3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  Sid nodded. ‘But Colonel Squire won’t. The bank will make good what he lost in the robbery, if necessary, but only at the price of gold at the time. The colonel will no doubt be preparing another salvo of sarcasm about his theoretical losses even as we speak. Let’s hope Wilber does his stuff quickly.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Of course, he lost something in the robbery as well. I guess it was valuable if he kept it in the vaults.’

  ‘You would think so,’ said Sid. ‘More coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. It’s perked me up considerably.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sid, ‘because you were looking a little pale.’

  ‘Was I? Well, I’m fine now.’ I laughed, thinking it fitting that I should be pale after a night in a vampire’s house. Though I felt absolutely safe, I couldn’t deny a slight, nagging unease. ‘Anyway, I should be getting out now and see what’s happening.’

  ‘Ask Wilber to keep me up to date with any developments.’

  I nodded, thinking he would, assuming there were any to report. I hoped he wouldn’t be wasting too much time with Rupert. In my opinion, he ought to have been protecting Daphne, rather than helping the unpleasant youth spy on her.

  Taking my leave, I stepped out into the morning sun, pulling my jacket close against a chill wind, trying to ensure there were as few chinks in my armour as was possible. Denied entry, it expended its fury by whipping up dust and fallen leaves, though there were no trees nearby. I decided not to walk straight back to Blackdog Street, but to make a loop past the museum and, although I pretended I was acting on a whim, deep down, I was hoping to bump into Daphne. I had a vague idea that I could give her a fulsome apology for the can of beans and had a feeble hope that she’d laugh, forgive me and agree to meet me sometime.

  I was utterly amazed when that was precisely what did happen. She was walking towards me and agreed to stop and talk. We didn’t have long, since she didn’t want to be late, explaining that she’s just started working at the museum, but, importantly, she agreed to meet me at half-past twelve. Leaving her outside the museum, I walked the rest of the way home in a daze, wondering how to fill the next three hours until our rendezvous at the Black Dog Café.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Kathy as I walked in, shutting the door behind me. ‘What are you grinning at?’

  ‘I’m just feeling cheerful,’ I said. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

  ‘Huh! It’s goddam freezing. This dump doesn’t have central heating.’

  ‘Put a jumper on.’

  ‘A what?’ She snapped shut the book she was holding.

  ‘A sweater.’

  ‘I’m wearing two sweaters.’

  ‘Well, how about a brisk walk? That’ll warm you up.’

  ‘How about I kick your butt? That’ll warm us both up.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Wha’d’ya mean?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’re not in a very good mood.’

  She hurled the book. It struck me on the ear and smashed a glass vase on the rebound. Although I believed this proved my hypothesis, I didn’t hang around to make the point, for she was already reaching for a mug. Rubbing my ear, I fled towards the kitchen, where Mrs Goodfellow was kneeling on the table, scrubbing with a chunk of sandstone.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s lack of sleep, dear. Young Rupert woke in the night and needed the bathroom. He tripped twice on his way upstairs, banged his head on the bathroom door and then fell into the bath. He lay there moaning until I went in and pulled him out. Then he tumbled downstairs. After that, he thought it would be a good time to start a sing-song and wouldn’t be quiet.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Since I reckoned the old fellow needed his rest, I gave Rupert a tap on the chin to shut him up.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  She nodded. ‘He slept as quiet as a corpse, but woke with a bit of a headache. I think that was from all the wine he’d put away.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Out for a walk with the old fellow and Dregs. The old fellow’s rib is still a bit sore.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, after catching Kathy like that. There’s a lot of her.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Kathy who was at the kitchen door, glowering.

  Mrs Goodfellow caught the mug an inch from my nose. ‘Calm down,’ she said, mildly.

  ‘Make me,’ said Kathy, walking into the kitchen, looking mean and dangerous.

  ‘If you want, dear.’

  Moving with the speed of a striking falcon, she patted Kathy’s neck with an open hand. Kathy’s eyes opened in surprise and closed in unconsciousness and Mrs Goodfellow, catching her as she dropped, laid her on the table.

