphones and pulling a velvet cord beside the bed, eliciting a faint ringing.

Only the best man would do for this job.

Mere seconds later, the door opened, and a giant entered the king’s bedchamber. He was more than six feet tall and built like a heavy, antique item of furniture. Unlike the other knights, he did not wear a tracksuit jacket, but a black tailored suit, with an equally dark leather coat over it, giving him the appearance of a panther with a matte gleam to its fur. His black hair was tied back in a braid, his full beard was trimmed to perfection, and there was a jagged scar the length of a man’s finger on his right cheek.

“Majesty?” he asked quietly, his voice like the growling of an old bear.

“We still have this . . . problem,” said the king. “Gareth has failed, and the others don’t seem up to the task. So I’m sending you, Lancelot.”

“What are your orders, Excellency?”

“Find the book. And make sure that bookseller keeps the secret to himself. We can only hope he hasn’t solved the riddle yet.”

“Everyone knows that dead men tell no tales.”

The king nodded and moved to put the headphones back on.

“The man’s obviously gone into hiding,” Lancelot growled. “Any leads on where I can find him?”

“He’s surely crept into some mouse hole or other,” the king said, waving off the question. “Maybe he’s with that woman. How should I know? Check his friends, his family, his background. He can’t have dissolved into thin air, can he? And use our contacts with the police. They could know something.”