The Stretton Street Affair

“No, we won’t,” I declared determinedly. “Of course we may be on a wrong scent, but something seems to tell me that we are pretty hot on the trail. The assassin Despujol would never have been employed by them if they did not hold us in dread.”

“Your journey to Montauban will prove whether you are right, Hugh,” he said, and then, after arranging that he should follow Suzor should De Gex leave without him, and that he should at once wire me word to the Poste Restante at Nîmes, I left, and returning to the hotel packed my suit-case and later met the bald-headed but famous detective.

The latter proved an amusing companion who, during the long night journey to the Mediterranean, recounted to me many of his interesting experiences. His French was better than his English, so we conversed in the former tongue.

There was no sleeping carriage upon the train, therefore, after my companion had spoken to the conductor, we made ourselves as comfortable as we could in the first-class compartment which had been reserved for us. At half-past three in the morning, with true Spanish forethought, he produced some sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a bottle of excellent wine, upon which we made a hearty meal, after which we dozed in our corners till dawn.

Throughout the day my companion, who was quite as eager as myself to arrest the notorious Despujol, chatted in French as we went slowly down the fertile valley of the Ebro and suddenly out to where on our right lay the broad blue sea. Not until late afternoon did we arrive at Barcelona, and having two hours to wait we went along the Paseo de San Juan to the Francia Station, and having deposited our bags there, strolled along to the Plaza de Cataluña, where, at the gay Maison Dorée, we had coffee and cigarettes, while my companion read the Diario and I watched the picturesque crowd about us. Rivero knew Barcelona well, so after we had finished our cigarettes we took a taxi to the Central Police Office, where we had a chat with the chief of the Detective Department, a short stout little man with a round boyish face and a black moustache. After that we took another taxi along to the toy-fair in the Plaza de la Constitución, it being the Feast of St. George, the patron saint of Catalonia, which accounted for the bustle and gaiety of the city.

Then, after an interesting half-hour, we returned to the station and set out upon our slow eight-hour journey through the rich wine lands of Catalonia, with their quaint mediæval villages and towns, with occasional glimpses of sapphire sea, and passing over many ravines and gullies we at last, long after nightfall, entered a long tunnel at the end of which was the station of Port-Bou, the French frontier.

The usual prying douaniers were quickly at work, and after some coffee at the Restaurant Baqué, which is so well known to travellers to Southern Spain, we re-entered the train for Narbonne, where in the morning we changed and travelled to Montauban, by way of Carcassonne and Toulouse.

It was late in the afternoon when, on arrival at our destination, we took rooms at the Hôtel du Midi on the opposite side of the Tarn to the prosperous pleasant little French town, once a headquarter of the Inquisition, and even now containing in its Museum the executioner’s axe and many instruments of torture. After a wash and a meal, for we were both very hungry, we set out to find Monsieur Charles Rabel, whose address was Rue de Lalande, number 163.

We crossed the wonderful old brick bridge from Villebourbon to the town – a bridge built in the fourteenth century with an internal passage running beneath the roadway to the ancient Château. Then, making our way past the old Church of St. Jacques, with its fine Gothic octagonal tower, and passing through a number of streets we found ourselves in the narrow old-world Rue de Lalande.

Just as we entered the street, which contained a number of small shops, I halted.

“He must not see me!” I exclaimed.

“I quite agree,” replied the Spanish detective. “There is a little café over there. Go in and wait for me. I will make some discreet inquiries concerning this Monsieur Rabel.”

Hence we parted, and while Señor Rivero sauntered along the street in search of the house in question, I went into the café and ordered a bock.

Full of anxiety lest, after all, this man Rabel should be a respectable citizen, I waited.

Time passed slowly. Half an hour went by. I ordered a mazagran and sat smoking, trying to suppress my eagerness. An hour elapsed – an hour and a half – two hours!

I waited yet another half-hour until the proprietor of the café began to look askance at me. Then I paid, and rising, went out into the street.

It was now dark. There was no sign of my friend the Spanish police agent. He had disappeared!

I stood upon the pavement full of anxiety and bewilderment.

What could have happened to him?

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

MADEMOISELLE JACQUELOT

I returned to my rather barely-furnished room at the Hôtel du Midi which overlooked the Place outside the station in the suburb across the river, and sank into a chair to reflect.

The concierge – a lad who wore the concierge’s cap – the concierge being off duty at his evening meal – informed me that my friend had not returned. He seemed an alert French lad of that type so frequently seen in Continental hotels.

Señor Rivero had disappeared! For an hour I waited seated alone in my room reflecting deeply. My sole desire and fixed object was to solve the enigma of Gabrielle Tennison’s unfortunate mental state and to bring to justice those unscrupulous blackguards responsible for it. As I sat there her pale beautiful face arose before me – the wonderful countenance of the girl who had, in such a strange and indescribable manner, taken possession of my soul. To analyse my feelings towards her was impossible. I put to myself the query why I loved her, but I was utterly unable to answer it.