  ‘What have you done?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve just relaxed her. She’ll sit up soon.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I could tell you, dear, but then I’d have to kill you.’

  I laughed, assuming she was joking. ‘Umm … I’ll not be in for lunch today. I’m … umm … meeting someone.’

  ‘Oh yes? Anyone special?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I hope so, I think.’

  ‘Good for you, dear. You’ll be wanting some pocket money, I expect.’

  ‘Umm …’ I said, cursing myself for having once again forgotten my penniless state. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  She rummaged in the pocket of her pinafore, pulled out her purse and handed me a wad of notes. ‘Take this, dear.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ I said.

  I didn’t feel good about myself, but I did take it.

  Having gone upstairs and changed, I strolled into town, intending to mooch about and see what was going down on the street. I was, in fact, planning to waste time until lunch, but, after an hour or so, somewhat bored, and with money in my pocket, I thought I’d treat myself to a cappuccino and a doughnut at the Café Olé, a hot and happening new coffee shop on Vermin Street, or so the posters led me to believe. On entering, I stood in the doorway, disappointed by the cheap plastic tables and chairs, until the waiter, finishing his obviously-important phone call, showed me, the only customer, to a seat with its very own icy draught. After a brief glance at the menu he’d slapped onto the table in front of me, and a sharp intake of breath at the prices, I got up to leave.

  Although I considered myself a man of the world, one well used to verbal abuse, I was shocked by the vileness and vitriol of the waiter’s language as I walked out. Trying to ignore him, I marched nonchalantly away, even when he burst out after me, launching barrel-loads of filthy words in my general direction. I couldn’t help but think the café’s future would be a short one, although, in fairness, Featherlight had successfully used a similar strategy at the Feathers.

  He kept on coming and, losing my nerve, I fled ignominiously up Vermin Street towards The Shambles, seeking sanctuary in the church, which was almost empty. I ducked down into a pew just as he burst in, still swearing, and lay flat until I heard him leave. I stretched out, catching my breath, letting my heart rate drop. Someone else walked in and sat down a few rows away. Since I was comfortable and it would have been embarrassing to pop up suddenly like a piece of toast, I stayed put, contemplating the ornate carvings on the ceiling, wondering why some craftsman long ago had carved a cat pursuing a mouse.

  ‘Hello, boss,’ a deep, rough, male voice whispered. ‘No, I haven’t found him. He was in a pub in town yesterday, but no one I’ve spoken to has seen him since. The little guy in the pub told me he’d found the kid’s wallet down the back of a bench and had handed it in at the cop shop.’

  My mild curiosity at eavesdropping a stranger’s conversation changed to serious interest.

  ‘Yes, boss, I have found where she lives and she’s got a job at the museum … No, as I said, no one seems to have seen him and I’ve already been everywhere I can think of. Sure, boss, I’ll keep looking. Should I do anything about her? … Yes, boss.’

  I heard the pew creak a
s he stood up, the heaviness of his feet as he walked away, and sat up to see who it was. Unfortunately, a group of tourists had just come in and blocked most of my view and all I got was a glimpse of a large man with a bald head. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t work out why. It was frustrating.

  I sat for a few minutes, trying to puzzle out what I’d just heard, convinced the man was the one Rupert had mentioned, the one that had made him nervous. After rummaging through the mess in my head, the name Denny came to mind and, I thought, it was just as well he hadn’t spotted me eavesdropping, for the vast acreage of his back had suggested massive strength.

  What worried me most was the her he’d mentioned. Unless I was making a right hash of things, something I was admittedly perfectly capable of, her meant Daphne and I had a horrible feeling she was in danger. I’d learned from Hobbes that feelings, or instincts, came from the subconscious and should not be ignored since they were often more reliable than the intellect, especially when the intellect was mine. Sometimes I worried about my brain and wondered if it had a mind of its own.

