The Red 65. Grant Peake

from the direction of Mrs Femmer, who ejaculated, “Put that down at once!” in a sharp command, glaring at Marty with a look of “How dare you!”

      Marty placed the plaque back onto the dusty desk and apologised.

      Mrs Femmer realised her manner had been brusque and quickly said in a quieter voice, “It’s alright Inspector. It’s just that Max would not like anything to be disturbed. He was very particular about his studio and did not like me entering the room. I think we had better leave.”

      The woman now appeared to be eager for Marty to leave the room, and was standing at the doorway with a gesture of her trembling hand. There was certainly a creepy feeling about this room, thought the intrepid Marty.

      Why the sudden exit, and change in demeanour from this lady? Interesting, there is more to this room than meets the eye, thought the observant Marty Hislop.

      He had noticed that there were no photographs in the house, nothing on the walls or a table. That struck Marty as being acutely odd. If Marjorie was so devoted to her beloved Max, why wasn’t there a photo somewhere? He also wondered how Mrs Femmer kept the place going, assuming that she didn’t work at her age now – unless there was a private income. Marty would have La Paz check her finances out, wouldn’t hurt.

      “Just one last thing before I forget, Mrs Femmer. Would you by any chance have a photo of Billy? Perhaps on one of your outings with Billy, you took a snap of him?” suggested the expectant Marty.

      “No, I do not have any photos of Billy. We were not photography minded, Inspector,” was the quick and cool response from Mrs Femmer.

      Yeah, sure lady. Pigs might fly too! I bet you have something, you thought too much of Billy, concluded Marty.

      Marty decided he had better make his exit, he had got all he wanted for now. Mrs Femmer had been helpful to a point, but there was an underlying current. Marty detected that Mrs Femmer was concealing some vital information. But that could wait, give her time to think about it all.

      Marty thanked Mrs Femmer for her time and said farewell – for the moment anyway.

      CHAPTER four

      Marty was walking to the car when his mobile sounded. He could see the call was from La Paz.

      “Yeah, La Paz,” was Marty’s blunt response.

      “Hi Boss, are you still in the vicinity of North Beaumont? You might like to hear this. There is a lady who lives at 1817 North Beaumont, called Peggy Cavallaro. She was living there when Billy Parsons went missing. Apparently she knew the couple where Billy was staying and is a wealth of information about the old days of Hollywood. I got this info from Universal Studios. Apparently the couple Billy Parsons was staying with are now deceased. Might still be worth talking to this lady, Boss,” was La Paz’s suggestion.

      “Okay, will do. Good work, La Paz. I’m going to pay a visit to number 1811 North Beaumont right now. That is where Billy Parsons was staying. A daughter of the dame who looked after Billy, lives there now. Called Anna, according to Mrs Femmer. Didn’t get the family name, assume it is Serenova, after her mother. So when I have done that, I will pay a visit to this Peggy Cavallaro. We can get together when I get back La Paz, bye for now,” was Marty’s parting comment.

      So that was good, kill two birds with one stone, just doors apart too, thought Marty. As he got into the car he looked over to a window of the Femmer home and noticed that a curtain had been parted open but was now quickly closed. A figure had moved away from the window. So, Mrs Femmer was having a looksee, thought Marty as he chuckled to himself. Something to hide, definitely. Mrs Marjorie Femmer was a frail person really and the only comfort she had now, was her craving for drink.

      Marty left the Femmer residence and drove out of the driveway. Good idea that was, with the semi circular driveway. Easy to get out onto the street. Up the street Marty went and slowed down to check street numbers. Number 1811 came up quicker than he imagined.

      Pulling into the neglected driveway, he thought the whole scene before him was just like the house from the TV series The Addams Family. The large three storey wood home was in desperate need of repair. The paintwork had peeled off considerably and there were signs of rot in the timber. The grounds, whilst quite large, were overgrown with thorn bushes and clambering roses. A rust bucket Ford F250 stood languishing in a corner of the block under a makeshift carport.

      Marty got out of the car and carefully negotiated his way up the path to the once black double front door. The entrance was littered with rubbish and weeds grew out of the crevices in the wood planks. Lifting the well worn brass knocker, it almost came off in his hand. Marty knocked with his hand instead and expected a grim faced butler to open the door and say in a deep flat voice, “Yes”. Instead, the door creaked open to reveal a hag.

      Well, she looks the part, thought Marty.

      Her face was dirty and displayed a disdainful expression. She smelt of stale urine and nicotine and some other aroma. Marty could not place it, but he had smelt it before during his time with the force. The creature before him wore a long purple caftan with gold embroidery running through it. No shoes on the feet and a long thin cigar was stuck in the surly lips. Black lipstick had been smothered over the lips with very little care. Smoke billowed from the mouth like an inferno. The face was wrinkled, almost gnarled in places. She sported a large mole on the left cheek, which was sprouting black facial hairs. Her finger nails looked long and deadly. Leaning against the wood doorway and placing an arm on the thin waist, this weeping willow of sorts, eyed Marty through slit like eyes. The hair was long and dyed jet black. A silver coloured head band adorned the greasy hair.

      Well, thought Marty, what have we here? Certainly no advertisement for L’OREAL, ‘you’re worth it’!

      She looked like a vulgar, voluptuous vampire gone terribly wrong. Her eyes were cold and indifferent and her body language suggested something else.

      Marty took the plunge, introducing himself and said he was looking for Anna Serenova.

      “What for!” came the brittle reply. The voice was expressionless, yet deep. Marty noticed that some teeth were missing.

      Marty explained briefly about the Parsons case and the information he had regarding the couple who Billy was staying with at that time.

      “Hmmph. When was this, 1965? How would I know, can’t be expected to remember that far back? I was probably at university, protesting about the Vietnam War. Pity the Viet Congs didn’t win. At least North Korea has something to offer,” sniffed this delightful female. “What’s this got to do with me anyway?” said the dancing dolly with a sneer in her smoky voice. She folded her arms and stood in a menacing stance in the doorway giving Marty a fierce once over. Smoke oozed from the mouth like foul smelling steam.

      Not getting anywhere, thought Marty. Instantly, Marty picked up on the smell he could not discern earlier. Of course, it fits in. Let’s get this hussy a bit rattled. Be straight to the point, man.

      Marty responded with a fierce tirade and said, “I assume you are Olga Serenova’s daughter, Anna? And the date was July 21, 1965?” Marty moved forward like a gridiron player and pushed past the lacklustre creep with ease.

      Entering the den of Aladdin’s cave, Marty was confronted by a thin haze of smoke. Striding further into the filthy house, Marty tried to make out where the smoke was coming from. A room just down the hallway had a closed door – that was it.

      Madam Butterfly scuttled behind Marty. “You can’t go in there, someone is sleeping. Get out you pig!”

      Marty was too quick for the “purple panther” and opened the door of the forbidden room. In the corner of the room, near a grimy window, was a day bed, veiled with a thick curtain. A table had the smoking apparatus sitting on it. Over hurried Marty, and flung back the curtain to reveal a hapless figure. A woman dressed in some flimsy silk gown clutched a hookah. The cheeks were sunken and the face gaunt. There was no recognition in the eyes of the woman. She was in an opium stance