“This is the address, monsieur,” she said, as she gave it to him, “but I would not count on finding the bird in the nest. It is in the neighbourhood of Boulogne that you should look for that infamous woman. One of her kind is capable of everything; and, in my opinion, nothing is more probable than that it is she who is the real assassin of my poor Madame! A black beard, indeed! Is she not a hairdresser?”
Gimblet fled before the storm of words he had provoked, and hurried to the Pimlico address that he had obtained.
In spite of himself, Amélie’s words echoed in his ears: “Is she not a hairdresser?” A black beard was a simple enough disguise, and fair hair may be covered. But he had been told also that the masseuse was a short woman, and height is not so easily simulated. Such were his thoughts as he turned the handle of the shop door.
There was no one inside, and Gimblet had time to remark the empty shelves and forlorn look of the window—which the waxen lady no longer graced with her presence—before, in answer to the rapping of his hand on the counter and his repeated cry of “Shop, please,” the door leading to the back room opened and Julie Querterot made her appearance.
It was a sad enough figure she presented to him that day: paler, thinner, more tired-looking than ever. There was a scared look in her eyes now, and black lines under them. She came forward slowly, almost timidly.
“Did you want anything?” she said. “I am afraid our stock is nearly all—sold out.”
“Thanks,” said Gimblet. “I called to see Madame Querterot—is it possible that I am speaking to her?”
“Oh no,” said Julie with a little smile. “I am her daughter. But I fear you cannot see my mother just now. She is—out.”
“Never mind,” returned Gimblet. “I will wait. Perhaps she will be in by luncheon-time? I have a message for her.”
“I do not know when she will be back,” said the girl. “Can you not leave the message with me?”