Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman)

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Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 2

by Martin, Wilkie


  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Hobbes. ‘There have been plenty of reports of mysterious big cats over the years, so it’s not out of the question, but Bob’s never been the most reliable of witnesses.’

  ‘I reckon he was just trying to cover his tracks,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly likely that a big cat would eat loads of pheasants.’

  ‘It depends on how hungry it was and, if we allow the possibility that one big cat’s on the loose, there’s a chance there may be others. And don’t forget that dead sheep; that could conceivably have been the work of a big cat.’

  ‘It’s a bit far-fetched. Surely, you don’t believe him?’

  ‘As I said, I don’t not believe him. In fact, it wouldn’t be the first time there’ve been big cats on the loose around here.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘It was a few years ago, just after I’d been made up to sergeant, and it all happened up by the Elms estate, which in those days was a quiet, pretty place with lots of beautiful elms and very few houses. It was, by all accounts, a lovely spring day and no one could have anticipated the terrible events. Do you want to hear it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wasn’t there, being on holiday in Rhyll at the time, and only heard the story when I got back. Apparently a small travelling circus had come to town, featuring among the usual acts, a pair of lions in the charge of Claude the lion-tamer.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Actually, that might not have been his name, but he was definitely clawed, and had to be taken to hospital with multiple lacerations, leaving the other circus folk to look after his animals. They didn’t do a very good job.’

  The car bumped along the track, stopping at the end of the lane, the bleating of nearby sheep drifting in through the window.

  ‘Go on,’ I urged, meaning to continue his story, not to pull out in front of the lorry that was powering towards us. Brakes shrieked, the engine roared and somehow we were still alive.

  He continued. ‘They forgot to feed them for a few days and, when they remembered, both lions lay limp in their cage, as if dead. A juggler and a clown went in to check – the clown had nicked himself shaving and was bleeding. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the lions weren’t dead; they’d merely been sleeping and woke to find two men in their cage and the door wide open.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘That must have been scary, especially for the bleeding clown.’

  ‘Language, Andy. As it happens, the lions, ignoring the clown, went straight for the juggler, who was in front of the door, and knocked him to the ground. Yet, the lure of freedom proved stronger than hunger and they fled without harming him. The circus folk contacted the police, who organised a big search but found no sign of the beasts.

  ‘They turned up on Sunday morning. Back then there was a pleasant little church on the estate and a service was in progress when the lions walked in. The story goes that the vicar looked up to see them bounding towards him down the aisle. “Oh Lord,” he prayed in his terror, “turn these ravenous beasts into Christians.”’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, agog.

  ‘Well,’ said Hobbes, ‘on hearing his words, the lions stopped, bowing their heads before the altar. The vicar rejoiced, certain a miracle had been granted to him, until he heard what they were saying.’

  ‘The lions could speak? What did they say?’

  ‘For what we are about to receive …’

  I laughed. ‘No! I don’t believe you.’

  Hobbes chuckled. ‘Oh well, you’re learning. Actually, most of the story is true, just not that last bit. In reality, old General Squire, Colonel Squire’s grandfather, shot them both in the apse. A pity as they weren’t doing any harm.’

  ‘What next?’ I asked.

  ‘I think we should pay a visit to the Wildlife Park and have a quiet word.’

  ‘You do think there’s a big cat on the loose.’

  ‘I would merely like to eliminate the possibility from my enquiries.’

  2

  The road to the Wildlife Park, being quiet, presented Hobbes with an opportunity for some brutal accelerator crushing. I clung to my seat, sweating, wishing I could be as cool as Dregs whose head was stuck out the window, ears flapping like bats in a hurricane. Now and again, Hobbes insisted on looking over his shoulder to talk to me, allowing the car to swoop wildly across the road, taking the shortest route. Responding only encouraged him; keeping quiet only made him turn to check nothing was wrong.

  Fortunately for my well-being, the ten-mile journey could only have lasted five minutes, since the more I got used to his driving, the more frightening it became. Turning into the Wildlife Park, we slowed down, having, as always, made it without harm to ourselves or others. A small herd of antelope stared at us, acting skittishly as if we might be predators. To the left, half a dozen two-humped camels lounged in the shade of a mighty tree, watching the world with total disdain.

