The Ludwig Conspiracy (11 page)

Ludwig almost screamed those last words. Embarrassed, we all looked at the floor. The king’s financial difficulties had increased and multiplied in those last few years. The building of the new castle of Hohenschwangau (known as Neuschwanstein by the peasants), the castles of Herrenchiemsee and Linderhof, as well as a whole series of other projects, swallowed up huge sums of money. The king had only a restricted budget available, the civil list, as it was known, and he had more than exhausted that. By now he was in debt to several craftsmen, and the council of ministers was pressing him to discontinue the building works. In vain—Ludwig designed palaces the way little boys build castles out of sand or snow. One after another, a fairy-tale world in which he took refuge to be the kind of king he imagined himself. He was Arthur, and we were his knights of the Round Table; we were brave Germanic warriors—or, alternatively, as now, we were Saracens rattling our sabers and smoking our water pipes.

After a moment’s silence, Dürckheim began again, low-voiced. His mustache was trembling, but he tried to sound composed. “Your Majesty, the ministers will not put up with this much longer. I am afraid that an attempted assassination . . .”

“An assassination? By my ministers? Dürckheim, don’t be ridiculous.” Ludwig laughed so hard that his belly bounced up and down under the Turkish costume like a pig’s inflated bladder. “That corrupt band of civil servants is capable, at the most, of spoiling my dinner. An assassination attempt? More likely by the anarchists, if anyone.” Suddenly he was serious again. “Apart from that, I’ve been asking you for years to get a bodyguard together for me. True knights of the Grail who would go to their deaths for me. And what has come of that, pray?”

“There aren’t many left who can be trusted,” murmured Dürckheim. “I’ve heard news that Bismarck—”

“That’s enough of such gossip.” The king pointed to Hesselschwerdt, the postilion who had risen to become a kind of second adjutant in the past year. I considered the little turncoat a hypocritical lickspittle, but unfortunately Ludwig had fallen for him hook, line, and sinker.

“Our good Hesselschwerdt will solicit money from abroad next week. England, Venice, Genoa—isn’t that so, Hesselschwerdt?”

The skinny postilion, who looked even more ridiculous than usual in his Turkish garb, nodded obsequiously. “Very good, Your Majesty,” he said. “Always at your service.”

Ludwig let himself drop back again. “And now let us go on celebrating my birthday,” he purred like a fat, contented cat. “I’ve found a wonderful fairy tale here. I would like to read it aloud to the best of my ability.
Compris?
”

A
LITTLE LATER
Dürckheim and I were standing out on the balcony of the hunting lodge. In silence we looked at the many bonfires slowly going out around us. Although it was August, an icy wind blew over the mountain.

“What in God’s name did you mean when you spoke of an assassination attempt just now?” I asked at last. “You mentioned Bismarck. Do you really think that—”

“Shhh.” Dürckheim put a finger to his lips. “Even here on Schachen I don’t know who’s still to be trusted. That postilion, Hesselschwerdt, plays whatever tune the king wants to hear. Damn lackey!” He kicked the balcony, while the king’s monotonous voice droned on inside. Ludwig had reached his third fairy tale.

“But you’re right,” he said at last. “I did find out something that makes me uneasy. I know a few people in the Ministry of the Interior. It’s rumored that one of Bismarck’s men will soon be coming to Munich. None other than Carl von Strelitz, an agent whom the chancellor has employed in”—he drew a finger briefly across his throat—“in, well, rather delicate affairs. Von Strelitz has already worked for many different powers. He is regarded as one of the best spies in Europe, and one of the deadliest.”

My heart missed a beat. “You really think that the chancellor of the German Empire plans to have Ludwig
killed?
” I asked in a hoarse voice. “Why?”

Count Dürckheim was speaking so quietly now that I could hardly hear what he said. “Do you remember the king’s last furious outburst against the Prussians?” he asked. “When he said he’d sooner let the Austrians have his kingdom than stay in the German Empire under the heel of the Hohenzollerns?”

Diffidently, I nodded. It was a fact: Ludwig had never forgotten that early in his reign he had lost the war against Prussia, and therefore had to fight against France in 1870 on the side of the Hohenzollerns he despised. The German Confederation had won the war, and King Wilhelm of Prussia, who as it happened was a distant relation of Ludwig, had put on airs as German Emperor ever since. Ludwig had made several attempts to hand over his crown to the Austrians and simply abdicate.

