The Ludwig Conspiracy(5)

Eyewitness accounts from the time of King Ludwig II . . .

Steven forced himself to appear calm, showing nothing on the surface. But his mind was working furiously. Could this really be just coincidence, or did the stranger know about the photographs? Had he come to get hold of the little treasure chest?

“You hesitate,” the man said, examining him curiously through his pince-nez. “You do have something.”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t. But if you’d like to give me your contact information, I’ll be happy to let you know if I get hold of anything.”

Steven had come to this decision in a fraction of a second. He didn’t trust the stranger; the man’s whole demeanor unsettled him. It reminded him of the self-satisfied manner of certain Bavarian politicians who were used to getting their way no matter what.

But you won’t get anything from me.

“Are you quite sure you have nothing of that nature?” the man in the Bavarian suit asked again.

“Perfectly sure. If I can have your telephone number . . .”

The tall stranger gave him a thin-lipped smile. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll come back to you.” He nodded a goodbye and then went out. Darkness had fallen.

Steven felt as if an icy wind had entered the shop, covering all the books with hoarfrost. Shivering, he went over to the window, but the man had already disappeared.

Fine rain was pattering against the panes.





AFTER A WHILE, Steven shook his head and chuckled quietly to himself. What on earth was the matter with him? First that odd dizziness when he had found the little box, and now this. He wasn’t usually so easily scared. What was more, he’d had far worse customers in his shop. A couple of years ago, a drunk had thrown up in his display during Oktoberfest. And unsavory characters in Bavarian-style suits were all over Munich, not just in upmarket Maximilianstrasse.

After looking out at the street one last time, the streetlamps casting dim light on its wet surface, he went back into the stockroom and took the little box off the shelf. Briefly, he was overcome by the fear that its contents could suddenly have disappeared, as if by magic. But when he opened the container, it was still all there: the faded photographs, the lock of black hair, the book bound in blue velvet and decorated with carved ivory . . .

All at once he felt extremely tired and just as hungry. It struck him that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. All the excitement over the Grimms’ Tales, followed by Frau Schultheiss and the stranger, had made him forget any hunger pangs, but now they announced themselves forcefully. Steven decided to stop work for the day and indulge in a large plateful of farfalle primavera and a bottle of wine at home. While the pasta was cooking, he’d take a closer look at that strange diary and the photographs. If the pictures were really genuine, they would create a small sensation. Steven knew, from hearsay, of a number of people who would pay good money for photographs like that. If he had to decide whether to use the illustrated Grimm or the photos to pay the rent, he would opt for the photographs.

With his mind at rest again, he put the little wooden box in his shabby brown leather briefcase, put on his wool coat, left the shop, and locked up behind him. The wind and rain immediately blew in his face; the light drizzle had turned heavy. Steven put up the hood of his wool coat and marched away. It wasn’t far to his apartment in the Schlachthof district of Munich, but it was no pleasure walking through this rain. Countless office workers with umbrellas and waterproof ponchos hurried past him as they emerged from the complex of office buildings that had only recently been built on the old site where trade fairs used to be held; the new supermarkets were teeming with late customers, hastily making their evening purchases and disappearing into the multistory parking lots with frozen pizzas and boxes of sushi.

Only a few streets farther on, everything was noticeably quieter. Ahead of and below Steven lay the Theresienwiese, the open space where Oktoberfest was held. Now, just after the end of that annual event, it spread out before him, deserted and desolate. The giant wheel and a few of the festival tents hadn’t been entirely dismantled yet, and they rose like metal skeletons on the flat, asphalted grounds. From up where Steven was, the silent rides and boarded-up snack booths could have been abandoned buildings in a ghost town.

In spite of the many puddles, Steven decided to cut across the Theresienwiese on his way home. It would cut short the walk through the rain by a good ten minutes. He turned right, where a white temple with a statue of Bavaria rose. The bronze statue, almost sixty-five feet tall, with a lion and a wreath of oak leaves, always reminded Steven slightly of the American Statue of Liberty. A homeless man had spread out a few layers of newspaper in one corner of the temple, right under the bust of King Ludwig I. He was lying on them and babbling to himself. Otherwise, silence reigned, a silence that seemed curiously alien to Steven after the noise of the city.