I took the old lady’s hand as if she was my unsuspecting prom-date, and off we went.
The smell of burnt coffee followed Mrs Diedrich and I as we arrived back into the real world, away from the Clearview Town Police Precinct and its rather heavy-hitting chief-in-command. I could almost imagine Officer Dirkdale watching on from the small hatch-window in his office. Peering out at us as we walked under yet another grey sky...
...the threat of light rain hot on our heels.
It did not take long before we were reunited with my faithful set of wheels, however. There it sat on the corner of the intersection. Settled just across the street from Crosby’s Bar, still undisturbed from the night before. The small secondhand convertible was a real trusty little runaround, equipped with once shiny chrome bumpers, hardwood interiors, and a nice baby-blue paint job from some long lost summer of yesteryear.
Mrs Diedrich, on the other hand, seemed less impressed with the string of subtle nuances associated with my car. I offered her my hand as she made her way inside. But the old-timer flatly refused, quickly taking up a spot in the back-seat without assistance.
“So…how do you like this town?” I asked her, as we finally set off for Hotel Rouge.
The old lady failed to respond, keeping her eyes focussed on the road ahead.
“Out of ten…” I proceeded, just for the hell of it, “…what would you rate this town out of ten?”
“…”
“…a high eight? An average five?”
“…”
“…don’t tell me you’re thinking less than five, Mrs Diedrich…?”
“…”
“…ok. I understand.”
“…”
“…it’s fine. I’m not much of a big talker myself, usually.”
We soon found ourselves surreptitiously staring out of opposite windows as we proceeded to saunter through town in drawn-out quietude. Every now and then I felt Mrs Diedrich’s eyes burning against the back of my head. But whenever I glanced back to check on the stubborn old lady she promptly resumed her usual pose. Seemed she was caught up in the open road, squinting out onto a town that wasn’t exactly shining among its greatest light.
Clearview was a humdrum little place, admittedly. A place that had stagnated over time, with a once bustling Town Square now populated with stores of the boarded-up variety, and a yet to be world famous downtown district, where all the local nighthawks and ne’er do wells could be found. This was not a place for long arduous wanders among leafy green walkways, past rows upon rows of pristinely kept front-gardens or spiralling spider-like side-streets. This was a town that had been ignored and neglected for the most part. Hosting an ensemble of sour-faced folk who reflected the woes of life thrust upon them.
Without the strength or wherewithal of anything better to say, I decided to switch on the radio. The radio commercials found within the vicinity of Clearview were no more or less strenuous than their equally loud-mouthed cousins back in the Big City. But, at least they seemed to quell the enigmatic old lady sat behind me.
“…that was Lisa Bellroy with the Early Bird News show!” the radio blurted into life, “…thank-you Lisa. Next up, after the ads, we’re delighted to welcome our latest special guest here in the studio. You heard it here first people…we’ll have none other than Lawrence Leroi on the show to talk movies, setbacks, and surviving life after those nasty, nasty accusations! Stay tuned folks, it's going to be a great hour…”
Mrs Diedrich seemed lost in a prevailing state of contentedness, so I let the ads roll on a while.
“...fancy treating your better half to a new kitchen counter this summer? Need more tools around the house to help with all those tiresome DIY chores? Perhaps it’s time for a fresh lick of paint in the living room this season? If you’re a broken handyman down on your luck and in need of assistance, look no further than the Happy Hammer Hardware Store. Here for your every household need!”
The road ahead was empty. It gave me time to think.
Holding both hands firmly on the wheel I thought back on my previous run in with Officer Dirkdale. That overbearing blockhead clearly knew nothing about proper investigatory procedure. In-fact, I had a good mind to turn the car back around, and tell all those overpaid posers where they could stick their bright blue uniforms and shiny badges.
But, then again, what would have been the point?
Dirkdale was cavalier, callus and condescending. A larger than life character with a larger than life mouth to match. But when compared with every other two-bit troublemaker running riot in this town, compared to all the righteous-minded psychos who would soon be thrown my way, Clearview's so-called chief of police was nothing but a pussycat.
And not a particularly pretty one at that.
