The Ludwig Conspiracy(62)
“So this is where the leading expert on Ludwig lives?” Steven asked skeptically. “I’d have expected a minicastle, or a late nineteenth-century villa.”
“Albert Zöller may be slightly eccentric, but no one knows more about the Fairy-tale King.” Sara wearily massaged her temples and suppressed a yawn. “Almost everyone who writes a book about Ludwig the Second makes a pilgrimage to this place sooner or later. Uncle Lu’s knowledge is legendary. Leave the car there in front, beside the old oak.” She pointed to a stunted tree not far from the house. “Over the last few years, he’s retreated from public life more and more. We won’t alarm him more than we have to.”
“What, by arriving in a car?” Steven raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Let’s say he’d probably rather see us arrive in a horse-drawn cab. But you’ll pass nicely as a gentleman of the old school.”
The art detective smiled, while Steven looked critically down at himself. He had decided to keep his evening suit from yesterday on; he liked it much better than Sara’s ex-boyfriend’s casual, loose-fitting garments. Over it he wore a close-fitting black coat that they had also bought yesterday afternoon. In fact the bookseller did look a little like a nineteenth-century gentleman on the verge of middle age.
All I need is a top hat and a walking stick, he thought, and my grandfather would be proud of me.
Sara had changed her clothes. Her green woolen dress and hooded jacket were slightly creased, mainly because she and Steven had spent the last few hours sleeping in the car at a roadside picnic area. However, after two cigarettes and a cardboard cup of coffee from a gas station in the Allgäu, the art detective now made a remarkably fresh impression.
“Are you really sure we ought to let this Zöller in on our secrets?” Steven asked as he parked the Mini under the colorful fall leaves of the oak tree. “I mean, I’m still wanted by the police.”
“I don’t think Uncle Lu would turn us in. And even if he did, we have to take the risk. If we must, we’ll just go back on the run.” Sara got out and went toward the crooked little house. She pushed the garden gate, which opened on squealing hinges. “If we want to crack the cipher, then we need the help of Albert Zöller. He and my uncle have known each other for decades, and they were always in touch about Ludwig. As far as I know, before he retired, Zöller was an engine driver for German Railways, but the Fairy-tale King has always been his passion. Paul thought that Uncle Lu was way ahead of the experts in his knowledge of the king’s last years. He’s drawn up a precise account of every day of Ludwig’s life.”
“Why ‘Uncle Lu’?” Steven asked as he followed Sara through the front garden, with its harvested vegetable and herb beds. “His name’s Albert, right?”
Sara turned with a twinkle in her eye. “Can’t you work that out for yourself?”
She pulled a rusty chain near the entrance, and a bell rang. After a while they heard heavy, dragging footsteps. When the door finally opened, Steven instinctively took a step back. The man standing in front of them in a crumpled shirt and stained pants was nearly six feet tall. He was broadly built, not to say stout, with fleshy cheeks through which little red veins ran. His full head of hair was salt-and-pepper colored and as untidy as if he had just got out of bed. Steven guessed Albert Zöller’s age as at least seventy. It was clear to the bookseller at once why Sara called him Uncle Lu.
If the Fairy-tale King had lived a few decades longer, he’d have looked just like Zöller. The thought, unbidden, shot through his mind. Well, he’d probably have died of gout and heart disease first. This man must have a remarkable constitution.
“Yes?” the bear in front of them growled. He wore rimless reading glasses that looked ridiculously small on his broad face. Despite the early hour, Sara and Steven had obviously disturbed his studies. “If you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, go to hell. I’m the Antichrist.”
Sara bobbed an old-fashioned curtsey. “Forgive us for calling on you so early, Herr Zöller. I’m Professor Paul Liebermann’s niece, and . . .”
“Liebermann?” The gruff old man’s face instantly became friendlier. He looked at Sara with concern. “My God, I read about that gruesome murder in the newspaper. Dear old Paul. I . . . I’m so sorry.” His voice had a pleasantly Bavarian note to it, almost like the voice of a kindly fairy-tale uncle.
“Thank you, Herr Zöller. Uncle Paul often talked about you.” The art detective took a deep breath before going on. “To be frank, we’re here because we want to find out more about his death. We think the murder had something to do with the mysteries surrounding King Ludwig the Second.” She pointed to Steven beside her. “My friend here, an antiquarian bookseller from Munich, was the last person to see my uncle alive. Paul left something behind with him. Something mysterious, and we need your help.”