  ‘I’d best keep well away from that lot,’ said Hobbes, a look of concern on his face.

  ‘Why? They’re not dangerous are they?’

  ‘Not as such, but unfortunately I have an allergy to camels; at least they’re not dromedaries, because they can make me really bad.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re not allergic to something common, like dogs or cats. You can’t run into camels very often.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  The car park was guarded by a broad, red-faced man in a narrow, green booth. Standing up, he emerged, ticket machine swinging from his bulging neck.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said, ‘he’s going to charge.’

  Hobbes, stopping the car, smiling, held out his ID. ‘I’d like a word with the manager.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Try the main office in the big house, but dogs aren’t allowed.’ He pointed to a large sign confirming his statement.

  ‘It’s alright,’ said Hobbes, ‘he’s with me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘He’s with me,’ said Hobbes, his tone leaving no room for argument.

  ‘Fine. In that case, you’d better leave your car by the coaches,’ said the poor man pointing vaguely behind him, mopping his forehead with a red handkerchief, ‘because the parking by the house is rather limited at the moment. We’re expecting delivery of a kangaroo.’

  Hobbes thanked him and parked and we piled out of the oven. I felt as limp as a month-old lettuce and even Dregs was drooping.

  ‘You two look like you could do with a drink,’ said Hobbes, parting the flock of excited school children loitering in front of the kiosk, deciding which sweets would rot their teeth best. He returned with a large lemonade for me and an ice cream carton filled with water for the dog. Dregs lapped it up, splashing almost as much as he drank.

  ‘We’d best find the manager,’ Hobbes said when I’d drained my paper cup and Dregs had licked the carton dry. ‘Come on. And quickly.’

  We headed towards the house, an impressive, turreted, stone edifice with fine mullioned windows and ivy draped around the porch, where a sign directed us inside to the main office. Going inside was almost like stepping into a cave, the coolness coming as a blessed relief, the shade delightful. The problem was my eyes, taking a few moments to recover from the glare, failed to spot the sign advising visitors to mind the step.

  I didn’t mind it. Stumbling down, struggling to regain my balance, I might have succeeded had it not been for the rug slipping beneath my feet. My legs began a desperate race, trying to keep up as my upper body lurched headfirst towards a door that was, fortunately, ajar. Bursting through, sprawling full length, skidding across the marble floor on my belly, I came to rest a few centimetres from a pair of elegant ladies’ shoes. On pushing myself to my knees, I couldn’t fail to notice the equally elegant pair of legs, clad in sheer black nylon. An intoxicating, powerful perfume filled the air.

  I’d never had much luck when meeting attractive women, somehow never appearing at my best, as if cursed to be a buffoon, a klutz. Yet, as I looked up, the smile on her fac
e suggested amused sympathy, rather than the horrified contempt I’d expected.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked, her voice soft and gentle with rather a posh accent, suiting her look of quiet sophistication. She wore a black skirt and a pale-green silk blouse, which clung around her. My eyes, briefly meeting hers, stared at the carpet, yet I retained an image of full red lips, sleek, dark hair surrounding a face suggestive of Mediterranean ancestry, eyes flashing green like northern seas in the sunlight, beneath fine quizzical eyebrows, and …

  ‘Andy?’ Hobbes arrived in a more conventional manner, his voice bursting into my reverie like a hippo into a paddling pool. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Umm … er …’

  ‘Do you think we should call an ambulance?’ asked the woman, sounding concerned. ‘He might have hit his head.’

  A great muscular paw dragged me to my feet. An electric fan whirred, blowing cool air into my back.

  ‘He probably should get his head examined,’ said Hobbes, ‘but I don’t think he’s hurt himself.’ He sniffed, rubbing his nose.

  ‘I’m alright,’ I said. ‘I … umm … fell.’

  When the woman smiled at me, my knees came close to giving way.

  Another woman spoke. ‘Can I help you?’

