She’s looking for her purse. The thought flashed through his head. She’s looking for her purse with the pistol in it.
Cautiously, the bookseller turned his head the other way. There, only six feet from him, lay Sara’s green purse. Steven swiftly worked out the length of time he would need to draw the pistol and shoot. Two seconds to jump up, with his head still ringing from the giant’s blow, and grab the purse. Then at least three more to open it, take out the gun, and pull the trigger.
Five seconds. Too long, damn it!
Unless someone distracted the giant . . .
At that moment his eyes and Sara’s met. The detective seemed to have guessed at his thoughts, because as soon as she was standing upright again, she spoke to the giant with the pistol.
“I don’t know what you plan to do with the box, but help yourself. You’re welcome to it,” she said in a firm voice. “Good luck finding the book, though.”
The giant looked at her grimly. “And what do you mean by that?”
“I mean the book isn’t in that box, you idiot. The bookseller hid it somewhere. Unfortunately, you’ve knocked him unconscious, and I have no idea where it is. You’d better think something up quick if you don’t want to piss off your boss.”
“If you’re trying to fool me . . .” The giant bent over the container and picked it up. Curious, he opened the little box.
At that moment Steven jumped up and ran to the purse. The seconds stretched endlessly. He grabbed the green purse, unzipped it, and brought out the pistol. Shaking, he aimed it at the giant, who had frozen where he stood, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
“Ah, you always have to take the safety off a gun first,” the giant said, smiling and pointing to a small lever on the butt of his own pistol. “My gun’s safety is already off, by the way.” At his leisure, he aimed the pistol at Steven’s legs. “The boss did say to take you alive,” he growled. “Never specified in what condition, though. Watch out, this is going to be very, very painful.”
Steven closed his eyes and waited for the shot.
It didn’t come.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the giant was staring at the door on his left in confusion. In the now-clearing smoke, a broad-shouldered figure stood in a voluminous royal cloak, one hand raised in admonition or greeting, his black-haired head angrily thrust forward.
It was Ludwig II.
Steven’s mouth hung open in astonishment. No doubt about it, the man in the vapors was the Fairy-tale King. Incredulous, Steven closed his eyes and then opened them again. But the king was still there.
Am I losing my mind? Is there something in that smoke that sets off hallucinations?
The giant seemed baffled at first, too. He seemed unable to assess the situation. Slowly, he lowered his gun.
“But, Your Majesty . . .” he stammered. “You’re here? I thought . . .”
“Stay your hand, unworthy man,” said a deep, resonant voice, “before my anger strikes you like a flash of lightning from a clear blue sky!”
When Steven heard the voice, he started in surprise. Only now did it occur to him that, even for Ludwig II, the figure was decidedly fat. The smoke was still drifting quite densely over the floor, but the bookseller could see beige front-pleated pants under the royal mantle, and a pair of casual shoes splashed with mud.
Furthermore, this Ludwig wore glasses.
Steven looked at Sara, who had also been staring at the figure in the mist. At the same moment, she seemed to realize, as he did, who the king really was. It took the giant a moment longer.
That was his mistake.
Steven flicked off the safety, aimed into the smoke, and pulled the trigger. After the “pop” of the silencer on the giant’s gun, the sound of the shot that followed was deafening. In spite of the small size of the weapon, the recoil was so violent that the bookseller almost dropped the pistol. For a moment Steven thought he had missed, but then the giant dropped his own pistol and staggered several paces back until the smoke finally swallowed him up. To be on the safe side, Steven fired a few more shots, and then he ran over to Sara.
“Is everything okay?” he cried, reaching for the little treasure chest.
She nodded. Together, they went over to the doorway where the fat king still stood.
“I stole the coronation cloak from one of the broken glass cases,” Albert Zöller panted. “His Majesty will never forgive me, but I had to distract that lunatic’s attention somehow, before he shot you both. Who was he, anyway? Just as I was going over to join you in the museum, the lights went out, there was a crashing and a clanking, and two men came toward me, screaming.”