I loved her most passionately and devotedly. That was all.

The tragedy of the situation was that I loved one who, alas! could not return my affection as a girl with her mental balance unaffected could do. Her poor unbalanced brain could never allow her to understand me, or to return my love.

I was tired after the long sleepless journey from Spain, and I suppose I must have dozed in my chair.

I awoke suddenly, hearing a tap upon the door, and an elderly chambermaid entered with a telegram.

I tore it open and found it had been dispatched from Castelsarrasin, and was from Rivero, saying: “Absence unavoidable. Hope to be back by midnight.”

“Where is Castelsarrasin?” I inquired of the woman.

“It is about sixteen kilomètres from here, m’sieur,” replied the buxom woman in the strong accent of Toulouse. “It is on the road to Agen and the railway junction for Beaumont-de-Lomagne. Just a small town. They say that the name is a corruption of Castel-sur-Azin. At least my mother used to tell me so.”

What, I wondered, had taken the head of the Madrid detective force out there? He must be following some fresh clue.

So I went forth across the bridge to a big café opposite the theatre, and there idled till nearly midnight, when I returned eagerly to meet my friend.

He entered my room just before one o’clock in the morning, tired and dusty, for he appeared to have walked a long distance. I had some cognac and a syphon of seltzer awaiting him, and sinking exhausted into a chair, he took a long and refreshing drink before he spoke.

“Well?” he said with a sigh. “You have been wondering why I disappeared so mysteriously – eh? The fact is I was compelled. On making inquiry of a shoemaker who has a little shop near Charles Rabel’s house I learned that the man for whom we are searching lived in a flat on the first floor of the house kept by a widow named Cailliot. But he was frequently absent in England or in Italy. Only for short spells was he there, for he was a commercial traveller representing a Lyons firm of silkweavers. As we were speaking, the shoemaker pointed to a rather smart young woman who was at that moment leaving the house, and said: ’Look! That is Mademoiselle Jacquelot, the fiancée of Monsieur Charles! She might tell you where he is. I do not think he is at home to-day. I saw him four days ago and spoke to him as he passed. But I believe he has left again!’ I thanked him, and at once followed Mademoiselle, hence I had no time to tell you, for I had no idea where she was going. I saw that by following Rabel’s fiancée I might gain some useful knowledge. She walked to the station, and took a ticket for Castelsarrasin. I did the same. We had half an hour to wait, but I spent it patiently, and when we left I travelled alone with her in the same compartment. Soon I managed to get into conversation with her, whereupon I mentioned that I had a friend, Monsieur Charles Rabel, in Montauban, and that we had met in Paris. He had once shown me her photograph and I believed I was not mistaken that she was Mademoiselle Jacquelot. At first she was surprised, but I told her a very plausible story, whereupon she explained that Charles had gone to Toulouse on business three days before, but that he was returning at noon to-morrow. She herself lived in Castelsarrasin.”

“But do you anticipate that we shall discover in Charles Rabel the notorious Despujol?” I inquired eagerly.

Rivero raised his shoulders and elevated his black eyebrows, saying:

“From facts I gathered from Mademoiselle concerning him I certainly think that we are really upon his track. It hardly seems possible, but we must remain in patience till to-morrow. Then, if we find our surmise correct, we must act with the greatest caution if we are to watch him to Nîmes where he is to meet your mysterious friend – the man whose name you refuse to reveal.”

“When they meet you will at once recognize him,” I said. “I may be mistaken,” I added. “But I do not anticipate that I am. If all goes well, then you will arrest the notorious Despujol.”

“I only wish that the fellow would fall into my hands,” replied my companion. “If so, then revelations will be made that will startle Europe.”

“And incidentally gain you promotion in the service – eh?” I laughed.

He nodded and admitted:

“I hope so, Señor Garfield. I sincerely hope so,” he replied, and we parted for the night.

Next day I woke early and sought my friend. We idled about till nearly noon, when we went together to the railway station to watch the arrival of the train from Toulouse.

A number of people were about, for the dusty lumbering express from Bordeaux to Marseilles had, at that moment, arrived, and considerable bustle ensued in consequence.

While we stood watching the crowd Señor Rivero suddenly touched my arm, and whispered:

“Look yonder! The girl in dark blue! That is Mademoiselle Jacquelot! She must not see me. I wonder why she is here – if not to warn him of the inquiries made concerning him by a stranger!”

I glanced in the direction he had indicated and saw a tall, slim, rather good-looking girl sauntering idly in our direction. Her attention had, for the moment, been diverted by an advertisement upon the wall.

“Quick!” cried my friend. “Let us slip back here.”

And next moment we had repassed the barrier, back into the booking-office.