The Ludwig Conspiracy by Oliver Pötzsch Page B

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