Read 3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers for Free Online

running the gauntlet of reporters. Again he proved invaluable and we got back inside without too much hassle.
    Hobbes was already up and dressed. Having never seen him in his dinner jacket before, I was impressed. He looked almost smart and quite respectable, despite wearing a bow tie, a relic of the sixties I assumed, that looked as if a large velvet bat had seized him by the throat. Dregs apparently thought the same and growled and bristled until Hobbes let him sniff it. Then, relaxing, he waited for his dinner. While Hobbes was feeding him, I took a bulb of garlic from Mrs G’s pot and secreted it in my pocket; I had an idea it might be useful.
    ‘You’d better get ready,’ said Hobbes.
    ‘OK. Umm … have you worked out how to get past that lot outside?’
    ‘Yes, though I suspect you might not like it.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You’ll see.’
    He refused to elaborate and I went upstairs in a state of extreme trepidation. I’d already been shaky and his manner had really set me on edge. On reaching my room, I turned on the light and ferreted around in the wardrobe, finding a pair of black, sharply creased trousers, a crisply pressed dress shirt, and a dinner jacket. I laid them on the bed, and started to dress, popping the garlic bulb into my jacket pocket, finding its pungent aroma strangely reassuring.
    I was doing just fine until the bow tie, a conundrum way beyond my abilities. Having made a right pig’s ear of the whole rigmarole, frustration got the better of me and I punched the wall, a method that worked surprisingly well, since my yelp of pain and subsequent swearing brought Hobbes up to see what was the matter. He found me collapsed on the bed, clutching my hand and groaning.
    Summing up the situation at a glance, he said: ‘Bow ties can be tricky blighters. Stand up, shut up, and I’ll tie it for you.’
    Taking me by the throat, he set to work, his massive hairy fingers tying the black rag into a beautifully neat bow. It was a little tight: a little too tight. Clutching at it, I struggled to breathe, until, recognising my antics as signs of distress, he loosened it with a deft twist.
    ‘Thank you,’ I croaked.
    ‘Don’t mention it. Now put on your jacket, and quickly. It’s time to go.’
    ‘So, how are you going to get past those reporters?’ I asked, combing my hair and admiring myself in the mirror.
    ‘By distracting them and going over the roof tops.’
    ‘That’s all very well for you,’ I said, not liking the way this was developing, ‘but what about me? Shall I take Dregs?’
    ‘No, you’re coming with me.’
    ‘I can’t. I’ll fall off. No, it’s impossible.’
    ‘It is possible. I have a plan and you’ll probably be fine. You’ll see. First, however, I need something from the attic. While I’m getting it, open your window and turn off the light.’
    ‘OK,’ I said, my insides churning, but as usual, I realised I was going to let him do his stuff, and I was going to hope for the best. Turning off the light, I opened the window and looked down. Even from there, the street seemed a bowel-loosening long way below.
    Hobbes returned, carrying an ancient canvas rucksack that looked just about big enough for a human body. Surely not, I thought, as he put it down.
    ‘Get inside,’ he said, grinning benignly.
    ‘Do I have to?’
    ‘Yes, and quickly.’
    I stepped into it and made myself small, discovering my initial assessment of its size had been a little wrong, as my head and shoulders poked out the top. However, before I could object, Hobbes grabbed the straps, lifted me and swung me onto his back.
    ‘Keep your head down,’ he said.
    ‘I can’t keep it any more down and how are you going to distract that lot outside? They are bound to look up.’
    ‘I’m not going to do anything.’
    ‘Do I have to do anything?’ I asked, peering over his shoulder, feeling precarious enough already.
    ‘No. Just relax and keep quiet. It’s time.’
    A tremendous cacophony broke