“Bismarck has had enough,” Dürckheim went on quietly. “If Bavaria leaves the Empire, his dream of a German fatherland is over. For some time the imperial chancellor has been thinking of installing Ludwig’s uncle Luitpold as ruler of Bavaria. But, of course, the present king is in the way . . .”

His last words lingered menacingly in the air. I began to shiver under my thin caftan.

“But perhaps von Strelitz is only coming to assess the situation in Munich,” whispered Dürckheim. “Whatever happens, we must be on our guard.”

“What do you suggest?”

The count looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. Finally he asked, “Would you trust yourself to keep this man Strelitz under observation?”

I felt all the color draining from my face. “But I’m not a police officer, a detective of any kind. I’m only a doctor. I hardly think . . .”

“Theodor, I beg you!” Dürckheim had never before addressed me by my Christian name. “There’s no one else I can trust! The Ministry of the Interior turned away from the king long ago, and even the police may have been infiltrated. We have to find out what Bismarck has in mind, and before Ludwig’s enemies do.” A smile showed on his face for a moment. “What’s more, as an unknown assistant doctor, you have a considerable advantage. No one will suspect you of being a Bavarian agent on a secret mission.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I whispered. “And how do you expect me to proceed?”

He briefly outlined his plan, while, inside, the king recited an Ottoman poem from the last century. Several of the servants had already begun snoring quietly beneath their turbans.

IIEAPQRX

Two weeks later, I stood in a lightweight black overcoat, with a top hat and a riding whip, at Munich Central Rail Station, waiting for the four o’clock afternoon train. Count Dürckheim had found out from his informants in the Ministry of the Interior that von Strelitz would be staying in Munich under the name of Alfons Schmidt. The Ministry had assured the special Prussian envoy that a horse-drawn cab and driver would be sent for him. It couldn’t have been easy for Dürckheim to find out which cab company had been commissioned to supply them. But once he had done it, fifty marks had been enough for him to change the cabby for someone of his own choice.

Me.

Little beads of sweat prickled on my forehead, and not because of the sultry September day. I was expecting police officers to run toward me any moment and take me into custody in my cheap disguise. But nothing like that happened. The four
P.M.
train came into the station, whistling and puffing, the doors were opened, and out poured busy travelers from Berlin, Augsburg, and Nuremberg. Most of them were middle-aged men in rigid bowler hats, with the gold chains of their watches dangling from their fashionable double-breasted suits. There were also a few women among the passengers; they wore elaborate hats and full-skirted dresses with bustles, and they twirled parasols between their fingers as thin, badly shaved porters took care of their mountains of baggage.

I recognized Strelitz by his lean figure, tall top hat, and neatly shaped side-whiskers. Count Dürckheim had shown me a photograph of the Prussian agent the day before. He carried a small traveling bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other. His overcoat billowed in the smoke of the locomotive, its whistle still blowing, so that for a moment he reminded me of a big black bat. He looked around, searching for the cab he had been told to expect.

“Herr von Str—” I began, but bit the name back just in time and called out loud for a Herr Schmidt. Von Strelitz turned to me, and for a brief moment I thought he had seen through me. Dark eyes examined me as he thoughtfully twirled his black mustache.

“Are you the driver I ordered?” he asked in the tone of a man used to command.

I nodded diligently. “I am,
monsieur.
I am.” As if I were performing on stage in a theater, all my agitation had gone away as soon as I slipped into my part. “If you are Herr Schmidt from Berlin, then I’m your driver,
monsieur.
Always at your service.” I put my hand to my top hat and bowed slightly. “Shall I take your bag?” I indicated the small bag that Strelitz was carrying, but the agent shook his head.

“It stays with me. Drive me to Maximilianstrasse first. We’ll be picking someone up there.”

“Very good, sir.”

We left the station building, which was not far from the city. Porters and cabdrivers ran back and forth, shouting and offering their services. A small boy was selling fragrant, warm pretzels from a handcart larger than himself. Von Strelitz shook off a few begging children, obviously with disgust, and followed me to my horse and carriage. I had tied the horse up to a pillar on the left of the station.

