Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  'Oops,' said Hobbes. 'I didn't think I was pressing him too hard.' He knelt, loosening the man's collar, checking his pulse. 'Still alive at any rate, though I'd better phone for an ambulance.'

  He did so and prowled round the storeroom for a few minutes until the paramedics turned up. They bustled in, performing some quick tests on the patient, and wheeled him away. They obviously knew Hobbes of old and gave no indication of surprise to see him beside an unconscious witness.

  Hobbes grinned. 'Well, that's mucked things up. Still, it wasn't my fault. I suppose he just fainted. It's a shame, because he knows a lot more than he wants to tell.'

  I nodded, shaken by the little man's collapse. I'd never seen anyone go down in such a way before, yet Hobbes was right, he hadn't touched or threatened him. Not exactly.

  'Have you ever heard of the Order of St George?' I asked, since it meant nothing to me.

  'No more than Biggs told us.' He shrugged. 'Still, it might be worth finding out whether anyone does collect that sort of stuff around here. I rather formed the opinion that someone does.'

  I agreed. 'It was as if he expected someone to steal it.'

  'Right, and yet he didn't try to stop it, though I think he was upset it had gone.'

  'He looked frightened to me,' I said, 'even before you interrogated him.'

  'It was hardly an interrogation, but it's an interesting observation. Frightened, you think? I wonder why? Anyway, we'd better go.'

  We left the storeroom, passing some of the museum staff who'd gathered to watch their curator being removed. Some angry comments were directed at Hobbes but I don't think he heard them. It was a relief to get outside into the fresh, cool air. Still, the day was proving more exciting than the previous Sunday afternoon, when I'd had my lunch in the Bellman's, drunk too much, returned to my flat and fallen asleep on the carpet in front of my telly. My ex-telly, I reminded myself, on my ex-carpet in my ex-flat.

  Hobbes, staring at the railings around the museum, began crawling slowly along the pavement. I watched, fascinated, once again reminded of an enormous bloated toad, though toads don't sniff.

  'Aha.' He stopped, squatting before a section of railings.

  'What is it?'

  He pointed. 'Look, the paint's chipped near the base and there's no sign of rust, so it must be recent – and look up there. Can you see the smudges? That must be where the thief climbed over to get access to the wall. Hallo, hallo, hallo, what have we here then?' Reaching round the back of the railings, he held up a pair of latex gloves between dagger-like fingernails. 'He was careful not to leave any prints anyway. Still, though this isn't a busy road at night, there would have been a risk of being seen, unless there was a lookout.' He sniffed at the gloves and wrinkled his nose. 'Too much powder in these.'

  'Phil and Tony Derrick?' I said, more as an accusation than a suggestion.

  'Perhaps,' he said, 'but don't jump the gun. It may not have anything to do with either of them. Coincidences can happen.'

  'Now what?' I asked. 'Do we go and find Phil?'

  'Later. First, I'd rather have another chat with Mr Biggs, when he's in a more cooperative frame of mind.'

  'You mean a conscious one?'

  He grinned. 'That would, of course, be an advantage. Until then, there's one or two things I must do back home and I ought to go and make some notes back at the station. What do you want to do?'

  'Actually, I think I might go and have a look at my flat. What's left of it.'

  'Fine,' said Hobbes. 'I'll see you at suppertime. At six o'clock.'

  We parted and I walked through town to the remains of my former home. From a distance – and from the right angle – the block looked the same as always. Then the outside of my flat came into view, the walls stained with great, heavy swathes of smoke, as if some careless painter had used a huge, broad brush to streak black paint. Every window was shattered and the roof had partly collapsed. The whole block had been boarded up and tape was stretched across the front door, warning that the structure was unstable. I realised I had not been the only victim: all the other flats had been evacuated, too. I had a sickening suspicion that I'd started it, certain I'd left the electric fire on when I'd crashed out, remembering being careless when discarding my clothes. As I gazed up at the ruined first floor window, I realised just how lucky I'd been that Hobbes was passing, because I doubted anyone else could have done what he'd done. In fact, if he hadn't actually done it, I wouldn't have believed anyone, least of all a big bloke like him, could have scaled the wall and carried me down. There really was something strange about him.

