The Ludwig Conspiracy(63)

“Just a moment.” Uncle Lu frowned, which made him look like an angry bison. He scrutinized Steven without moving. What felt like an eternity passed before Zöller finally moved again.

“Aren’t you the fellow the police are looking for in connection with Paul’s murder?” he finally asked.

“Herr Zöller, I give you my word that Herr Lukas has nothing to do with it,” Sara said soothingly. “It’s all a big misunderstanding. If you’ll let us in, I can explain everything to you.”

“Your word of honor, eh?” Uncle Lu shook his broad head thoughtfully, as if he were x-raying the bookseller through his reading glasses. “Very well,” he said at last, “but only because you’re Paul’s niece.”

The old man abruptly turned to the house, almost bumping into the door frame. Sara and Steven followed him into a little room that seemed to be both kitchen and living room.

There was an old-fashioned white enamel stove against the back wall. A scratched table with several books open on it stood in one corner. In another, they saw a sofa and a TV set; Steven thought it was probably still a black-and-white one. A door with flowered wallpaper over it led to a backroom.

“I was just going to make myself tea and work on my book,” Uncle Lu said. “Would you like some tea yourselves?”

Steven nodded. “Thank you, yes. What kind of book are you writing?”

“It’s on Ludwig’s connection with Edgar Allan Poe.” Zöller shrugged his shoulders and filled three cracked cups with a steaming-hot brown brew. “Not that I expect any publishing house to take an interest in it. Just like my last five books. All the same, plenty of journalists come knocking at my door. Good God, what are you gawking at in that stupid way?”

Steven jumped. He had been staring at the stout old man. His likeness to Ludwig II was indeed striking.

“It’s only because . . . er . . .” he began carefully. But Uncle Lu interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

“Yes, yes, I know that I look like him,” he growled. “I was often invited to act as his double at meetings of those loyal to the king’s memory. But I won’t have any more to do with those demented royalists. Too many nut cases, not a serious scholar among them.” Zöller slurped his tea with relish. “Well, never mind that. You’re here because of Paul. So how can I help you?”

Sara quickly cleared her throat, and then she began telling him their story—about her uncle’s murder, the find of the little treasure chest, the mysterious diary, and their search for the crucial keyword. She left out only their pursuit at Linderhof and the Cowled Men. As she told her tale, Uncle Lu sat there as if turned to stone. He seemed to have forgotten his tea entirely. When Sara came to the end of the story at last, he said nothing for some time. Then he spoke up.

“This little chest with the diary,” he began quietly. “Could I have a look at it?”

“Of course.” Steven unzipped his backpack and took the container out. Reverently, as if he were in a church, Zöller stroked the lacquered wood; then he lifted the lid and took out the photographs, the lock of hair, and the book. He arranged them on the table as if they were magical artifacts.

“Can it be possible?” he whispered. “Did he really write it all down?”

“What do you mean?” Sara asked, looking attentively at the old man. “Have you heard about this book before?”

“There have been . . . theories,” Uncle Lu replied hesitantly. “Nothing precise. Shortly after the king’s death, Dr. Schleiss von Loewenfeld and Theodor Marot expressed their opinions to a small circle of friends. But the sources are vague. And now this . . .”

He carefully opened the diary and looked surprised to see the secret writing.

“It’s the Shelton’s shorthand that I told you about,” Sara said, and pointed to Steven. “Herr Lukas has managed to decipher it. We’ve also deciphered part of a Vigenère code. But as for the titles of those poems . . .” She sighed. “To be honest, we’re at a loss.”

“Ludwig and very likely Theodor Marot, too, were profoundly romantic characters.” Uncle Lu leafed thoughtfully through the yellowed pages of the diary. “So it’s not surprising if the assistant physician used those poems as a code. More interesting is what he wanted to encode. And above all, why Paul was killed for getting involved.” He looked deep into Steven’s eyes. “I’ll believe that you had nothing to do with his murder, Herr Lukas. But if you’re lying to me, I’ll deal with you in exactly the same way as those deranged men dealt with Paul. Understand?”