3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Rupert mentioned someone called Denny. Is that him?’

  ‘Yes, Denny hurts people. He once smashed Hugh over the head with a trombone when Hugh remonstrated with him for attacking a brass band.’

  ‘Why didn’t the police do something?’

  ‘They tried. Sergeant Beer did, anyway, and Denny nearly killed him. He’s not been the same since and he’s terrified of Sir Gerald and Denny. Constable Jones is too inexperienced to make a difference.’

  ‘But,’ I said, ‘how do they get away with it? Can’t somebody do something?’

  She shook her head and sighed. ‘It seems not. Most are too scared to press charges and Sir Gerald knows the ones who aren’t and … well, he has means to persuade them.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’ She paused to sip her tea. ‘I thought I was getting away from all of that. It seems not.’

  ‘But, why you? What has he got against you?’

  She stared at me for a long moment, a frown creasing her forehead. I was struck, and deeply impressed, by how calm she’d become again.

  ‘Sorry, Andy,’ she said, eventually. ‘I can’t tell you. Not yet. Maybe later, when I know you better.’

  ‘If you don’t trust me, I understand. I can wait.’

  ‘It’s not that. Well, maybe it is that. I don’t know you yet and after what you said about Hobbes and Rupert, I’m not sure quite what to think.’

  As I reached for my cup of tea, I came to a startlingly quick decision and acted on it. Leaping forward, ignoring her gasp and look of alarm, I seized her shoulders and dragged her to the floor. Something missed her by a hair’s breadth and hit me on the forehead. White lights and black spots boxed in front of my eyes until the blackness won a knockout.

  A woman was speaking to me. I liked the lilt in her voice almost as much as the note of concern. I was on the carpet, lying on my side, my head sore. When I touched it, there was pain and a warm wetness. I groaned.

  ‘Andy?’

  There was that woman again. There was something familiar …

  ‘Do I come here often?’ I asked.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A brick hit you,’ said Daphne. ‘Well, half a brick.’

  I opened my eyes and pushed myself onto my knees.

  ‘Why?’ Everything was hazy and distant, apart from her face. It was pretty, but looked worried.

  ‘Someone chucked it at me, but you headed it into the waste paper bin. Thank you.’

  Again I touched my head and glanced at my hand. Although there was some pain and wetness, there was no blood.

  ‘It’s tea,’ she said. ‘You knocked my mug.’

  ‘Ah … umm.’ Although things were starting to make sense, I wasn’t sure I was and, when I tried to stand, I needed guidance to reach my chair. ‘My head is a bit sore, but I think I’m alright.’

  ‘You were really lucky,’ she said as I sat down, ‘that it was only a glancing blow. It could have killed you.’

  ‘If I was really lucky, it wouldn’t have hit me at all.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s true. Any idea who threw it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘a big bloke … bald, with a rose tattoo on his arm. I think it was …’

  ‘Denny,’ said Daphne.

  ‘He might have hurt you. Should I call the police?’

  She thought for a moment and shook her head. ‘No, but I suppose I’d better tell you what’s going on, now you’re involved. I’ll shut the window first.’

  As she neared the window, she cried out as a huge, hairy hand, seizing her by the wrist, started to drag her forward, her feet scuffing the floor and kicking wildly. Leaping from my chair, overriding the pain in my head, I grabbed her around the waist, pulling back with all my strength, making her groan. Despite my efforts and her managing to get a grip on the window frame with her free hand, it was no good. A sudden jerk broke my hold and I nearly fell backwards. I dived forward, trying but failing to hold her ankles. She screamed as she was dragged outside and all that was left of her was her left shoe.

  Although, following a number of unpleasant incidents, my normal maxim was to look before I leapt, my impulsive vault through the window worked in our favour. Time seemed to move into slow motion. I had a brief vision of Daphne, lying face down in a narrow alley, with a huge, shaven, tattooed man crouching over her. Then my feet, with all my weight behind them, crashed into the side of his head, knocking him down. I landed with a splat onto paving stones, winded and dazed. As I got back to my feet, my heart was pounding and my stomach churning with the thought of what he would do next, certain my intervention would not have improved his behaviour. He began to get up, but she bashed him on the head with the heel of her remaining shoe, leaving him flat on his face and groaning.