“Drive quickly, please,” he growled, climbing into the back of the cab. “The gentleman we’re picking up doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I cracked the whip and prayed that the horse would obey me. I was a reasonably good horseman, and I had driven a coach a few times, but guiding a horse-drawn cab weighing some thousand pounds through the traffic of a large city like Munich was another matter.

The horse trotted off, whinnying, and we passed through the great gate of the Karlstor, beyond which the city itself began. Children ran across the road, laughing and picking up horse droppings, a blind old soldier groped his way cautiously forward with his stick. Other cabs kept coming close, missing mine only by a hairsbreadth. In the last few decades, Munich had become a true metropolis, and as a result, its streets and alleys were crowded. I cracked the whip and tried to hide my lack of confidence. Secretly, however, I was cursing Dürckheim for his outlandish notion of making me masquerade as a coachman so that he could find out more about the Prussian agent’s plans.

“We’re just turning into Maximilianstrasse now,” I announced, in a louder, more cheerful voice than I had intended. “See these magnificent buildings! A masterpiece of architecture for which King Maximilian the Second, during his reign, was—”

“For God’s sake, keep your mouth shut, idiot,” said von Strelitz. “If I need a travel guide, I’ll buy one. Now, kindly stop up ahead of us there.”

I nodded obediently, and drew the horse up outside a fine governmental building from which busy gentlemen with top hats and fat leather briefcases scurried. Von Strelitz drew the small curtain at his window aside and looked at them. Suddenly he waved, and an elderly gentleman of distinguished appearance with a monocle and a Kaiser Wilhelm mustache approached our cab.

When I recognized him, my heart almost stopped. He was none other than Secretary Heinrich Pfaffinger, the right-hand man of Johann von Lutz, president of the Council of Ministers. Pfaffinger had seen me several times in the presence of the king. I pushed my top hat well down on my head and prayed to the Virgin Mary to keep him from recognizing me.

But Pfaffinger had no eyes for me. He made straight for von Strelitz, who opened the cab door for him with a clatter. The secretary greeted him with a brief nod and climbed into the cab.

“To the Schelling Salon in the Maxvorstadt district,” barked von Strelitz, tapping the box in front of him. “And a little more haste, if you please.”

“Very good, sir!”

I cracked the whip, and we drove back along Maxmilianstrasse to the Residence Palace, then from there into Ludwigstrasse, which was lined with classical buildings from the time of Ludwig’s grandfather. The quiet murmur of voices came to me from the back of the cab.

I pricked up my ears and tried to hear what the two distinguished gentlemen were discussing. Meanwhile we bowled along toward the city boundary, and you could already see Schwabing from there. Once a little village, it was just beyond the Siegestor and was regarded by the good citizenry of Munich as a proven den of iniquity. It was frequented by many students and artists, and there were rumors of all-night orgies and Bacchanalian festivities.

“Will your man come?” I heard the agent’s muffled voice through the partition.

“I assured him that not a word would get out,” replied Pfaffinger. “Hence our unusual meeting place. The situation is extremely precarious.”

“I know that. But Bismarck will make his decision depending on whether the final medical report is absolutely watertight. If it isn’t, that could mean revolution in Bavaria. And if we don’t tread carefully, the entire German Empire could soon be tottering.”

“Of course, but if the king hears of it too soon—”

“Shhh,” von Strelitz interrupted him. He tapped the thin wood of the partition. “Drive through Schwabing, if you please. I want to show my guest a few establishments there.”

“But why Schwabing?” asked Pfaffinger in surprise. “That’s out of our way.”

“I want to make sure there’s no one following us,” replied von Strelitz quietly. “We can lose ourselves better in its narrow alleys.” To me, he called, “Here, this is no leisurely Sunday drive to the English Garden, so hurry up.”

“Very good, sir.”

I passed through the Siegestor at a brisk pace and drove the cab past the rustic cottages that still stood among the new villas. Over the past few years, Schwabing had changed more than most of the other suburbs of Munich. A couple of brightly clad, laughing ladies with short hair leaned against the wall at one street corner, swaying their hips in time to the music that came from one of the taverns. Young men with hungry eyes, in well-worn, shabby suits, strolled through the streets with stacks of books under their arms. One of those newfangled horse-drawn trams shot out of a side street on the right, ringing its bell.