The Ludwig Conspiracy (45 page)

“Gold star, Frau Lengfeld, well done,” Steven said. “Although the third word is
Thal
for valley, and I haven’t the faintest idea what poem that refers to. I have nothing for
Zauberin, Winsperg
and
Siegerich
either.”

“Maybe the words are each just part of a line of poetry. Think about it. You’re the bookseller here.”

Resigned, Steven shook his head. “Forget it. Like you say, I’m a bookseller. I don’t spend my life reciting poetry. Damn!” He threw the book down on the cold mosaic floor. Suddenly it all seemed to him pointless. He was tired, very, very tired. He would have liked to lean against Sara and go to sleep.

“Why didn’t we think of all this before?” he cursed quietly. “They’d probably have had a book of German poetry in the library.”

Sara’s own nerves seemed stretched to the breaking point. She was tearing her hair, her face was pale, her mascara smudged. All the same, at that moment she looked to Steven almost impossibly beautiful.

As beautiful as Maria,
he thought.
Except that she and Marot weren’t at the mercy of a raving lunatic who thinks she’s the reincarnation of Ludwig and shoots people in cold blood.

He glanced in concern at Albert Zöller. The old man still lay on the floor close to them, breathing heavily, and the makeshift bandage was already drenched with blood.

“The library,” she mused. “You’ve given me an idea. Just before we left the hotel, Uncle Lu said there was a book of poetry among the stuff he brought, do you remember?” She frantically rummaged among the pile of well-worn books. “It must be here somewhere. We can only hope that . . . voilà!” Triumphantly, she held up a shabby little book with a blue binding. “
German Ballads
! Published in 1923. Not the latest thing, but poems don’t deteriorate as time goes on. And unlike us, Uncle Lu thought of bringing a poetry book along. It may save his life now.” She opened it to the table of contents. “Now we just have to find the right titles.”

Steven picked up the diary from the floor in front of him. He had a feeling that their time was running out, that they were scurrying around like hamsters on a wheel yet getting nowhere. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “I suggest you put your mind to the ballads while I go on reading. We don’t want to miss another important clue at the very end.”

And if I’m going to die anyway, I’d at least like to know how Ludwig lost his life, and what it all has to do with my own past,
he thought gloomily.
Because we’re never going to get out of here. Luise Manstein will spare our lives for as long as we’re useful to her, not a minute longer.

He leafed back through the diary again and began to read. There were only a few pages left.

JG, IT

W
e divided up between three boats going back and forth on Lake Starnberg by day and night.

So as not to attract unnecessary attention, we usually changed places on the boats, and there were also times when the three of them gently rode the swells side by side, like fishermen in search of fat freshwater whitefish. We wore dark coats by way of camouflage, and they were soon dripping wet. The rain, which only occasionally fell more gently, made it hard to see the banks of the lake, and we used field glasses as an aid. But they, too, could not penetrate the gray haze in the castle park.

Now we had to play a waiting game.

We knew from those we trusted in the castle that the king was a prisoner. His keepers had unscrewed the door handles and bored peepholes in the thin doors so that they could watch every step that Ludwig took. Although all seemed quiet, we knew that the subversives were expecting resistance. After dark, those inside Berg Castle were forbidden to leave, and gendarmes patrolled the park day and night.

By means of small notes stuck to the underside of plates and serving dishes, we had let the king know about plans for his escape. Ludwig was to persuade Gudden to take a walk beside the lake. At the sound of a whistle, he was to shake off Gudden and wade a few yards into the deep water, where we could finally pick him up in a boat. Not a bad plan, except that there was no sign of the king all that Saturday. And at first we waited in vain on Whitsunday as well.

“Gudden is scared stiff of going out,” growled Hornig, while the rain dripped off his hat and into the boat. Together with Kaulbach, Loewenfeld, and me, the equerry was in the smallest of the three boats. It was nearly midday already, and still nothing had happened, except that the showers had given way, for the time being, to a slight drizzle. A stormy wind whipped up the surface of the lake into small waves.