  ‘Come on!’ she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me after her.

  We ran. Denny’s lunge barely missed as we hurdled him and, without breaking stride, fled down the alley along the side of the museum and out onto the pavement, where we paused, gasping.

  ‘What now?’ I asked.

  ‘Back into the museum.’

  We ran inside.

  Daphne shouted to the ticket lady: ‘Call the police!’

  The lady stared, shocked. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been attacked.’

  Putting down her magazine, the lady pointed at me. ‘Was it him? I saw him lurking outside earlier and thought he looked like he was up to no good.’

  ‘No,’ said Daphne. ‘Do you think I’d be holding his hand if it was?’

  We were still holding hands, which, despite the circumstances, made me feel on top of the world, until there was a shadow at the door. Denny lurched in and, although his face was smeared with blood, it could not mask the rage in his eyes. Without thinking, I pushed Daphne behind me and faced him, wondering what to do next, for chivalry is all fine and well, but would serve no purpose if I couldn’t back it up. As he advanced, cracking his knuckles like rifle shots, I raised my fists in a pathetic gesture of defiance, but I couldn’t just stand there, and there was nowhere to run to.

  As he took a step towards us, beckoning with both hands, I had an idea. I’d have been the first to admit it wasn’t one of my finest, but I had to try something.

  ‘Stop where you are!’ I said, using my authoritative voice, the voice that mostly failed on Dregs. ‘What do you mean by attacking Mrs Duckworth? If you take one more step towards us, you will force me to make a citizen’s arrest.’

  Behind me, Daphne gasped. Before me, Denny stopped, shaking his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Then, a slow, chilling sneer spread across his face and he laughed. The sheer contempt in that laugh aroused something unexpected in me: something dangerous. Adrenalin surged, my heart quickened and my breathing grew more rapid. I had, of course, experienced the fight or flight response many times and had, traditionally, favoured the latter option. This time was different. Rage swept through me, the world changed colour and I saw Denny, red as a devil in hell. Primeval instincts kicking in, I hurled myself at him, with the sole intention of destroying that sneer. Never before had I experienced a feeling of such strength; never before had I felt so coordinated, so whole, so alive, so un-Andy-like. The next few seconds remain vivid in my memory.

  Ducking beneath his punch, I swung with all my might, feeling his nose crunch as my left fist struck and, as my right fist thudded onto the point of his jaw, he went over backwards. I fell with him, landing on top, punching, kicking and biting, shrugging off his attempts to grapple until he seized my wrists and tossed me aside. Landing on my back, I slid across the marble floor, but was back on my feet in an instant and landed several swinging punches without reply.

  It couldn’t go on forever. His massive fist thumped into my solar plexus. I doubled up like a broken deckchair and collapsed, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come.

  That was the end of my heroics. I was helpless and knew it and expected worse,
far worse, to follow. Yet nothing worse did happen and things began to improve considerably. Daphne’s arms closed around me and I could feel her warmth and her heart beating, even through my own trembling.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked, over and over, although I was unable to reply.

  I nodded and, at last, air filled my lungs. I sucked it down as the gut pain receded into a dull ache. My knuckles were raw and bleeding. The kiss she gave me as I sat up took my breath away in an entirely different way.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I said, looking around fearfully while she helped me stand up. ‘What happened? Where did he go?’

  ‘It was strange,’ she said, her eyes teary. ‘Just as you went down, your big black dog burst in and launched himself at Denny, who ran away.’

  ‘That sounds like Dregs,’ I said, knowing it wasn’t the first time the brave beast had saved me. ‘He’s actually Hobbes’s dog. That is, he stays at Hobbes’s and helps him with his cases.’

  As I spoke, I was shocked to realise just how similar my situation was, and wondered whether Hobbes regarded Dregs as just another house guest, or whether he regarded me as just another pet.

  ‘That is one fierce animal,’ said Daphne.

