Free The Ludwig Conspiracy by Oliver Pötzsch

escape, he had left his coat and cashmere scarf in the bookshop, taking only his briefcase with him. That, with its precious contents, had stayed behind in Sara’s office. Shivering, he went with her to the street behind the shop, where the gate barred their way into the yard.
    “Shit!” the art detective cursed. “Now what?”
    “Leave it to me.”
    Steven pressed one of the many bells beside a list of names and kept his finger on it. After a minute, a sleepy voice with a strong Bavarian accent came through the speaker.
    “Christ almighty! If this is supposed to be a joke, then . . .”
    “Herr Stiebner,” Steven interrupted. “It’s me, Herr Lukas from the bookshop. I forgot my key. Would you be kind enough to let me in?”
    “Oh well . . .” There was a buzz, and the gate opened with a click. “You owe me a beer for this,” the voice grumbled.
    “A whole case, Herr Stiebner. Genuine König Ludwig dark beer.”
    Steven showed the art detective into the interior courtyard, which was overgrown with Virginia creeper. The back door of his shop was still open. The men obviously hadn’t taken the trouble to close it during the chase.
    “My main stockroom is down in the cellar,” Steven whispered. “Through the door on the right.”
    They entered the building and turned down a steep staircase leading downward.
    “How many books do you store down there?” Sara asked quietly.
    “About three thousand.”
    “Three th
—”
    “Don’t worry,” Steven reassured her. “They’re all neatly classified. It won’t take us long, and then . . .”
    Sara pressed his hand. “Did you hear that?”
    The bookseller went quiet. He could hear a slight dragging sound coming from the cellar. Suddenly there was a hoarse scream, then gasping from at least two men, and what sounded like a large bookcase falling over.
    “What the hell is that?” Steven said, ducking low on the narrow stairway. “Sounds like a fight going on down there.”
    There was another scream, but it soon turned to spluttering, gurgling sounds.
    “Wrong. It sounds like someone being murdered,” Sara said. “Come on!”
    They hurried down the stairs and came to a door standing ajar and leading into a dark room. Two shadowy figures wrestled with each other; he could make out the outlines of wooden racks that had been pushed over, as well as a couple of iron bars as long as a man’s arm. Steven intended to eventually use them to build a new set of shelves.
    Frantically, Steven felt for the light switch to the left of the doorway. But when at last he found it and pressed it, no light came on. After clicking it on and off several times, he gave up, cursing, and stormed into the cellar. He could see the two figures more clearly now. A powerful, broad-shouldered man was forcing the other one to the floor. He was clasping his victim’s throat and throttling him. The legs of the smaller man thrashed wildly back and forth. Steven thought his movements were getting weaker.
    “Stop!” Sara shouted, right beside him. “Stop it right now!” But the powerful man ignored her and tightened his grip on his adversary’s throat. Sara grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled. When she did, the man took a pistol out of the inside pocket of his jacket and aimed it at her. He looked ready to pull the trigger.
    For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Steven saw nothing but the small black pistol and Sara with her hands held protectively in front of her face. Instinctively, he snatched up one of the iron bars and rushed toward the two of them. Raising the heavy bar high in the air and uttering a hoarse cry, he brought it crashing down on the man’s head.
    There was a sound like an overripe pumpkin falling to the ground.
    The man toppled, twitched a little, and then lay still, his fingers still clutching the pistol.
    My God, what have I done?
Steven thought.
What on earth have I done?
    The bar dropped from his hands and rolled away behind a bookcase. For a