  I stood up, hurried out and looked around, but Denny had long gone. Making my way to the museum, I loitered outside, like a sentry guarding Buckingham Palace, hoping my mere presence might be some protection for her.

  After a while, despite stamping my feet and rubbing my hands together, I was getting cold, as well as attracting puzzled glances from passers-by. Realising I was not the usual impecunious Andy, but Andy with a wad of cash in his pocket, I paid the entrance fee and went inside.

  16

  Having smoothed down my hair, I made a quick reconnaissance. There was no sign of Daphne and, since there were few visitors, none of whom looked a likely threat, I relaxed and took another look at the photo of Hobbes.

  Without Kathy to entertain, I took the opportunity for an in-depth examination. I had no doubt it was him, the notion of seeing him in really old pictures no longer striking me as remarkable, but it was his companion who was the real puzzle. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn it was Featherlight. Several minutes of staring later, I wondered if I knew anything at all, for he did look uncannily like Featherlight, admittedly, minus a couple of chins and belly rolls and sporting a Clark Gable moustache, yet it had to be him. No one else could have looked like that, and, furthermore, he might almost have passed for Hobbes’s brother.

  The implication took my breath away, as well as the strength from my legs and, had a bench not been within staggering range, I might have collapsed. As it was, I landed heavily and sat gasping and limp. An old lady with fluffy white hair and red glasses asked if I was alright and, although, I nodded, she brought me a glass of water anyway.

  ‘Honestly,’ I said, as she tried to make me drink, ‘I’m alright. I just need a few moments to recover. I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  Huge eyed through thick lenses, she smiled. ‘You look awful, but you’ll feel better once you’ve had a sip of water.’ She forced the glass towards my lips.

  As I opened my mouth to protest, she tilted the glass and cold water gushed in, making me choke and jerk and knock the glass from her hand. The shock of cold water pouring down my neck made me gasp and then choke even more. My eyes streamed and I gurgled, struggling to breathe as I got to my feet. Even in my death throes, the idea that I would go down in history as the man who drowned in Sorenchester Museum struck me as amusing: a silly end for a silly man.

  A vivid memory of a long-forgotten incident resurfaced. My little paddleboat had capsized because of the reckless stupidity of older children and I felt the chill of the water, the panic, the fear, as I struggled upwards, only to find myself trapped in blackness beneath the upturned hull. Knowing I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, unable to escape, I was going to drown, until a hand grabbed me, dragging me from blackness, and back into the sunlight. I’d choked and spluttered, until my saviour, a large woman with a small, bedraggled dog, thumped my back and set me on the bank.

  A thump on my back sent water gushing from my throat like a fountain and knocked me back into the present. I coughed and, as air wheezed into my lungs, I thought I might just live. Wiping my eyes, I turned to face my rescuer. It was Daphne.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked, her expression a confusion of concern and amusement.

  I nodded, still unable to speak.

  ‘I knew a sip of water would make him feel better,’ said the old lady, smiling and walking towards the shop.

  ‘She nearly drowned me,’ I whispered.

  When Daphne laughed, I couldn’t help but laugh as well.

  ‘It’s nice,’ she said, ‘to meet a man who lives for excitement. Seriously, though, are you OK, now?’

  ‘Yes … I think so,’ I said, pulling myself together.

  ‘You do look rather wet.’

  Since my shirt and trousers were dripping, I took the comment at face value. ‘I am a bit,’ I admitted. ‘I’d better try and dry myself off.’

  She smiled. ‘You do that. Then come and see me in my office. My door’s the one at the end of the corridor.’ She pointed past the Roman antiquities.

  ‘The one with “private” on it?’

  ‘That’s the one. Would you like a cup of tea … or are you a coffee man?’

  ‘Thank you … umm … I prefer tea.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Turning, she walked across the hall and down the corridor.

  I watched her go, noticing her navy blue trouser suit was, perhaps, a little too large and didn’t really suit her as well as it should. Still, she looked pretty good to me and she’d smelled nice.

