“Only another hour to Linderhof at the most. Three-quarters of an hour if I speed.”
Tires squealing, Sara turned onto the Garmisch expressway and merged into traffic, which was not too heavy now, in the early afternoon. The fall sunlight shone in through the windshield. Linden and beech trees with their leaves turning color rimmed the multilane road, the Alps were bright on the horizon. They were driving straight toward the mountains, which looked as if they were only a few miles away. They had soon left the city behind them, and the onion domes of village churches appeared rising out of the sea of leaves on the trees.
This would be a nice trip, Steven thought, except that I’m wanted for acts of torture and demented murder.
His eye fell yet again on the small military-green rucksack on his lap. It contained, wrapped in a plastic supermarket bag, the little wooden box with the photographs, the lock of hair, and the diary. He had also brought his notepad with the decoded part of the story. For a moment, Steven was tempted simply to fling the bundle out of the window. The wretched diary had blown his life apart like a category five hurricane. But curiosity won out, as well as that strange feeling that he still couldn’t explain. It was almost as if he were tethered to the book.
Steven stared out the window. What could be so secret that Theodor Marot would code it twice over?
“Oops, looks like we have a problem.”
Sara’s voice jostled Steven from his thoughts. Before he could say anything in reply, he saw that a backup of traffic had formed on the tree-lined expressway ahead of them. Several hundred yards away, he saw a rhythmically flashing blue light. The drivers ahead of them had wound down their side windows and stared ahead curiously. Steven’s pulse shot up at once.
“They’re looking for me,” he said. “First that description over the radio, now this. I must have been crazy to go along with your loopy plan.”
“It could be anything,” Sara said, trying to reassure him. “Maybe it’s only an accident. Anyway, your own mother wouldn’t know you in those clothes.”
“And suppose they ask to see my ID, then what?”
Sara did not reply to that, and the car drove slowly toward the blue light. By now they were close enough to see that it was indeed a police checkpoint. A uniformed officer was standing by the roadside with an illuminated baton, directing vehicles over to the hard shoulder, where a police cruiser was parked. Through its side door, which was open, Steven could see police officers checking IDs. Sara’s Mini inched closer to the checkpoint.
“Oh God, I won’t get through this,” Steven said. “This is the end.”
“You just do exactly as I tell you,” Sara said calmly. “Take off those sunglasses and smile like a redneck from Alabama. That shouldn’t be so hard, seeing as you’re American. Okay?”
Steven closed his eyes and swore under his breath. Then he did as she said. His smile felt as false as a smile at a funeral. Foot by foot, they approached the officer with the baton. He let the car in front of them through, and then it was their turn. Sara rolled the window down and hailed the police officer.
“What’s going on?” she said indistinctly, as if she were chewing gum. “The Oktoberfest ended weeks ago. Still checking for drunk drivers?”
The officer said nothing but sternly inspected the interior of the car.
“Where are you going?” he finally asked, in an official tone.
“Into the mountains,” Sara cheerfully replied. “Going to show my American friend here the Alps.”
“Hi. Any problems with the car?” Steven spoke in English, with the broadest Southern accent he could summon, and raised a hesitant hand in greeting. His smile froze as the police officer scrutinized him. For a moment the man seemed about to say something; then he suddenly bent forward and pointed to the license plate.
“Your registration runs out in three months,” he said sternly, turning to Sara. “Mind you see to it.”
“I will. Have a nice day.”
The art detective stepped on the gas, and soon the blue light behind them was only a distant blinking. For a long time, neither of them said anything.
“That . . . that . . .” Steven stammered at last. “Well done! How did you manage to keep so cool?”
“Cool?” Sara stared at him in horror, and only then did Steven notice the pallor of her face. “I was so scared, I almost threw up. I haven’t been that nervous since I ran into a police patrol with five glasses of prosecco inside me outside a Munich nightclub!”
Involuntarily, the bookseller smiled; obviously Sara wasn’t quite so hardboiled as she made out. “Anyway, you’re certainly cut out to be a detective,” he said at last. “Or do you learn that kind of thing in the mean streets of Berlin’s Wedding district?” He leaned back, breathing deeply. “I can do without a repeat performance of that little incident.”