“She is a masseuse, then?”
“Not a real masseuse, though so she calls herself; but, to say the truth, she is just a hairdresser who tries to make people believe she knows something of the care of the skin. For some reason she appeared to amuse Madame, and I think it was chiefly for that reason that she let her come.”
“Did she come every day, and has she been here since Mrs. Vanderstein left home?”
“For two or three months she came every day,” replied Amélie bitterly. “Indeed I thought she was coming always, but only last Monday—the very day Madame went away—I heard la Justine say that it was her final visit; and, in truth, she has not been here since, I am very happy to say it.”
“Ah,” said Gimblet. “Well, I shall have to go and see her. Let me see, you said she is a tall, dark woman, did you not?”
“But no,” cried Amélie, “on the contrary she is short, and has yellow hair in the worst possible taste.”
“What makes you dislike this woman so much? Do you know anything against her, by any chance?”
But it appeared that Amélie knew nothing against Madame Querterot. Vague accusations and dark charges of a general character were all she had to bring; and, after listening to a tirade of this kind for a considerable time, Gimblet cut it short by asking for the masseuse’s address.
“Your mistress left a letter for her,” he said, “which has been sent over to us by the French police. It is of no importance, and contains, I think, only a reference to Madame Querterot’s account, but I am anxious to deliver it; and, as the poor lady had got no further with the address than Madame Q, without your assistance it would have been a matter of some difficulty.”
It was unfortunate that the detective should have hit upon this excuse to explain his interrogations, for the idea that even death had not put a stop to intercourse between Mrs. Vanderstein and her enemy nearly suffocated Amélie, whose jealous suspicions woke again at the challenge.