  ‘He’s a softy, really,’ I said, ‘though, to be honest, he scared me when he first came along. He was wild and dangerous back then. He isn’t now. Not normally.’

  Leaning forward, she kissed me again. ‘I’m glad he was fierce then, because Denny looked in the mood for murder.’

  ‘I’m glad, too.’

  She smiled. ‘And thank you. Most men wouldn’t have the guts to fight him and you knocked him down, twice.’

  ‘Well … the first time was a bit of luck.’

  ‘But the second time wasn’t. You really went for him.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I? I … umm … didn’t know what else to do. I’m not normally a fighter.’

  She helped me get back to my feet. I was shaking, my knuckles were stiff and sore and my mind seemed to be turbocharged with conflicting emotions. There was pride that I’d fought Denny, though deep down I knew I’d just been desperate, like a cornered rat, and I didn’t like the fact that I’d lost control. It took me back to an incident at school, when I’d been nine or ten. Timothy Walsh had grabbed my pencil and run away with it, laughing. Although Timmy was a friend, the pencil had belonged to my sister before the accident and my behaviour regulator had malfunctioned. Instead of treating it as a joke, I’d pursued him, thrown him to the ground, knelt on his arms and raised my fists to pound him. The memory of his face, shocked, scared, and confused remained. Although I’d stopped myself in the nick of time, I’d scared myself as much as him and had always feared unleashing that emotion, the beast within, as Hobbes described it.

  A sudden movement in the doorway made my stomach lurch.

  ‘Alright, Andy?’ asked Hobbes, peering in.

  ‘More or less,’ I said.

  ‘Has someone thrown a rock at you?’

  ‘No, it was a brick and it wasn’t thrown at me.’

  ‘Then,’ said Hobbes, turning towards Daphne, ‘may I deduce that it was aimed at you, Mrs Duckworth?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Yes, but how do you know my name?’

  ‘I’m a detective,’ he said. ‘I take it that the large bleeding man currently being pursued by Dregs is Mr Denzil Barker?’

  Daphne nodded. ‘Yes. He threw the brick at me, but Andy got me out the way. Then Denny dragged me out the window, but Andy knocked him down. Then he came in here and Andy fought him.’

  Hobbes grinned. ‘That was extremely well done.’

  I blushed. ‘It was nothing. Dregs saw him off.’ Inside, part of me basked in the praise, while another part wouldn’t stop reminding me that I’d just got lucky, that I’d resorted to violence, and that I was a pet, like Dregs, but less useful.

  ‘No,’ said Hobbes, ‘it’s something to be proud of, so don’t put yourself down. According to Rupert, Mr Barker is given to bouts of extreme violence and has seriously injured many, including, I regretted to learn, some police officers. To come away from the encounter with a bruise on the head, a wallop in the guts and bloody knuckles is to have acquitted yourself well. I begin to have great hopes for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘But what have you done with Rupert? And, if it comes to that, where’s Dregs?’

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘I’m afraid Rupert ran away when I was dealing with a stampede at the Farmers’ Market. I expect he’ll turn up sometime, probably after getting in trouble.’ He put his head to one side as if listening. ‘As for Dregs, if I’m not very much mistaken, he’s on his way back.’

  Daphne was watching him, her expression a strange mix of horror, amazement, and puzzlement. ‘You’re Inspector Hobbes, aren’t you?’

  To my surprise, he gave a theatrical bow.

  ‘I am,’ he said, grimacing and rubbing his ribs. ‘I should have introduced myself.’

  ‘Andy said you were helping Rupert Payne spy on me. Why?’

  ‘It’s true that I was trying to help the lad and that he was sent to spy on you, but I wasn’t helping him in that. In fact, I strongly discouraged him. I was hoping he’d lead me to Mr Barker, because I want a word with him.’

  ‘I see,’ said Daphne, as if she didn’t.

  With a clicking of toenails and a wagging of tail, Dregs reappeared, a dirty blue rag in his jaws. Having luxuriated in our praise and patting for a few moments, he allowed Hobbes to take it. It was a piece of torn denim.