“…every Saturday at the Clearview Town Hall. Including a series of keynote speeches from our own, personally hand-selected speakers in the field of psycho-analytics, and the science of the mind. Please note - this is a member-only invite hosted by the esteemed Dr. Reynard and his world renown Helping Hand Society, created by experts for our dear friends in need of a smile…”
Suddenly my hand reached out in front of me, subconsciously switching off the radio as the car came to an abrupt standstill. A long line of traffic was beginning to form, with several irate drivers craning their necks out their windows and peering curiously up ahead.
“Don’t worry about a thing Mrs Diedrich…” I assured her, noticing a pair of heavy-set police wagons parked ominously on either side of the road, “…I’ll get us through this.”
“…”
“…it’s nothing I haven’t encountered before, just stay calm.”
The scene was one of rather offbeat proportions....
One by one each vehicle would roll through the police stop-zone, waiting for a couple of nosy officers to snoop around the perimeter and conduct their searches. Nothing would transpire for a few minutes. Then, seemingly out of the blue, the officers would gather together and hastily conclude their findings. Finally ushering the cars onwards with a wave of their gloves and a swift tap on the roof.
Something had presumably caught the local police by surprise, and pretty soon...
it would be our turn to see what all the fuss was about.
*
From a quiet spot perched on a hill, overlooking the rest of town with an air of humble solitude, the old boarding house known as Hotel Rouge sat patiently and unmoved. It had a presence that seemed to ring through the immediate vicinity unbroken and true. A deep-seated kind of presence. The type you can almost taste once you enter.
We had hit the part of town serving Clearview’s most well-to-do. Folk who had the luxury of trading the cramped dirty streets below in favour of new, slightly more pleasant surroundings. There the trees were plenty, the roads much cleaner than what I had grown used to. A large canopy of green dominated the local landscape, with the north-side entrance to the local forest proving but a short stroll away.
“Come on Mrs Diedrich…” I uttered, finally exiting the car, “…this is it, we’ve arrived.”
All was quiet as we approached the hotel.
The structure itself had been painted a deep shade of maroon. Each window came equipped with a set of wooden shutters that lightly creaked with the wind, whilst several crooked vines danced their way up the side of the building. The roof, meanwhile, was a steep gothic inspired feat of engineering that pointed six-stories high, housing a neat little awning down below.
On a small sign hanging beneath the awning, the words ‘Hotel Rouge’ could be read for all to see. And just below the sign, standing in the doorway with both hands held tentatively on her hips, was a woman. A rather worried looking woman, indeed…
“Mrs Diedrich!?” she cried, stumbling frantically down the patio steps, “…Mrs Diedrich! Oh, thank god…”
“There’s no need to thank me…” I jibed, handing over the old lady like an unwanted parcel.
Alas, the words ran straight over the woman’s head. She was tall and pencil-thin, with mousy brown hair and glasses that hung tight to her nose. I watched on as she hurriedly darted across the road towards us, waving her hands in relief once the tight-lipped Mrs Diedrich was back safely in her possession.
“This way Mrs Diedrich…” she spoke again, “…your husband has been worried sick! We were all so terribly concerned that you might have been taken...”
“…I’m sorry,” I pried, seizing a chance to interject, “…but what do you mean by taken?”
The so-far unnamed woman gazed up at me unexpectedly, finally acknowledging my presence, “…apologies, but…you are sir?”
“Name’s Lucky.”
“Oh, that’s…”
“…what’s that you said before,” I proceeded, “…about being worried that the old lady was taken?”
“Well…” she mumbled, still peering at me somewhat cautiously, “…you know, taken, apprehended, whatever you want to call it…”
“By who exactly?”
“…by whoever or whatever is out there. ”
I looked back at her as if to say; come on, you can do much better than that.
But it turned out that she could not…
“Can’t you be any more specific?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not sir…” the tall lady leaned in and whispered, “…I don’t claim to know what’s happening out there, but something has certainly got the police all worked up lately, that’s for sure. You must have seen the stop-and-checks on your way over here? Everything has gone so wayward these days. I’m not entirely certain what’s going on…”
I paused in my tracks, waiting for her to finish.