  During the following hour or so I mooched about, staring at the block, kicking up leaves in the overgrown communal garden, thinking about Hobbes, while trying to remain inconspicuous in case any of my fellow former residents showed up. Though I didn't know any of them, except to nod to on the steps, I had a feeling they might not be happy to see me.

  8

  Dusk descended, dragging the temperature down with it, making my breath steam and curl. I shivered, thrusting my hands into my pockets, trying to turn my mind to Ingrid, as my feet turned homewards. Home? I was already thinking of Hobbes's place as home. I put it down to shock.

  Ingrid was the only thing I missed from the office, apart from the pay, which reminded me of the urgent need to see Editorsaurus Rex and force him to change my cheque. Then I could give him a piece of my mind, if I dared, though it would have to be a small piece: the way things had been going I couldn't afford to lose much more.

  I was fond of Ingrid's soft brown eyes and friendly smile. I liked to think of her hair as blonde, though I suspected an impartial observer might callously describe it as mousy. Again, some might have considered her a little short for symmetry; I suspected my impartial observer might even consider her dumpy, the boorish lout. 'You, sir, are no gentleman,' I would tell the swine before thrashing him within an inch of his life. My problem was that, since I no longer worked for the Bugle, I wouldn't be able to impress her with my ardour and prove I was 'arder than Phil. I was worried he'd be able to have his wicked way without me to protect her.

  I wondered about her motives for going out with him. Sure, my impartial observer might consider him good-looking – and he did keep himself fit and dressed well and had nice manners and a smart new car – but the impartial observer was a fool, as he'd shown with his views on Ingrid. He didn't recognise Phil was a git. He was always smiling, feigning friendliness, ready to help anyone. He'd be the first to dig his wallet from his trendy trouser pocket and buy a round at the Bellman's, or to contribute to a birthday present, or to make a donation to charity. I despised him and every little thing he did to show-off to Ingrid.

  And now he'd started taking her to the opera. Well, at least she'd had enough taste to throw up on him, if not enough to avoid lobster. That, at least, gave me a reason to cheer up.

  A treacherous part of my mind interrupted the mental rant with a suggestion that, maybe, she would have gone out with me had I ever taken the trouble to ask her and that, maybe, I should have bought her a birthday present, or, at least, a card. I laughed it out of sight. Why should I have to act flash like Phil? I reckoned she only liked him because he was nice to her and bought her presents and took her to the opera. I was who I was and she ought to appreciate it. The treacherous part rallied and whispered that I'd never even hinted that I liked her, and asked why she should have gone out with me if I'd never asked her. I squashed the notions with ease; we were living in the twenty-first century and a woman could ask a bloke out perfectly easily. No, though she might be gorgeous, in her dumpy, mousy way, the girl had no taste in men and I sometimes wondered if she was right for me.

  It came as something of a surprise to find my feet had carried me into Blackdog Street, for I'd hardly been aware of walking with all the turmoil in my mind. It was satisfying to know that Hobbes planned having a word with Phil and that, with luck, I'd be present to see him squirm. With more luck, he'd collapse like old Biggs or, even better,
Hobbes might tear out his throat. I chuckled, wondering whether I might be able to give a little shove, something to ensure Phil dropped right in the shit. Then I'd have a free run at Ingrid, because there was no way a girl as pure and intelligent as her would associate with a criminal. My treacherous part made a final effort. What made me think she was pure? A bastard like Phil would, surely, have got into her pants at the first opportunity and, therefore, deserved everything he'd got coming.

  Reaching number 13, I raised my fist to knock.

  'Hello, dear,' said Mrs Goodfellow's voice.

  My stomach contracting, I spun around, unable to see her anywhere, yet sure I'd heard her. I couldn't have imagined it.

  'You'll be wanting to come in I expect.'

  She couldn't have become invisible. I looked behind me, along the street and even up the side of the house, as if she might be hanging there like a monkey.

  'Down here, dear.'

  A wizened face, pale in the streetlights, winked up at me from behind the bars covering the cellar.

  She grinned. 'Just seeing to the mushrooms. I'll be up in a minute.'

  'Oh, good,' I gasped. 'Mushrooms. Very nice. I'm sorry, I didn't see you there.'