“Our informants have told us that the psychologist is rather nervous,” Hornig went on. “Dr. von Gudden has obviously had a long conversation with His Majesty and realizes that Ludwig isn’t as crazy as he thought. Now he sees his hopes dashed.”

“As long as they keep Ludwig locked up in Berg, no one will ever know that he is
not
crazy,” interjected Kaulbach the painter. “The ministers will probably build a wall around the castle and make it the most expensive prison in Bavaria.”

“Or else they’ll kill him.”

It was Dr. Schleiss von Loewenfeld who had spoken. All at once there was complete silence in the boat. Not a sound was heard but the steady pattering of the rain.

“Kill . . . kill him?” I asked. “Kill the king?”

“Think about it, gentlemen.” The old physician looked sadly around at us. “The whole affair is nothing but a failed coup d’état. The king has been certified insane, and now they realize that he is not. If we don’t get him out, Ludwig will probably demand a second opinion from the castle. He will turn to Bismarck and stake his claim to have his throne back. And Lutz and the other ministers . . .”

“Will be arraigned for high treason. Damn it all, you’re right.” Hornig spat into the murky water. “Yes, I can believe that this villainous gang would murder their own king and make it look like suicide by a man with the balance of his mind disturbed.”

“If we don’t rescue him first. There—see for yourself.” Hermann Kaulbach pointed to the bank, where several figures were emerging from the trees. I held my breath.

Gudden and the king were there, but with guards.

We had expected that the psychiatrist wouldn’t move from Ludwig’s side. But Dr. Bernhard von Gudden was already more than sixty, and a small, frail figure. It would have been easy for the king, at just under six feet tall, to overpower him and get away. That was not the case, however, with the powerful attendant and the armed gendarme, who were both keeping to the background but could be seen well enough behind the bushes in the park.

“Confound it all!” said Richard Hornig under his breath. “As long as that madhouse attendant and the venal police officer stay so close to the king, we can’t make the attempt. They might well level firearms at His Majesty.”

“But who knows whether such an opportunity for flight will come again?” I objected. I was suffering from a slight shivering fit, but I tried not to let it show. Nonetheless, my voice sounded tired and shaky. “This could be the last walk Ludwig will take for a very long time.”

“We must risk that.” Dr. Loewenfeld put away the field glasses that he had just been using to watch the bank. “That police officer is looking our way. Presumably he’s suspicious. We ought to send the other two boats away, in any event. Three small craft together are too conspicuous.”

“You’re right.” Richard Hornig gave the other two boats a sign to turn away. “This boat will have to be enough. And now let’s pray that His Majesty appears in the park again in more favorable circumstances. We should also take a few security precautions.”

In a few words, he told us his plan.

A
T EXACTLY QUARTER
to seven in the evening, we had our second chance.

This time our boat was waiting very close to the bank, behind a small promontory densely overgrown by reeds and willow, so that from the bank it was out of sight. Meanwhile, I had hidden in the undergrowth of the park to keep an eye on the situation and give the boat a signal when the police officers and attendants were far enough from the king. Only then would we risk the attempt at flight.

The rain had almost stopped now, and dark gray clouds covered the sky, casting a gloomy twilight over the park. I was crouching behind a bush near the path and felt the damp slowly creeping up my back. I kept taking out my pocket watch, but the hands were moving at a snail’s pace. I felt as if I had been sitting behind this bush for days. My limbs hurt, and a slight fever made me shiver all over.

At last, when I hardly believed it would ever happen, I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path from the castle. After a short time, I saw Ludwig and Dr. von Gudden walking down the path. They both carried furled umbrellas; Gudden wore a top hat and a black coat, as if he were going to a funeral, while the king had on a pale summer coat, unbuttoned at the front, and a fashionable bowler. I waited a little longer while the king and his doctor came closer to me. There were no guards in sight.

Was it possible? I had expected to see the attendants following at a suitable distance. But now it looked very much as if they had been left behind in the castle on purpose, along with the gendarmes.

