3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers by Wilkie Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

sort since moving here, have you?’ said Hobbes.
    ‘No, and for that I give you thanks, old boy.’
    ‘I’m just doing my job.’
    ‘Like you were last night,’ said Sid. ‘It’s regrettable someone caught your antics on camera, but otherwise you did well. I don’t like losing our money.’
    ‘Your money?’ I said, surprised, for the news had suggested the gang was trying to steal over a million pounds in gold sovereigns and, although Sid’s house suggested he was comfortably off, he didn’t strike me as a millionaire.
    ‘In a manner of speaking. The gold actually belongs to Colonel Squire, but since he was depositing it in my bank, I have a stake in it.’
    Colonel Squire, the owner of Sorenchester Manor and several estates, was reputed to be very rich indeed.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Hobbes. ‘The colonel said he was diversifying his investments.’
    ‘But why was he doing it at night?’ I asked. ‘Why not during normal banking hours?’
    ‘There are two good reasons,’ said Sid. ‘Firstly, the colonel is rich enough to make the bank jump to his command. Secondly, he wanted me to accept the deposit personally and, if I have to go out, I prefer to do it at night. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll serve the soup.’
    Rising, he strolled across to the stove, very light on his feet for one so portly, and, returning with a vast tureen, ladled out generous portions into three large, white bowls. The soup was red and frothy.
    I looked at it, then at Hobbes. He smiled.
    ‘What is this?’ I asked, trying to sound calm, trying to dispel a rising horror.
    ‘Borscht,’ said Sid, fetching a basket of thickly sliced, crusty bread and a butter dish. As if that explained everything.
    ‘Yes, but what’s actually in it, besides garlic.’
    ‘I’ll bet,’ said Sid with a chuckle, ‘that the colour is worrying you.’
    I nodded, feeling sick.
    ‘It’s made with beetroot, and don’t worry, there’s no blood in it.’
    ‘Oh, good,’ I said, relieved. ‘I didn’t really think there would be.’
    ‘Of course not,’ said Sid, looking solemn.
    I felt no fear. Whatever he was, he was no threat.
    ‘Please, help yourself to bread,’ said Sid, ‘and eat. I hope you enjoy it.’
    After Hobbes had said his customary grace, I did eat. The borscht had a robust, almost earthy flavour with a hint of sweetness, not to mention a satisfying nuttiness and a strong meaty flavour, with just a hint of sourness that piqued my taste buds. In fact, it was so good I even entertained the possibility that it might equal one of Mrs G’s soups, though it felt disloyal to think so. Maybe it was because of my extreme hunger, or the contrast to Mother’s well-meaning horrors.
    I tucked in, listening with half an ear to Hobbes and Sid talking about Rocky, the Olde Troll, who’d apparently fallen asleep while out standing in his field, and had woken up covered in graffiti. Although the brisk application of a wire brush had restored him to pristine condition, Rocky had complained bitterly about the loss of his lichen patina. Then, when I might have expected more talk of old times and old acquaintances, the conversation turned to gold and banking. I was surprised to learn that Hobbes kept a deposit box in Grossman’s Bank, a box he hadn’t touched since 1922.
    ‘Help yourselves to more borscht,’ said Sid as I finished the bowl. ‘There’s plenty.’
    ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ I said. ‘It’s delicious.’
    ‘Delicious? I should jolly well think so. I’ve had plenty of practice since my wife died.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
    ‘Don’t be, young fellow. She had a good life. Until she married me, of course.’
    Hobbes, with a laugh, helped himself to more and said: ‘Your Queenie was a good woman; she was like a mother to the lass.’
    Once again, I experienced the strange sense of dislocation that struck whenever I was confronted with the age of Hobbes and some of his associates. Although I’d never plucked