“Probably just kids in the forest causing trouble again…” she presumed, “…all nonsense and poppycock if you ask me. But anyhow, the most important thing is that Mrs Diedrich is safe and well. That’s all any of us should be concerned with right about now…”
And that we most certainly were.
I eventually followed both women as we crossed the empty, rain-slicked streets and up the steps towards Hotel Rouge. Whilst much of the interior decoration spoke of many faded trends long lost to the past, the three of us were embarking upon an establishment of great character, and great magnificence too. Hotel Rouge played host to a deceptively large entrance foyer, adorned with crimson coloured carpets and red velvet drapery in every direction. The furniture was fashioned almost exclusively from dark mahogany textures, including the empty reception desk, which sat just in front of the grand open-plan staircase leading to the upper floors.
The concerned woman who had greeted us outside formally introduced herself as Mrs Featherstone; the co-owner of the rather impressive hotel alongside her husband. They had run the finances side-by-side over the course of many years, apparently, with Mr Featherstone often out of town discussing further expansions of the business.
That particular day, was one such occasion.
“Wait just here will you sir…” the co-owner prompted, “…just while I see Mrs Diedrich to her room.”
No sooner were we exchanging pleasantries and swapping limp handshakes was I left to my own devices in the middle of the decedent entrance hall. Mrs Featherstone and the old lady had disappeared into a nearby elevator, only to soon re-emerge on the first-floor where they were met by an elderly gentleman wearing open-toe sandals and a tank-top. The three of them spoke for a while, about what I do not know, and soon parted ways with a well-meaning farewell.
Mrs Featherstone would subsequently return to the ground-floor once their conversation had concluded. I watched her slender legs vanish and reappear in between the bannisters as she strolled leisurely across the upper walkway.
“I must thank-you…” she spoke, delicately descending the main staircase, “...I can’t tell you how pleased Mr Diedrich was to have his wife back!”
“He looked ecstatic…” I said, somewhat acrimoniously.
“They are such a lovely couple, aren’t they?” the lady emphasised, “…will that be all?”
Turning back towards Mrs Featherstone with a newfound glint in my eye, I told her, “…there is this one other thing, actually.”
“Oh…” she said, a sense of deliberation in her tone, “…and what’s that?”
“…it’s to do with the disappearance of Clarke Coburn.”
There it was. That oh so familiar look again...
The well-mannered lady suddenly appeared ill at ease. With little pools of crimson starting to gather beneath her cheeks, she returned to the reception desk and swiftly downed a nearby glass of water in an attempt to calm her nerves.
“Who…” she began curiously, “…who exactly did you say you were, sir?”
“I’m a private investigator, Mrs Featherstone.”
“Very well…” she spoke somewhat spitefully, “…and you were sent here courtesy of Officer Dirkdale I suppose?”
That particular question was a little more tricky to answer.
“Yes and no…” I told her, “…I’m not with the police if that’s what you mean. I came here from the Big City, on my own accord…”
The co-owner of the hotel proceeded to loosen up a little.
Though not enough to let me have my way...
“…I’ve already sat down and spoken with the police on two separate occasions, you know? I don’t see why I should have to go through all of that again. This hotel’s reputation is at stake!”
“Forgive me ma’am,” I spoke softly, “…I’m not here to run any formal investigations. I just wondered if you could do me a little favour is all…?”
“A favour?”
“Yes. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, not really. Considering that I just dropped off the beloved Mrs Diedrich and what not…”
The steely-eyed woman crossed her arms and stood up straight, dutifully awaiting the nature of my request.
“Well…” I proceeded, “…if it’s not too much to ask, I want you to show me Coburn’s old room here. His last known place of residence.”
Mrs Featherstone barely batted an eyelid. She proceeded to light herself a cigarette, smoking it in its entirety without having the decency to offer one my way. A minute or two passed as we both breathed in the thick smoke slowly billowing above our heads. The co-owner then sighed and muttered something underneath her breath, stubbing out her remnants in an old ashtray before taking to her feet once more.
“No…” she said quietly, “…no, I…I can’t do that. No, that won’t do at all…”
“And why not!?”
“Because I have the right to decline you sir, and I’m taking up that right.”
