The Ludwig Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF

construction equipment in Canada. He was much more successful with Max Schleiss von Loewenfeld; the search engine came up with about two hundred hits. When Steven clicked on the first of them, his heart began to beat considerably faster.
    The websites informed him that Dr. Schleiss von Loewenfeld had been King Ludwig II’s personal physician, and before that had treated Ludwig’s father, King Maximilian II. According to a scholarly blog that Steven found, Loewenfeld had been considered one of the best Bavarian doctors of his time. He bore the title of privy counselor to the king, and he died at the end of the nineteenth century at almost ninety years old, rich and respected. A black-and-white photograph showed an elderly gentleman with nickel-framed glasses and a thoughtful expression, his coat neatly buttoned up, holding a top hat. His striking beard was reminiscent of Abraham Lincoln.
    Steven put one of the photos from the box beside his shimmering laptop. Like all the other pictures, it had obviously been taken in a studio. There were dummy columns in the background, and a curtain cord. The young man seated beside the king wore a well-cut suit, his dark hair combed to one side; he had attractive, soft features that made him look almost girlish. By now Steven was convinced that the young man in the picture was none other than the royal physician’s assistant.
    Hello, Theodor Marot, pleased to meet you. What story do you have to tell? Are your memoirs so explosive that you had to write them in secret code? Or so . . . delicate?
    Thoughtfully, Steven picked up the lock of hair lying beside the photographs in the little wooden treasure chest with its black cloth lining. The hair tied with a ribbon must have been raven black long ago.
    As black as the king’s hair.
    Steven finished his wine and put the journal, the photographs, and the lock of hair back in the box. Then he opened another bottle to help his thinking along.
    It looked very much as if the contents of the little box were worth far more than he had first thought.
     
    H IS HEADACHE THE next morning told Steven that the Montepulciano had been a bit stronger than he was used to. Eyes closed, it took him some time to locate the radio alarm clock that was cheerfully playing Mozart’s
Eine kleine Nachtmusik.
With a well-aimed swing of his hand, Steven killed Wolfgang Amadeus stone dead, sat up groaning, and ran a hand through his untidy gray hair. There were some days when you felt that you were forty with particular clarity.
    The little wooden box was still standing beside his bed on the desk. It had spent the night in his dreams. He vaguely remembered a gigantic royal cloak that threatened to smother him. Men in black hoods had also been there, prodding him with red-hot fingers.
    Steven rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, stood up, and limped into the kitchen, where the dirty dishes of the last few days were stacked. He carefully picked an antique edition of the satirical magazine
Simplicissimus
off the table and blew a few croissant crumbs off the front page. This copy of the journal had appeared just before the First World War and deserved better than to get jam on it. Humming quietly to himself, the bookseller filled the espresso jug to the top with freshly ground coffee and twiddled the knob of the radio until he found a classical music concert. The music soothed him instantly. His knees were still sore, and someone was knocking against his forehead from inside his skull, but at least the memories of his bad dreams had gone away. Steven massaged his temples and listened to the deep notes of a cello, while he thoughtfully sipped his heavily sweetened espresso. Yesterday’s events—first the visit of that guy in the Bavarian-style costume, then the hooded men—had upset his stomach. And then, of course, there was the little treasure chest itself, with its sensational contents. Only why had the mere sight of it shaken him so badly?
    Well, he’d take a closer