  Hobbes held it up to the light and sniffed. ‘That’s funny,’ he said.

  I stopped stroking Dregs’s rough, black head. ‘What is?’

  ‘This cloth, formerly part of Mr Barker’s trousers, has a strange scent, yet it is familiar, if very faint. I can’t put my finger on quite why. It’ll come.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the ticket lady, looking rather bored, ‘but do you still want me to call the police?’

  ‘No,’ said Hobbes. ‘I am the police.’

  Nodding, she went back to reading her magazine, as if gladiatorial contests between man and monster took place in the museum’s foyer every day.

  ‘Inspector,’ said Daphne, ‘what do you want to talk to Denny Barker about?’

  ‘It’s to do with a crime,’ said Hobbes, looking thoughtful. ‘I would like to rule him into my investigation, but I’m afraid that’s all I can say for now.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand. But can you tell me what brought you here?’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Duckworth. I happened to be approaching the foyer when I saw Mr Barker, who appeared to be in an agitated state, enter the building. Unfortunately, I have a busted rib and can’t get around like I usually do, so I sent in the cavalry, in the form of Dregs. He’s handy in a brawl, so long as he knows whose side he’s on.’

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘if you’re injured, what were you going to do about Denny?’

  ‘I would have talked to him and tried to dissuade him from doing anything he might have later regretted.’

  ‘No, seriously? He only listens to Sir Gerald.’

  ‘Well, if a little chat didn’t work, I would have dissuaded him by other means.’ Hobbes smiled.

  She frowned. ‘But you don’t know him. He’s really dangerous. Honestly, I’ve seen him beat up four men at the same time. He might have hurt you badly.’

  ‘He might have, and I suppose he’ll have his chance when I find him. Thank you for the warning, but I’ll take him as he comes. Are you two alright? It is not pleasant to be attacked.’

  ‘I’m a bit shaky,’ said Daphne, ‘but I’m alright, apart from scrapes and bruises from when that brute pulled me through the window … and my trousers will never be quite the same.’

  ‘I’m OK, too,’ I said, ‘except for a sore head … and I’m a bit tender.’ I patted my stomach and winced. ‘I’ll get over it, but my hands are very stiff.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’d get some ice on them, if I were you,
and the lass will have something to soothe them. Now, Mrs Duckworth, could you show me your office?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Yes, I suppose so. This way.’

  She led us to the room where he sniffed about for a few moments before picking up a frame of metal bars.

  ‘Last time I was in here,’ he said, ‘the security grille was on the window.’

  ‘It was until this morning,’ said Daphne, retrieving her lost shoe. ‘I took it down so that I could open the window and let in a bit of air. It was so stuffy, it smelt like a bear pit.’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ said Hobbes. ‘Bear pits have a most peculiar and pungent aroma, but I can quite believe it gets stuffy. However, I would advise keeping the grille in place, at least until I can ensure Mr Barker won’t be up to any more mischief.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ she agreed.

  Lifting the grille, he slotted it into place and held it while she locked it securely with a key from the desk drawer.

  ‘Right,’ said Hobbes, ‘my work here is done for now. I’d better catch some villains, or Sid will give me an ear bashing. Good to meet you, Mrs Duckworth. I’ll see you at supper time, Andy. The lass is making a pork vindaloo. Goodbye. Come on, Dregs.’

  ‘Right,’ said Daphne, as they left, ‘are you ready to get some lunch?’

  17

  The puny, shrouded midday sun only seemed to underline the damp chill and blustery wind as we left the museum. I was still shaking, coming down from my adrenalin high, but Daphne appeared quite cheerful.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I could really do with a stiff one. I don’t normally drink at lunchtime, but it’s been one hell of a morning. Is there anywhere round here?’

  ‘Sounds like an excellent idea … umm … the Black Dog Café does a decent lunch, and it serves wine or bottled beers.’

  ‘I could do with something a little stronger.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, inspired by an advert I’d seen in Sorenchester Life, ‘there’s a new place opened on Rampart Street called the Bar Nun and it’s said to serve good food. I haven’t been there yet, but it’s only a two or three minute walk away.’