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Authors: Oliver Pötzsch
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brings us to another problem: how are we going to decipher the damn thing?”
Steven clicked back two pages. “It says here that Shelton wrote a manual for his shorthand in 1635. It’s called
Tachygraphy.
That’s ancient Greek—it means ‘fast writing,’ and . . .”
“Okay, Professor, I don’t need a lesson in ancient Greek—I need one in stenography,” Sara interrupted him impatiently. “So what about that manual?”
“You ought to let me finish what I’m saying, dear Ms. Art Detective,” Steven said. “I was about to tell you that not only do I have Pepys’s diaries in my stockroom, but I recently acquired a copy of
Tachygraphy.
A very rare book.” He tapped his forehead. “Nothing like keeping a good inventory in your head.”
Thoughtfully, Sara took a third menthol cigarette out of her crumpled pack.
“My compliments, Herr Lukas,” she replied dryly. “Through to yet another round of the game. At this rate, you might yet be the champion. But to do that, the two of us have something else to do first.”
“And that is?”
Sara’s face disappeared behind a cloud of white menthol-scented smoke. “We have to get over to your stockroom as fast as possible to fetch that book. Before the Cowled Men take it into their heads to rummage around there some more.”
7
W HEN THEY REACHED the westend district, it was well after midnight. Most of the trendy pubs, sushi bars, and cafeterias had closed, and there wasn’t much going on in the streets. A few cars searched for one of the rare parking spots; otherwise, the place was deserted. The drone of Turkish music reached their ears from somewhere. If TV sets hadn’t been flickering like strobe lighting behind several windows, one might have thought it was a dead city.
Steven wasn’t sure just how deeply he should get involved. From what Sara said, the men who were after the diary would kill for it without a second thought. They had tortured a man to death over it already. On the other hand, the discovery of Marot’s diary was a real coup, any antiquarian bookseller’s dream. If it was really written in Shelton’s coded script, and they could decode it, and if it gave information about the death of Ludwig II, all Steven’s financial worries would be over, not to mention the publicity he would get.
Der Spiegel, Stern, Focus
—they’d all be writing about his discovery.
But suppose it’s a forgery?
The forged Hitler diaries sprang to Steven’s mind. They had plunged
Stern
magazine into the greatest scandal in German media history. He decided to be wary, for safety’s sake, but the diary held an almost magical attraction for him.
It’s like a drug. Since I first leafed through it, I’ve been obsessed with it . . .
By now they had turned into Gollierstrasse and were driving slowly past his bookshop. To Steven’s great relief, he saw that the men had not made good on their threat. His shop had not been burned down, but in the dark, with its display window smashed, it looked desolate and uninviting. The little place that had dominated his life for so long didn’t seem to be his anymore; it was like a diseased part of a body that had been cut off.
“We’d better go through the backyard,” Sara whispered. “If those guys are still watching the shop, they’ll be in front.”
Steven nodded. As they slowly passed in the car, his gaze lingered on the black hole that had once been his display window. For a moment he thought he saw movement in the darkness of the shop. Were the Cowled Men in there? Or maybe some kind of vandals? The bookseller blinked and looked harder into the shop. But he must have been mistaken. Nothing. No movement, no sound, just a broken window.
Sara brought him down to earth. “What’s the matter?” she hissed. “Seeing ghosts? Come on.”
She parked the car in a dimly lit side street and got out. Steven followed her, turning up the collar of his flimsy corduroy jacket. In their frantic
Steven clicked back two pages. “It says here that Shelton wrote a manual for his shorthand in 1635. It’s called
Tachygraphy.
That’s ancient Greek—it means ‘fast writing,’ and . . .”
“Okay, Professor, I don’t need a lesson in ancient Greek—I need one in stenography,” Sara interrupted him impatiently. “So what about that manual?”
“You ought to let me finish what I’m saying, dear Ms. Art Detective,” Steven said. “I was about to tell you that not only do I have Pepys’s diaries in my stockroom, but I recently acquired a copy of
Tachygraphy.
A very rare book.” He tapped his forehead. “Nothing like keeping a good inventory in your head.”
Thoughtfully, Sara took a third menthol cigarette out of her crumpled pack.
“My compliments, Herr Lukas,” she replied dryly. “Through to yet another round of the game. At this rate, you might yet be the champion. But to do that, the two of us have something else to do first.”
“And that is?”
Sara’s face disappeared behind a cloud of white menthol-scented smoke. “We have to get over to your stockroom as fast as possible to fetch that book. Before the Cowled Men take it into their heads to rummage around there some more.”
7
W HEN THEY REACHED the westend district, it was well after midnight. Most of the trendy pubs, sushi bars, and cafeterias had closed, and there wasn’t much going on in the streets. A few cars searched for one of the rare parking spots; otherwise, the place was deserted. The drone of Turkish music reached their ears from somewhere. If TV sets hadn’t been flickering like strobe lighting behind several windows, one might have thought it was a dead city.
Steven wasn’t sure just how deeply he should get involved. From what Sara said, the men who were after the diary would kill for it without a second thought. They had tortured a man to death over it already. On the other hand, the discovery of Marot’s diary was a real coup, any antiquarian bookseller’s dream. If it was really written in Shelton’s coded script, and they could decode it, and if it gave information about the death of Ludwig II, all Steven’s financial worries would be over, not to mention the publicity he would get.
Der Spiegel, Stern, Focus
—they’d all be writing about his discovery.
But suppose it’s a forgery?
The forged Hitler diaries sprang to Steven’s mind. They had plunged
Stern
magazine into the greatest scandal in German media history. He decided to be wary, for safety’s sake, but the diary held an almost magical attraction for him.
It’s like a drug. Since I first leafed through it, I’ve been obsessed with it . . .
By now they had turned into Gollierstrasse and were driving slowly past his bookshop. To Steven’s great relief, he saw that the men had not made good on their threat. His shop had not been burned down, but in the dark, with its display window smashed, it looked desolate and uninviting. The little place that had dominated his life for so long didn’t seem to be his anymore; it was like a diseased part of a body that had been cut off.
“We’d better go through the backyard,” Sara whispered. “If those guys are still watching the shop, they’ll be in front.”
Steven nodded. As they slowly passed in the car, his gaze lingered on the black hole that had once been his display window. For a moment he thought he saw movement in the darkness of the shop. Were the Cowled Men in there? Or maybe some kind of vandals? The bookseller blinked and looked harder into the shop. But he must have been mistaken. Nothing. No movement, no sound, just a broken window.
Sara brought him down to earth. “What’s the matter?” she hissed. “Seeing ghosts? Come on.”
She parked the car in a dimly lit side street and got out. Steven followed her, turning up the collar of his flimsy corduroy jacket. In their frantic
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