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.