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Updated: May 24, 2025
I shaved, swallowed the coffee which the young waiter brought me, and at once descended to the bureau; when in French I inquired of the clerk for Señor Salavera. He examined the register and replied politely: "We have no one of that name staying here, señor." "What?" I cried. "He was in Room 175 last night!" "Number 175 was Señor Solier," replied the smart young clerk.
I followed him to a room near the end of the corridor, where he quickly produced documents and papers showing that his name was Juan Salavera, an advocate, who lived in the Calle de Vittoria, in Burgos.
We chatted with Señor Andrade for about a quarter of an hour when the detective returned with a bundle of papers and four photographs of a man taken in police style upon one negative, full face, three-quarter, half and profile. The instant he placed it before me, I exclaimed: "Why, that is Salavera!" "I thought as much," remarked the famous detective with a grim smile.
"He paid his bill and left just after seven o'clock this morning." "But I saw his identification papers his passport letters addressed to him as Señor Salavera!" "That may be so, señor," was the suave reply. "But he registered here as Señor Solier." And then he dropped into English, which he spoke very fairly. "Of course people who stay at hotels do not always give their correct names.
"He is not Salavera, but Rodriquez Despujol, one of the most dangerous criminals in Spain!" "Despujol!" cried Señor Andrade. "And he was in Madrid last night!" Then he added: "Ah! if we had but known." "True. But why was he in the English gentleman's room?" queried the detective.
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