It was Albert Zöller, standing in the doorway of the small hotel room that the bookseller shared with Sara. “Adolf the photographer reporting for duty,” he announced, saluting like a soldier. Around his neck hung an unwieldy camera that he had scrounged up a few hours ago in a photographic equipment store in Schwangau. “Always wanted one of these,” he said, grinning as he waved the old-fashioned camera in front of Steven’s face. “I thought it looks more professional than those newfangled digital cameras.” He looked at his watch. “Eight thirty already. We’d better go up to the castle quickly, if we don’t want to miss our date.” Steven started in surprise. “So late already?” He packed the diary away in his rucksack and put on his shoes. Then he and Zöller went down the well-worn hotel stairway. “Anything new?” Uncle Lu asked, pointing to the rucksack with the book in it. Steven shook his head slightly. “Only that just before his death Ludwig wanted to send what was obviously an important letter to Linderhof.