I watched in suspense as the mismatched couple came closer and closer to my bush. Sixty feet, thirty feet . . . To my horror, they stopped right in front of me. What was I to do? This was the moment when I ought to be giving the agreed signal. But by doing that, I would have given away my hiding place. If I did that, Dr. von Gudden would certainly recognize me and report me to the authorities.

While I was hesitating, the king began to speak. To the day of my death I shall never forget the minutes that followed; every second of them is branded on my memory forever.

“You know that you have made a mistake,” began the king quietly but firmly. “Out of pure vanity, you have let the ministers make use of you for their own purposes, and now your good reputation is endangered. Retract your diagnosis, Dr. von Gudden, and I promise that you will live on as a man of high position and authority.”

“Your Majesty, I really do not know what you are talking about,” replied the doctor. His voice sounded strangely hoarse, almost panic-stricken. At close quarters, I could also see that his face was ashen gray. Something seemed to be terrifying him. “I have already told you several times that no closer observation was necessary,” he managed to get out. “The evidence is convincing. In addition, it is very common for the mentally sick to appear normal at first after their committal to an asylum. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. My medical opinion is incontestable.”

“Who’s behind this?” Ludwig’s tone of voice was more aggressive now, and he stepped up to the little man, towering over him. “Is it Lutz, or Count Holnstein? Prince Luitpold himself? Tell me! It must be clear to you that all of those here are trying to kill me. I have seen it in your face, Gudden. Just now, at supper. I saw the light of naked fear in your eyes.”

“Your Majesty, I swear . . .”

Ludwig had now taken the frail little doctor by his collar, and he began shaking him. Gudden went as red in the face as a turkey cock.

“Don’t swear, Gudden!” growled the king. “You lie as soon as you open your mouth. You realize that you can’t lock me up here forever. I will telegraph Bismarck; I still have influential friends. I am not a slobbering idiot like my brother, Otto; I am the king. And when I get out of here, then . . .”

At that moment a shot rang out in the gray twilight, and directly after it another. Neither made a loud sound; the reports were muted like a paper bag exploding. All the same, my blood froze in my veins.

I saw Ludwig open his eyes wide in surprise. For a moment he stayed on his feet, supporting himself on Gudden; then he slumped like a sack of coal and fell to the ground. The doctor let out small, shrill sounds of fear that almost reminded me of a child crying. He stepped aside in horror and stared at the king’s body. There were two black holes on the back of his white coat, and bright blood was trickling out of them.

“I seem to have arrived just in the nick of time.”

Instinctively, I started at the sound of that grating voice. It had come from a bush not far from my own hiding place. Now a lean figure rose from behind the bush and stepped onto the lakeside path. In his right hand, the new arrival held a gun of unusual appearance, with a club-shaped stock. At the sight of the assassin, I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from crying his name out loud.

It was Carl von Strelitz.

“Maybe the king was crazier than we assumed after all,” said the Prussian agent, putting his gun aside. “What a violent-tempered giant.” With practiced movements, he turned Ludwig’s heavy body over and felt for any pulse in his carotid artery. Then he nodded, satisfied.

“Mission accomplished. He’s dead.” Smiling, von Strelitz stood up and turned to the psychiatrist. “Do you know what I should have done?” he said, his voice expressionless. “I should simply have sat in that bush waiting. Probably the king would have throttled you and then waded out into the water in despair. A nice, clean job. On the other hand”—he looked out at the lake—“the water is only waist-high here. Drowning himself probably wouldn’t have worked. Well, this way was safer, at least.”

“My God, you shot him!” croaked Gudden. “I almost died of fright. I thought that, using chloroform . . .”

“You thought I’d just anesthetize the king and then throw him into the lake?” Von Strelitz made a dismissive gesture. “No, no. My mission was clear. To eliminate the king without running any risks whatsoever. And that’s what I’ve done.”

“But the bullet wounds,” whispered Gudden. “And the noise. They’ll come after us.”