The Ludwig Conspiracy by Oliver Pötzsch Read Free Book Online Page B

Art?”
    “God, no, only my office.” The young woman smiled. “I know, the rubber plant is missing. But the view makes up for that.”
    Steven looked appreciatively out of the large panoramic window, with its view of bushes, trees, and the English Garden beyond. The woman really did have good taste, even if it wasn’t entirely in line with his own. In the middle of the office stood a showy kidney-shaped table from the fifties, piled high with art catalogs, file folders, empty Chinese food containers, and dirty coffee cups. A computer covered with yellow Post-it notes was enthroned among the mess.
    “Sorry, I haven’t gotten around to tidying up yet,” Sara Lengfeld said. She cleared a few brochures and art books off the broad leather sofa before sinking down on it with a weary sigh. “It’s been a busy few days.”
    Steven sat down beside her and briefly admired her long legs, one crossed over the other. She wore comfortable shoes. Sara had taken off her bright green rain cape and her scarf; her sunglasses stuck in her brunette hair like an extra pair of eyes. She had on jeans and a close-fitting woolen pullover that came down over her hips. Only after some delay did Steven remember why he was there.
    “The dead man in the newspaper,” he began hesitantly. “Is he really your uncle?”
    She nodded. “My mother’s older brother. We lost touch a long time ago. Until very recently, the last time I saw him he was reading
Pinocchio
to me.” She smiled wanly. “I’m something of a loner, you see. It runs in the family. Maybe it comes with my work as well.”
    “And what exactly do you do?” Steven inquired.
    “I look for lost art. Stolen works, art that was looted, paintings thought to have disappeared years ago. Every year six billion dollars’ worth of art is stolen, but most of it turns up again eventually. At auctions, in galleries and museums, in private collections.” Getting to her feet, she tossed Steven one of the big catalogs on the table. “It’s my job to find those paintings. That earns me a percentage of their real value—and usually a volley of furious insults from the supposed owners,” she added with a grin. “See, the people who have the paintings generally have no idea that they’re stolen. When I go into a gallery, the curator makes the sign of the cross three times and puts a laxative in my prosecco.”
    Steven put the catalog aside and looked around. “Obviously a lucrative job. But what does it have to do with your uncle?”
    At once Sara was serious again. “How about if I see what’s in that bag of yours first?”
    Carefully, Steven handed her the little treasure chest. She opened it and took a quick look at the photographs and the lock of black hair. Then, lost in thought, she leafed through the yellowed pages of the notebook. Almost reverently, she ran her fingers over the velvet binding with the ivory decoration.
    “So it’s really true,” she murmured at last.
    “True?” Steven asked. “What’s true?”
    The art detective went on staring at the book, as if trying to recognize something in it. Only after a long while did she look up again.
    “Uncle Paul had a rather unusual hobby. He collected literature about King Ludwig the Second, especially literature to do with his death. As he saw it, Ludwig’s murder was the greatest unsolved crime in German history.”
    “Murder?” Steven said skeptically. “I’ve heard speculation, but . . .”
    “Herr Lukas,” Sara interrupted, “what exactly do you know about King Ludwig the Second?”
    Steven shrugged. “He was a cranky Bavarian king who slowly lost himself in a dream world, built some fairy-tale castles, and was finally certified insane and deposed. Soon after that, he died in a way that’s unexplained to this day.”
    “A rather abbreviated account, but generally speaking correct. Though you could say that Ludwig the Second wasn’t just any Bavarian king. He was
the
Bavarian king. At least as far as his