  An older woman, flecks of grey in her short, gingery hair, wearing round, red-rimmed spectacles, sat behind a desk. I had found the main office.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Hobbes in his official voice, showing his ID, ‘I’m Inspector Hobbes and this young oaf,’ he patted my back, ‘is Andy.’ He sneezed. ‘Excuse me.’

  I flinched, but not from the suddenness of the sneeze. Being labelled an oaf in front of such a beautiful woman was not good for the ego, especially when the accolade was well deserved. Yet, she smiled again before turning to the other woman.

  ‘Thanks, Ellen,’ she said. ‘I can see you’ll be busy with these two gentlemen so I’ll come back later.’ She walked away, with an elegant swing of the hips.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ said the older woman, rising from her chair, ‘I’m Ellen Bloom, Mr Catt’s secretary. How can I help you?’

  She smiled at him; I still wondered how he managed to conceal his otherness behind his policeman’s façade.

  ‘It’s merely a routine enquiry. I wondered whether you might have lost any big cats recently?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. We are not in the habit of losing animals, especially big ones.’

  ‘No, I thought not,’ said Hobbes, nodding. ‘However, I needed to check. I wonder if I might have a word with your boss?’

  ‘Mr Catt is not in his office. I’ll find him.’ Sitting back in her chair, picking up a walkie-talkie, she pressed a button and spoke. ‘Mr Catt? It’s Ellen.’

  The walkie-talkie crackled and buzzed in response but Mrs Bloom seemed to understand it.

  ‘I have an Inspector Hobbes here, who wants to talk about big cats … OK, I’ll tell him … goodbye.’ She released the button, looking up at Hobbes. ‘Mr Catt is in the reptile house attending to the crocodiles. Go out the front door, turn left and left again. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hobbes as we left.

  ‘Wasn’t she gorgeous?’ I murmured.

  ‘Mrs Bloom?’

  ‘No, the other lady. I wonder what she’s called?’

  He grinned. ‘It’s like that is it? And there was I thinking you’d thrown yourself at her feet by accident.’

  ‘I did … D’you think I made a fool of myself?’

  ‘No,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘almost certainly not.’ Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he blew his nose like a foghorn. ‘I think the rug you slid on must be made of camel hair. It’s good to get some fresh air.’

  I nodded, unable to take my mind from the woman, who, though she must have seen me as a clumsy oaf, had smiled at me. It had been a smile of sympathy but it had shown off her perfect white teeth, lovely lips, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners …

  ‘Where’s Dregs got to?’ asked Hobbes, looking around.

  He’d definitely been with us when we’d entered the house but I couldn’t recall seeing him since. There was no sign of him.

  ‘We’d better find him,’ said Hobbes, ‘and quickly. Otherwise he’ll end up in the lion’s den – or worse.’

  He loped away in a crouch, his hairy hands nearly brushing the dusty concrete and, though he looked awkward, I had to jog to keep up. At least I could keep up for a short while. When I’d first met him, I wouldn’t have stood a chance, but Mrs Goodfellow’s good food, combined with running after him and Dregs, had lifted me to a level of fitness that was still a novelty. Nevertheless, I was puffing and sweating like a Turkish wrestler when we found the dog, cowering under the car, trembling, showing the whites of his eyes, licking his lips. He seemed pleased that we were there and crawled out, whining like a frightened puppy. I’d never seen him like it before and it came as a shock, for I wouldn’t have believed anything could scare him.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ I asked, stroking his hairy head.

  ‘I don’t know but something’s obviously given him a fright.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s the scent of all the animals round here?’

  ‘I doubt it. He normally likes that sort of thing.’

  ‘I suppose so. Perhaps my fall upset him?’ Even I was sceptical about this theory for, judging by past experience, Dregs regarded any trip or pratfall with great, tail-wagging amusement.

  ‘Who knows, but whatever was up with him, he’s better now.’

  It was true, for Dregs’s whiplash tail was working overtime and he was now bouncing around us as if nothing had happened.

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘Oh well, let’s find Mr Catt.’

