“And what about all his comrades?” I asked. “Would they have missed her, too?”

“Go back,” Vigée told Wenger urgently. “Go back immediately.”

Wenger turned the car around.

“Let me see that list,” said the Frenchman.

I handed it to him and pointed out the name.

“What do you think we should do?” he asked. “Go straight to the camp? Suppose he slips away before he gets there?”

“No,” I said. “He’s here because he needs to be official. He needs some papers. Otherwise, the Russian state security people could have smuggled him across the border in Berlin. He needs his discharge papers. Ration cards. An identity document. All of that in order to enter German society. To become something new. He’s not going to slip away.”

I thought for a moment.

“We need to speak to the real Captain Kettenacher’s mother. That old lady we saw at the railway station. We need her to give us a photograph of her son. So that when you and Moeller here go to the camp tomorrow and he tries to throw some sand in your face, you’ll be able to deal with it by being able to produce a picture. You can leave asking her to me. I am, after all, a representative of the VdH.”

“You said that in a way that implied you thought you wouldn’t be coming to the refugee camp,” said Vigée. “Why?”

“Because I think you need to keep me in reserve,” I said smoothly. “Think about it, Émile. You arrest Kettenacher on suspicion of really being de Boudel. He denies it, of course. So you take him to the Pension Esebeck and show him the real Kettenacher’s photograph. He still denies it: There’s some mistake. An administrative error. There were two Captain Kettenachers. You let him talk himself into a corner. That’s when I step out from behind the curtain and say ‘Hello, Edgard. Remember me?’ I’m your ace, Émile. But you mustn’t play me until the end.”

Vigée was nodding. “Yes. You’re correct, of course. But how will we find Frau Kettenacher.”

I shrugged. “I’m a detective, remember? If finding people was difficult, they wouldn’t ask policemen to do it every day of the week.” I smiled at Moeller. “No offense intended, Inspector.”

“None taken, sir.”

“So where am I driving?” muttered Wenger. “Suppose the old lady doesn’t live in Friedland? Suppose she already left town?”

“That pastor seemed to know her,” said Vigée.

“Yes, but there’s no church in Friedland.”

“There is one in Gros Schneen,” said Moeller.

“Head back to the station,” I said. “We’ll see if anyone remembers them there. If not, we can then decide what to do.”