At each hotel he came to, Rutledge requested the list of guests, scanned them for any name that was familiar-Stallings, Summers, Pierce, Hartle, Jeffers, Roper, Ottley, Gooding, even his own-and each time drew a blank.
But of course Summers could have used his wife's mother's maiden name, or that of his sergeant in France, and Rutledge would have no way of connecting it with the man he was seeking.
Hamish said, "Go back to what ye know. It's the only way."
All right, then.
Summers had left a forwarding address of Brighton. But was he telling the truth? There were still men alive who went to school with him. He couldn't have finished his work. Surely he wouldn't have gone much farther than Brighton. He had too much invested already in his revenge.
Where then?
Rutledge thought about the case that Chief Inspector Cummins had never solved, and how misdirection had served a different purpose there. It had almost seemed that Cummins's murderer had wanted to leave something behind, for the sake of his own conscience if not for the police.
But this Sussex killer had no conscience. If he had, he'd have stopped with William Jeffers's death.
Rutledge looked up at the exotic lines of Brighton's glory, the Prince Regent's Pavilion, almost foreshadowing that his niece would one day be Empress of India.
Why would Summers leave such a message?
The most logical answer: to buy time.
To send Rutledge on a wild-goose chase in the wrong direction while he went in another.
Rutledge was already sprinting toward the hotel he'd just left, oblivious of the stares of strollers along the promenade, his mind keeping pace with his feet.
He'd been outfoxed, and it angered him. Hamish, pointing out his failure, was like a demon at his shoulder.
Could Summers still be in Hastings New Town, in another fine hotel? Or had he turned east instead of west? Or north? It was impossible to guess.
And what was the man telling his bride, how could he explain cutting their wedding journey short-or flying off in an entirely different direction?
Would he suggest that now his friends had caught up with them, they'd play a trick of their own?
Hamish said, "Ye ken, he left her alone at night. He used a false name at yon hotel. Would she no' grow suspicious after a while?"
Rutledge felt a surge of apprehension.
Is that what had happened? Had there been unexpected difficulties over his behavior? What had prompted that marriage in the first place? Was it a love match-or was it the fact that Summers needed his new wife's money? He hadn't held a job in months, and The White Swans was one of the most elegant-and expensive-hotels along this stretch of seaside towns.
Rutledge reached the Regency Hotel and slowed his pace, striding into Reception and waiting impatiently as an elderly couple spoke to the woman behind the desk about the availability of rooms.
Yes, they had a telephone, the woman told him when the couple had left. For the use of their guests. "This is an urgent police matter," he told her curtly, and reluctantly she pointed to a door just past the desk.
He put in a call to the Yard, silently cursing the delay as someone went in search of Sergeant Gibson. While he waited, Rutledge was already scanning the map of Sussex and of Kent in his head.
There was an isolated church, St. Mary's, out in the marshes near Dymchurch. One could hide a body there. But of course in time it would be found, and if it was identified, then the police would begin to look for Summers.
That was true almost anywhere else. Corpses had a way of returning at the most inconvenient of times, whether left in marshes or the sea. Besides, if the man wanted his wife's money, he'd have to keep her alive until he could persuade her to make a will in his favor.
But what if Summers had already worked out a contingency plan? Leave his work unfinished until the hue and cry had died down, disappear into France meanwhile, and return at a later date? The southern parts of France along the Mediterranean Sea had been untouched by war, though strongly affected by the state of the French economy in general. Still, it was warm, lovely, expensive, and increasingly popular. And his wife might find such a suggestion exceptionally attractive.
Dover, then, and the ferry across the Channel. And he, Rutledge, was already six hours too late.
If the Kent police could find Rutledge himself after he'd left Melinda Crawford's house, they might be lucky enough to find Tommy Summers for him.
He told Sergeant Gibson what it was he wanted, and then went in search of his motorcar, several streets away.
The motor almost misfired as he turned the crank, and he had to start again. Once behind the wheel, he made a looping circle through the streets and drove as fast as he dared through the holidaymakers, heading east. Behind him the clouds were gathering and far out to sea, the wind had picked up. He could feel the cloying heat that presaged a storm.
The road ran along the coast for the most part, one seaside community after another, the congestion at its peak at this hour. The storm was catching him up as he drove, bits of paper and little swirls of dust marking its progress, and before very long, the sun was half hidden in the haze. Before he'd reached Hastings, the sky was dark, and the rumble of thunder followed him.
Hamish gave him no peace, seeming to gather strength with the storm.
He paused at Hastings just long enough to leave word with Inspector Norman, and then turned toward Eastfield.
The rain found him just before he got there, huge wind-driven pellets, and the lightning was fierce.
At the police station, Constable Walker listened to what he had to say, then handed him a framed photograph that Tyrell Pierce had left at The Fishermen's Arms.
Rutledge looked at it, and damned the man. The sun was behind the subjects, and he could just recognize Anthony Pierce, smiling beneath his officer's cap, one arm around his brother's shoulders. Daniel's face was harder to make out, and Rutledge had to be satisfied with his general build.
Pierce must have spent an hour or more searching through photographs to find one that was so useless.
He handed it to Walker. "I should have the man arrested for obstruction."
And then he was gone again, driving through the pelting rain and the early darkness.
He stopped for petrol in one village, and to have a tire inspected in another, praying that the Dover police had found their man.
Hamish reminded him, "It's no' certain that he's even there."
Summers might as easily have chosen London or Southampton and taken ship anywhere. But France was closer, and the man knew the country. It made sense.
In the predawn hours when he reached the Dover police, the skies were clearing. The fishing fleet had put out to sea, their sails tiny dots on the horizon, and the first ferry to France was just pulling out.
But Dover had nothing for him.
The inspector he spoke with said, "You realize he could have sailed before you reached us."
"Yes, yes, that's very likely. I was hoping that we'd been in time." He rubbed his face, hearing the scrape of beard on his chin. "All right, keep looking. I'll be at the hotel. Did you reserve a room?"
"Yes. The Nancy Bell. It's run by a retired policeman. We try to give him a little business now and again."
Rutledge found it, a small inn at best, almost at the outskirts of town, but Sergeant Bell greeted him, took one look at him, and said, "Go up, then, top of the stairs, I'll bring hot water and hotter tea."
He was as good as his word. A bluff, graying man, his shoulders still broad and the line of his jaw firm, he carried the tray in one hand and a pitcher in the other, setting them down on the table. "You'll want to sleep," he told Rutledge. "If there's word, they'll send for you here."