Rutledge sat where he was for a moment. Missing persons were seldom brought to the attention of the Yard, unless the search ended in a suspicious death. Or the person in question was important or well known. Many of the cases were closed by the recovery of the pitiful body downriver, others with a trial for kidnapping or murder. He had a feeling that none of these applied to Teller's disappearance.

But something had caused the man to leave his sickbed. And it was the sort of puzzle that appealed to him.

"Ye ken," Hamish was pointing out, "that yon puffed-up Chief Superintendent is looking for a scapegoat."

Suddenly Bowles was there again, poking his head around Rutledge's door.

"Good. You're still here," Bowles said. "Another thought to carry with you. Teller was in the field for quite a few years. For all we know, he may be walking around London suffering from a new plague. That would set the cat amongst the pigeons. It may be the reason why Teller's doctors are closemouthed about his condition."

The terrible epidemic of Spanish flu, as it was called at the time, that killed more people around the world in 1918 than the war had done, was still fresh in the public mind.

"I thought you said that he'd recovered-"

"Don't confuse issues, Rutledge. There's no telling how long these things might fester. Talk to his doctors and discover if you can what the risks are."

"When was he last in the field?" Rutledge asked.

"What difference does that make?" Bowles demanded irritably. He pulled out his watch. "You should have been on your way a quarter of an hour ago."

"And Inspector Mickelson's reports?" Rutledge asked blandly, unable to stop himself. He gestured to the half dozen folders still on his desk.