“Come on!” I prompted, leaning down on the desk and looking her directly in the eyes, “…don’t you want someone to find out what really happened to the missing actor!? How would you like it if it were you, in Coburn’s shoes? Abandoned and left alone with no one looking out for you!?”
“I…I told you before, I’ve already spoken to the police.”
This time I slammed my fist upon the counter…
“The police in this town couldn’t care less!” I stated angrily, “…they didn’t do enough to find him in the first place, no way!”
“…”
“…and now you’re doing the exact same thing! You’re turning a blind eye just like them, isn't that right Mrs Featherstone? Turning the other cheek and pretending like nothing ever happened… ”
“No, it’s not like that…” she stuttered, her head pointing down towards her shoes, “…it’s my husband, he…”
“What of him?” I asked.
“He made me swear not to bring up the name…Coburn…in this hotel again. He…he doesn’t like it, says it’s bad for business, and I…well, I just don’t know what to think about it all!”
Without saying another word, I could already picture just what the aforementioned Mr Featherstone was all about. He probably kept his wife in line like all miserable misanthropes usually tend to do, by operating a barbed-wire leash and keeping the poor woman forever under his thumb. I had met his type many times before, I must hasten to add. And never once did I embrace a particular fondness for any of them...
Something about Mrs Featherstone’s expression told me I was on the right track. I could feel the tension burning inside the distressed custodian as she began to blush once more, turning a brighter shade of red than even the rouge coloured carpet beneath her feet.
“Look, lady…” I began once more, “…I know it’s not your fault, but a man has disappeared, a great man in-fact! An actor who fell foul of those who once cheered his name, but a great man nonetheless…”
“…”
“Don’t stand here and talk to me about business…” I said, “…someone has gone missing from this town, and no one seems to give a single damn about it!”
“Ok…” she finally conceded, “…fine.”
"Ok...what?"
"...just, ok."
Glancing out from the safety of the reception, with a pair of long, overarching windows silently watching on from over her shoulder...
...Mrs Featherstone’s moment of weakness had finally arrived.
And not a moment too soon. All I wanted was to get back to my office, take off my jacket, and finally get some decent hours sleep on the pull-out sofa. I wanted to be free from that dreadful weather outside and proceed with the investigation into Coburn’s unknown whereabouts. Plus, and perhaps most importantly of all, dear reader…I was pretty damned hungry. My stomach had started rumbling and I hadn’t eaten properly in days.
Mrs Featherstone too, probably just wanted rid of me. She instructed me to hang tight in the entrance foyer a moment longer whilst she filed away a few loose sheets of paper on the counter. After busying herself with several more phone calls to her colleagues upstairs, the co-owner eventually escorted me towards the very same elevator she and Mrs Diedrich had rode up to the first-floor. We were now en route to room twenty-three, where a solitary sign hung from the doorknob outside, reading; ‘do not disturb’.
This was it.
“My husband would kill me if he knew what I was doing…” she whispered, placing her hand on the door with a great deal of caution, “…you’re not to share a word of this to anyone, especially Officer Dirkdale. Is that understood, detective?”
“Understood…” I told her, though I never was one for keeping promises.
A handful of hotel maids soon crossed our path but paid us little mind. I watched Mrs Featherstone peer around this way and that, eyeballing either end of the corridor as if something sinister were waiting in the shadows. Eventually she turned the handle to the all-important room, however, inviting me forward with a nod of her head.
Now…I don’t exactly know what I was expecting to find in there. A broken ornament perhaps? Some evidence of shattered glass hidden away in the corner, potentially? Maybe I was hoping for something bigger; a pile of bloodstained cocaine dumped on the dresser for instance, with an open briefcase full of cash dashed on the bed beside two dead prostitutes doped out to their eyeballs. Any faint indication of foul-play would have done the job, in truth.
Anything worthy of getting my investigatory juices flowing…
Yet, to my unadulterated disappointment, it seemed my imagination was already starting to get the better of me. In reality, such glistening evidence would not prove so forthcoming. My options were less abundant, than scarce. And life as a private investigator would continue to feel no more or less rewarding than...well, a jumped-up wild goose-chase, for example.
“You look disappointed…” the co-owner of the hotel spoke guardedly.
“Maybe…” I replied somewhat defeated, “…maybe a little.”