  ‘Cor, look at ’im,’ said a wizened old man walking past, looking like a goblin, speaking at a volume suggesting his antiquated wife was very deaf, or that he was just very rude and didn’t care who heard him, ‘’e’s gone and wet himself.’

  I headed for the gents, where I discovered the hand dryer was so positioned that it was nearly, but not quite, impossible to use on trousers. After persevering, getting a contemptuous glance and a completely uncalled-for remark from a fat man who wished merely to dry his hands, I succeeded in making a difference. Looking reasonably presentable, I took a deep breath, made another attempt at controlling my hair and went in search of Daphne’s room.

  It looked more like a store cupboard than an office, although it had a desk, two chairs, a telephone, a wastepaper bin, a computer and a filing cabinet squeezed into it. She was on the phone, but indicated that I should sit. The window behind her was open, allowing a cool breeze to ripple the papers on the desk.

  At last, she put the phone down and smiled. ‘I hope you don’t mind the window being open, but it was rather stuffy.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘How do you take your tea?’

  ‘White, no sugar, please.’

  ‘Me too.’ Lurking behind the filing cabinet was a tiny table, supporting a kettle. She filled a couple of mugs and handed one to me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking a sip. It wasn’t great, but it was hot and wet and I avoided choking on it. ‘Umm …’ I said, ‘are you the new curator?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m only the new temporary deputy curator. Why do you ask?’

  I told her about Mr Biggs, the previous curator, who, having got himself involved in various nefarious activities, culminating in Hobbes nearly losing his life, had fled to France.

  ‘I had no idea,’ she said, ‘that this town was such a hot bed of crime. Are the police here as bad as the gruesome twosome we were saddled with in Blackcastle?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, they’re pretty good on the whole – especially Hobbes.’

  ‘Hobbes was the big, ugly copper on top of the getaway van, right?’ she said. ‘I saw the video.’

  I nodded.

  ‘That was impressive, but I don’t think I’d like to meet him in a dark alley.’

  ‘You’d have nothing to fear,’ I said, ‘unless you were seriously up to no good. He’s one of t
he good guys at heart. Mind you, he can be utterly terrifying when it suits him.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, surfing a swell of self-importance. ‘He’s my friend.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He stopped me getting stabbed yesterday when I went after that mugger. Rupert had just pulled a knife when he scooped him up in a wheelie bin.’

  ‘Rupert? Are you on first name terms with all the local criminals?’

  ‘I only know his name because Hobbes decided to take him home and feed him instead of taking him down the police station.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, looking at me with interest, which I hoped wasn’t all on account of my story.

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s like that sometimes. It’s maddening, but he usually has a reason, although I’m not always convinced he knows what it is. Still, it usually seems to work out, and it did help him learn that Rupert’s father is Sir Gerald Payne and—’

  Daphne gasped, her face suddenly pale. ‘Sir Gerald? I’d hoped I’d got away from him. What’s he up to?’

  I wondered if I’d said too much. Then again, maybe I hadn’t said enough. I didn’t want to alarm her, but perhaps she deserved to know what I knew and, I thought, I owed her some sort of explanation.

  ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but … umm … Rupert said he came looking for you.’

  ‘No! Is your friend, Hobbes, going to do something about it?’

  ‘I suppose he is, sort of, but, at the moment … umm … he appears to be giving him a hand.’

  ‘You mean he’s actually helping him?’

  She looked scared and angry – and pretty.

  ‘I’m sure he has a good reason.’ I said, forcing a confident smile. ‘Probably, anyway.’

  ‘But,’ she said, ‘I came here to get away from the Paynes. They’ve made my life a misery, even before Hugh died.’

  ‘Hobbes won’t let Rupert harm you in any way,’ I said. ‘You’re one of the public and I’m sure he’ll want to protect you.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that young idiot, Rupert! He’d be harmless enough without his father. He’s the one who scares me, because he’s ruthless and vindictive and he’s not stupid. What’s more he has Denzil to do his dirty work.’ She shivered, seeming to shrink into herself.