“That’s what I like to hear. I daresay the results will be in today.” They had reached Hubbard’s office, and Rutledge was offered a chair. Hubbard set his hat on the top of the taller file cabinet, and sat down at his desk. He took a deep breath and said, “I hear that inquiry in Sussex is a sticky one.”

“Whoever the killer is, he’s clever. Nothing is what you expect it to be. But I’d started ruling out possibilities when I was sent for. Constable Walker is a sound man, he’ll bring my replacement up to speed very quickly.”

Hubbard nodded, then picked up a folder he’d put to one side on his desk. He opened it, read the contents, as if to familiarize himself with them, and then set it down.

“I’ve been informed that Inspector Mickelson is preparing to make an arrest in these murders. Possibly as we speak.”

His comment, casually spoken, caught Rutledge completely off guard. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said sincerely. “It was touch and go, whether we’d find the killer before he struck again. Can you tell me who it is?”

“Yes, one Carl Hopkins. A German sympathizer, I believe.”

If he’d been surprised before, Rutledge was stunned now. “Hopkins? I was about to interview him when I was taken off the case. Hardly a German sympathizer—I was led to believe he was distraught because of what had happened during the war to his younger brother and his cousin.”

“Yes, well, according to Inspector Mickelson, he’s good with his hands and obviously was able to counterfeit those identity discs to throw the police off.”

“How did Inspector Mickelson come to suspect him?”

“Apparently Mickelson drew up a list with Walker’s help of all the people you’d spoken with, and went back to interview them. Someone at the hotel remembered the owner of the chair firm calling on you. Mr. Kenton was very reluctant to discuss the conversation he’d had with you—he’s related to Hopkins, I believe—but in the end Inspector Mickelson threatened him with a night in gaol to rethink his reluctance, and he gave a brief explanation of what had brought him to you in the first place.”

Rutledge didn’t argue the matter. He hadn’t been there—he hadn’t spoken to Carl Hopkins. Nevertheless, the man’s motive was plausible, and it made sense that someone known to the victims could walk up to them in the dark without arousing suspicion or fear.

He wished he could put a face to Hopkins, to weigh what he’d seen for himself against Mickelson’s certainty. After all, it had begun as his inquiry. He still felt a responsibility for its outcome.

“Thank you for telling me, sir. Inspector Mickelson is to be congratulated.”

Hubbard said, “Yes.”