The room presented by the reluctant Mrs Featherstone was ultimately rather plain and uninteresting. There was nothing to be gleaned or garnered. No major clues to reap, no fine details to harvest. Sadly, it was just like any other hotel suite.
“Well you can’t say you were not warned, now can you detective?" Mrs Featherstone affirmed, "...like I have already insisted, the police have been over this place twice before. They didn’t find anything all that meaningful on either occasion. Nothing to suggest where Clarke…uh, Mr. Coburn I mean, might have gone to…”
“Hmm…” she heard me mumble, unable to hide my feeling of setback, “…well what else can you tell me about the actor? Can you describe his appearance, before he disappeared…?”
Mrs Featherstone drew her head back in thought for a moment, smiling in an odd sort of way.
“Oh, you know…” she began, “…he had the same dark hair, down to his shoulders. His eyes were still deep and blue too, just like I remember from the movies…”
“…what else?”
“…Clarke had that same award-winning smile. He was a rather handsome man, there’s no mistaking that…and oh yes, of course…the moustache! How could I forget the moustache? Short and thin across his upper lip, very dashing I must say…”
“Very well…” I told her, “…let’s take a look around.”
With that in mind I put away my notepad and began to survey the scene. We were standing beside a large four-poster bed with silk green curtains pulled back on either side. A similar style and colour could be found on the drapes hanging from the windows. They looked out onto a small, but well-maintained garden situated within the external hotel grounds.
Elsewhere, every item of furniture appeared neat and untouched. Some of it even looked brand new. The floorboards were spotless, most of the actor’s clothes were left in-tact and in place, whilst the mini-bar in the corner seemed as if it had never been opened. It was the same story inside the en-suite bathroom. Nothing too conspicuous. Nothing untoward. And certainly nothing noteworthy to suggest what might have happened.
I proceeded to ask Mrs Featherstone some more questions on the subject of Coburn’s character. But, of course, her words would prove eerily similar to those of Officer Dirkdale; that Coburn was the quiet-type, barely crossing paths with the other hotel guests and showing little inclination to mingle. She painted him out to be some kind of loner, hopping from hotel to hotel until he finally found a spot he felt comfortable with. Though the actor had stayed for weeks on end under her very own roof, the anxious Mrs Featherstone could hardly reveal even the smallest smidgen of information that I didn’t already know. It was another loose end.
“I want to do what’s best for the actor too you know…” she expressed rather regretfully, “…he was very good to me. But all this snooping around and asking questions, I fear the moment for such action has long since passed, detective…”.
“In what sense, Mrs Featherstone?” I asked, undeterred by her stance.
“Pardon?”
“In what sense was the actor good to you, as you put it?”
“I mean…well, that he was good to us…” she tutted, peering back out into the hallway in case someone was listening in, “…he never gave us any problems here at the hotel, is what I meant…”
"Is that so...?"
“…yes! And anyway, detective,” she posed quietly, ushering me back out the room with a swift snap of her fingers, “…I think you’ve had your fill by now. It’s time we got moving.”
It was all so abrupt, in the end. Before long we were already riding the same elevator back down to the ground-floor, the pair of us shuffling our feet and failing to make eye-contact. To say the visit had been an utter waste of time might have been something of an understatement. I was starting to realise this whole private detective gig was not as easy as they made out in the movies, and a tad less glamorous too.
But isn’t that the most intriguing thing of all, dear reader…? No clues. No signs. No indication of a muddled investigation? Not even the odd pair of socks or tiny curtain fold out of place in Coburn’s room? The same room he had supposedly been using for weeks at a time…
As I returned to my little blue convertible with the rain now pouring down, a certain string of thoughts began to surface in my mind. It was almost as if there was more to this story than even I had been privy to. Almost as if someone, somewhere, had something truly groundbreaking to hide. Yet, it would appear my moment of disclosure would have to wait for another day.
A day, that when it finally arrived...
...I knew I would be more than ready for.
“See you around Mrs Featherstone…” I spoke aloud once more, with the outline of Hotel Rouge becoming but a modest glimmer in my rear-view mirror, “…and do make sure to say hello to your husband for me, won't you...
...sooner or later, I'll want a word with him too."
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