  She chuckled. 'I expect you thought I was invisible, or hanging around like a monkey?'

  'No, of course not,' I lied, laughing, but she'd gone. I stared into the black hole by my feet.

  'Come in, dear.'

  I hadn't heard her approaching the front door and my jump wouldn't have disgraced the Olympics. I forced a smile, stepping into the warmth.

  She pushed the door to. 'The old fellow's not home yet, but he's normally back in time for his supper. By the way, dear, he asked me to give you this.'

  Reaching into the pocket of her pinafore, pulling out a key, she handed it to me. 'He said it was best if you had your own, so you aren't locked out if no one's home. He said to treat the house like your own.'

  'Thanks,' I said, touched that he trusted me.

  'Mind you, he also said how you wasn't to go burning the house down, like your last place.' She chuckled.

  I grimaced.

  'Would you like a cup of tea, while you're waiting?'

  'No thanks. I didn't know you'd got a cellar.'

  'Oh yes. All the houses down the street had cellars, though most have been turned into basements or filled in. The old fellow sometimes likes the peace of being underground and it's where he keeps his wines and where I grow my mushrooms and force my rhubarb.'

  I wondered what on earth she was forcing it to do. There had been, I remembered, a frisson when venturing into Granny Caplet's cellar, all dark and mysterious, when I was very small. 'Can I see the cellar?'

  'Of course, dear.' Taking me into the kitchen, she opened what I'd assumed was a cupboard door. 'Down there. Will you be wanting the light on? The old fellow fitted an electric one.'

  'Oh no,' I said, intending humorous sarcasm, 'I'd much rather flounder around in the dark.'

  'Suit yourself,' she said. 'Just beware the pit of doom. They do say it's bottomless.'

  'What?'

  'Oh sorry, dear. Did I say the pit of doom? I meant to say mind your head. The ceiling's a little low in parts.'

  Smiling, she flicked a light switch and let me descend the creaky, narrow, wooden staircase. It was cool down there, yet dryer than I'd expected, with a pleasant, earthy odour and just a hint of damp, coming from trays of compost in a corner, some covered in mushrooms as big as cauliflowers. Beneath the grille, next to where I'd seen Mrs Goodfellow, was a pile of coal and against the near wall stood a great rack loaded with bottles. Unable to see any rhubarb, I guessed the old girl must have forced it into hiding. I'd been down there some minutes before it struck me just how cavernous it was. It appeared far wider than the house.

  I was considering returning upstairs when I noticed what appeared to be another door, partially concealed by coal. It puzzled me because, if it actually was a door, then it led in the direction of the road.

  Hobbes's voice rumbled from above. 'Who's that down there?'

  'It's me, Andy.' I peered up through the grille at his face, cratered like the moon.

  'Oh dear,' he sighed. 'I thought the lass had given up on locking men in the cellar. She hasn't done it for ages. I'll come and let you out.'

  'It's alright. I asked to come down.'

  'Really?' His face ascended as he straightened up. I heard the front door open and shut and his heavy footfall as I headed back to the stairs. She had locked me in.

  He released me, rolling his eyes skywards. 'Sorry. She's got a thing about locking men in the cellar. I wouldn't worry about it though. I'm sure she means well.'

  'But why?'

  'I think it's because her father went away when she was a little girl and she reasoned that if he'd been locked in the cellar he wouldn't have been able to go. She only does it to men she likes. It's a compliment really.'

  'Not the sort of compliment I like,' I said, though in all honesty it was about the only one I'd ever received from a woman, except from mother. 'Is she safe?'

  'Oh, I shouldn't think so.' He grinned. 'She's only human after all. Are they ever safe?'

  I shrugged. 'Dunno. Has she ever locked you in?'

  'Oh yes,' he said airily, 'she used to do it all the time but I kept escaping and, since I always came back, I think she decided I was here to stay.'

  'Well, it is your house.'

  'True,' said Hobbes, 'and it's her home. Yours, too, as long as you want it.'

  Again, I was touched. 'Thank you,' I said, though I still planned to write the book and was glad of any scraps of information about him and his crazed household. 'Umm … I noticed a door in the cellar.'