  As we headed towards a long, low-slung building, my stomach started turning somersaults because I’d always had a thing about reptiles, and particularly snakes, even the little ones. I had a moment of hope on spotting a sign saying the reptile house was temporarily closed to the public, but it didn’t deter Hobbes or Dregs who plunged inside, while I dithered, scared to enter, yet unwilling to miss out on whatever transpired. At length, screwing up my courage, I ran after them. It was bad, as bad as I’d feared. There was a boa constrictor slithering in my direction in the first tank and a pair of anacondas, sleeping but sinister in the second. Then came smaller tanks, writhing with all sorts of venomous serpents but the worst was a massive reticulated python, its belly swollen to the size and shape of a small pig. I shivered, avoiding eye contact, trying to hurry past, while Hobbes peered at it, obviously fascinated, and Dregs bounced, barking in excitement.

  ‘This fellow’s enjoyed a good lunch and no mistake,’ said Hobbes, ‘and it’s obviously not the snakes that frightened Dregs.’

  ‘C’mon,’ I urged, ‘let’s find Mr Catt.’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ said Hobbes, putting his great, hairy paw up to the glass and waving. ‘Hello, Mr Python, curling round a tree.’

  The snake, responding, slithered towards us, making me feel sick and wobbly, scarcely able to breathe, as its unblinking gaze locked onto me, following my every movement. Though my rational mind knew it was safely behind the thick glass, I couldn’t help myself wondering what would happen if the glass broke, or if some careless keeper had left the door open.

  ‘Can we go now?’ I asked, backing away.

  ‘I think she’s got a crush on you,’ said Hobbes with an evil grin.

  Turning, I fled towards a walled pen at the rear, where a pair of crocodiles lurked. Hobbes followed, chuckling.

  The larger of the crocodiles raised his head as we drew close. ‘Ah,’ it said, ‘you must be Inspector Hobbes. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  I was so startled that, forgetting my panic, I stood still as a statue, gaping like an idiot, until a chubby, little man, red-faced, dressed in a dishevelled safari suit, stood up abruptly from behind the wall, seized the smaller croc by the tail and plunged a syringe into it. The beast thrashed and snappe
d but the man had moved on.

  Sauntering away, he climbed back over the wall, dropping the syringe into a yellow plastic box. ‘A jab well done,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, chuckling at his own joke. ‘I’m Francis Catt, the director. How may I help you?’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Hobbes, ‘but have you lost any cats?’

  ‘Felines, nothing more than felines,’ Mr Catt sang in a wavering tenor and grinned. ‘No, we haven’t lost any. Have you found some?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Hobbes, ‘according to Mr Nibblet.’

  ‘Would that be “Skeleton” Bob Nibblet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hobbes. ‘I take it that you know him?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s turned up here several times recently, fretting that we’d lost a black panther. We haven’t of course. The only thing we’ve ever lost is a grass snake.’

  I couldn’t stop myself from looking around, preparing to run. Grass snakes, I knew, were mostly harmless, but they were still snakes.

  ‘Do you think,’ asked Hobbes, ‘that he was making it up?’

  Mr Catt thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that but he always seems to run across big cats on Friday nights and Ellen – you’ve met my secretary? – she lives not far from him and says he’s usually rolling drunk on Friday evenings.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hobbes.

  Mr Catt continued. ‘I’m not saying he’s lying deliberately but I wouldn’t rely on him. He’s not so bright at the best of times and with a skinful of beer, well, I think it’s likely that he’s just seen a normal black moggy and blown it up out of all proportion.’

  ‘That would seem likely,’ said Hobbes, nodding. ‘Still, while we’re here, would you mind if we take a look at your big cats. What have you got?’

  Mr Catt, escorting us from the reptile house, took us along a dusty path, past groups of happy visitors, heading for the cats. ‘We’ve got lions,’ he said. ‘Tony, the lonesome tiger, and a pair of leopards – you might find them interesting. Zoologically speaking they are synonymous with panthers, the so-called black panthers, merely being melanistic variants. We have a couple of fine specimens but they’re safe in their pen. Anyway, even if they did escape, they wouldn’t get far; leopards are always spotted.’ He sniggered like a schoolboy. ‘By the way, did you know lions are so called because they’re always lion around?’

 

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