The Ludwig Conspiracy(66)
“Herrenchiemsee?” Zöller asked, astonished.
Steven nodded. “It’s the next word written in capitals in Marot’s account. Like Linderhof before it. And Marot left us another clue by adding the word KOENIG, king, in capitals. But I rather doubt that we’ll find anything at Herrenchiemsee. After all, the island there is much larger than the castle grounds of Linderhof.”
Uncle Lu’s eyes lit up. “So there’s a puzzle to be solved,” he whispered. “Am I right in assuming that you want me to help you?”
Sara smiled. “Would you do that?”
“Would I do that?” Once again Zöller burst out laughing, so that his big belly hopped up and down like a being with a life of its own. “You’d have to tie me up and leave me here to make sure I don’t help you.” Suddenly he was serious again. Puffing as he rose from his chair, he went over to the bookshelves and picked out a stack of thick folios. “Better begin right away,” he murmured, lost in thought. “There are about a hundred books on Herrenchiemsee here. Do you think we can fit them all in your car?”
17
SOMETHING IN THE CAR beeped, but Steven couldn’t make out what it was. He twiddled the radio, checked the air conditioning, and tapped the instrument panel, but the beeping went on.
“What the hell is that?” he asked, looking helplessly at Sara, who was now behind the wheel again. “Is your Mini by any chance giving up the ghost?”
“If so it’s because we’re overloaded.” Sara pointed behind her to where Uncle Lu sat on the rear seat like a fat giant in a toy car. Zöller’s massive head brushed against the roof, and his knees poked Steven’s back through the upholstery. All the same, the old man seemed to be pleased with life, mainly on account of the laundry basket that was slipping back and forth beside him at every bend in the road. It was crammed with books. Now and then Uncle Lu picked up one of these large tomes, leafed through it, and made notes on a greasy little writing pad.
“The Herreninsel in the Chiemsee covers almost five hundred seventy acres, and the lake has a circumference of more than four miles,” he growled without looking up. “A small world unto itself. Ludwig even wanted to build a little railroad on it, like the one on the fictional island of Lummerland in Michael Ende’s book. You know Jim Button and Luke the Engine Driver, don’t you? Ever heard of that children’s book?”
“Herr Zöller, all I can hear right now is beeping,” Steven said, his nerves on edge. “And it’s driving me crazy.”
“Oh, sorry.” Uncle Lu put his hand to his right ear and fiddled with something. The beeping stopped. “My hearing aid. Must have misadjusted it.”
“Oh.” Wearily, Steven closed his eyes and tried to get a bit of rest. They had been on the road for almost three hours, and the car smelled of male sweat, cow dung, and the smoke of Sara’s menthol cigarettes. It was making him feel slightly unwell. The drive had taken them along small, winding country roads, through quiet villages, past chapels, and into the Chiemgau district. They had twice had to wait as a farmer drove his herd of cows across the road at a leisurely pace, and once they lost their way so badly that the Mini almost got stuck in a stinking manure heap in a blind alley. Now, at last, the blue waters of the Chiemsee opened out before them, looking near enough to touch and apparently going all the way to the first mountains of the Alps. All around, green hills and meadows lay in the fall sunlight like something out of a glossy brochure from the Upper Bavaria Tourist Board.
“Damn bleak around here,” Sara muttered, lighting herself a new cigarette. “I really don’t know why so many city dwellers want to move to the country. It stinks of cow shit.”
“Ludwig loved these lonely places,” came Uncle Lu’s deep voice from the back seat. “He disliked Munich. If he’d had his way, he would probably have lived in a remote Alpine valley with a few mountain farmers.”
Steven caught himself thinking that he could nurture such dreams himself, although in his case they didn’t feature stinking manure heaps, another of which had just appeared by the side of the road.
He rubbed his eyes and stared yet again at the list he had made after decoding the puzzle words in Marot’s diary. So far they had deciphered thirteen words with the keyword MARIA. All were clearly the titles, or partial titles, of poems, although some of them meant nothing at all to Steven. Others, however, could be found in any school textbook. He had written down all the poems in order, with the names of their authors if he knew them. But he could still make nothing of them.