  'Well of course you did.' He frowned. 'Which is how you were able to enter and exit.'

  'No. Another door.'

  'Are you sure?' Without apparently doing anything, he seemed suddenly threatening.

  'Yes,' I said, though his reply and manner had confused me and made me unsure. 'I've just seen it.'

  'I don't think you should have just seen it.' He leaned towards me a fraction, the animal scent strengthening. 'It would be far better if you hadn't just seen it. If I were you, I'd forget about it. That door is not for you. Not yet. Maybe never.'

  He patted me on the shoulder. It felt like being cudgelled.

  'Now, come along, Andy.' He spoke slowly and emphatically. 'There is no other door in the cellar and you didn't see one because there was nothing to see. Do you understand?'

  I knew how Biggs had felt. I was trembling all over, my knees knocking together, yet I managed to nod.

  He smiled. 'Good man.'

  The animal odour dissipating, my knees settled back into their accustomed supporting roles.

  'Supper'll be ready soon. In the meantime, why not take a seat and take the weight off your mind.' Propelling me into the sitting room, he sat me on the sofa.

  'Thank you,' I said, as he left and bounded upstairs. Though I tried to stop thinking about the door, I couldn't understand why he'd reacted in such a way. A horrible thought made me clutch at the lapel of my tweed jacket. What had happened to its original owner, Mr Goodfellow? Was he locked behind the door, walled up, never to escape? Or maybe his mortal remains were hidden there … or was there something worse? I sat in an ecstasy of doubt and fear until supper was ready when Hobbes reappeared, guided me into the kitchen and said Grace.

  I wouldn't have said I was hungry until I saw what lay on the table. It was what is sometimes referred to as a spread. There was a plate of sandwiches, generously cut from Mrs Goodfellow's still-warm crusty bread and packed with ham and mustard or cheese and pickle. Then there was egg and cress, cucumber and salmon, paté, cheeses, cold tongue and homemade pickles. To follow, she produced a cream trifle, drowning in sherry, a coffee cake smelling as fragrant as if the coffee had been freshly ground and was as light as air, a luscious dark fruit cake and a bowl of tinned pears. The latter surprised me, yet turned out to be Hobbes's favou
rite. I made myself at home. So what if I spent half my time in a state of fear and horror? I could at least eat well. And, by golly, I did eat well.

  Afterwards, I sat back in my chair, hands folded across a distended stomach and belched happily.

  'Manners, Andy. Manners.' Hobbes wagged a finger at me. He looked almost friendly, yet a glint in his eyes reminded me of Granny's cat. That evil orange beast used to slink towards me, exuding bonhomie, purring, begging to be stroked. As soon as I touched him, he'd roll onto his back in ecstasy, dig his claws into my hand and bite my thumb. He'd got me every time, and I was determined to stay on my guard with Hobbes. Though I'd once overheard a drunk in the Feathers state that Hobbes's bark was worse than his bite, I'd bet Hobbes had never bitten him, and my fear of being bitten was not the least of my worries about him. Even so, I was managing to live in his house, was fit and well, and gathering material for a book that could be the making of me, though a doubt had begun to take root; would anyone believe it?

  I'd fully expected Hobbes to want to talk about the break-in after tea but, to my surprise, Mrs Goodfellow, bringing out a Scrabble board, invited me to join them in a game. I agreed. I was, after all, a journalist, one who'd increased his word power with Reader's Digest often enough. Though my confidence was high, humiliation was on its way as they thrashed me using words I'd never heard. Early on I challenged Hobbes over 'quitch', which he claimed was a type of grass, giving him a triple word score, and demanded a dictionary. He proved to be correct and, furthermore had just ruined my next move; all I could do was add an 's' to the word 'rat'. 'Rats.' At least it summed up my feelings. When Mrs Goodfellow followed my brilliant addition of 'san' to a 'g' to get 'sang' by expanding it to 'sanguineous' I knew I was in trouble. We played four games over the evening, Hobbes and Mrs Goodfellow winning two each, while I came a poor third every time. And that was to flatter myself, for in the final game, my total score was less than either of them achieved in a single move and, even worse, I was convinced they were trying to let me do well, giving me plenty of opportunities that I didn't, or couldn't, take.