Read Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) for Free Online Page B

carpet, which, he remarked, came from the soles of a well-worn pair of
boots.
    I
soon grew bored watching his broad backside and studied the room, which, though
a mess, was a rich mess. However, something about the old ornaments and
furniture, something to do with their colours and chunkiness, suggested they
weren't British. Engaging my brain for a moment, I remembered Hobbes talking
about the foreign-looking jewellery left behind in the burglary and Roman's parents
having bought the house just after the war. Perhaps, I thought, they had been
foreigners who'd arrived in Britain at the time and, perhaps, they'd done
something bad, or had acquired something they shouldn't have, when Europe was
in turmoil. And what if someone had tracked the hiding place down after all
these years? I tried my theory out on Hobbes, who sniffed and stuck his head
under a sideboard.
    Crawling
backwards, he squatted on his haunches, staring up at the panelled wall and
down at the turquoise patterned carpet, scratching his chin with a sound like
someone sawing wood. At first, I couldn't see what had interested him. Then I
became aware of faint scuffs on the carpet, suggesting the sideboard had been
pulled away from the wall on one side and then pushed back. As I turned my
head, the light striking the wall revealed a thin vertical crack along one side
of the panelling. My heart lurched with excitement.
    Hobbes
stood up, hauling the sideboard out the way, poking the panelling with his
thumbnail until a section swung back with a ping, revealing a wall safe. It
wasn't locked but it was empty. He glanced at me over his shoulder, raising his
shaggy eyebrows.
    Leaning
forward, he sniffed and poked the combination lock with the tip of a
fingernail. 'There's no sign of forced entry but the burglar's been in here
alright. Hallo, what's this?'
    There
was a scrap of screwed up paper in an ashtray. He picked it up, spreading it
out, revealing a page from a small, cheap, wired jotting pad, much like
journalists used at the Bugle , just like I should have had with me.
Someone with large, sprawling, handwriting had scrawled five numbers on it in
black biro. Hobbes, after studying them for a second or two, twiddled the
combination dial, using the tips of his horny nails, smiling when the lock
clicked.
    'What
does it mean?' I asked.
    'It
means the burglar knew the combination to the safe, which suggests an inside
job – except it wasn't, unless Mr Roman burgled his own house. Besides, whoever
did it didn't have a door key.' He nodded at the boarded-up French window.
    'What
about the servants?'
    'He'd
got rid of 'em about a year ago during a temporary financial problem. Still, it
might be worth having a word with them at some point. Well, well, well, there's
something else here.'
    Taking
the paper, he turned it over, holding it up to the light, laying it down on the
sideboard, pulling a pencil from his coat pocket. As he delicately rubbed the
lead over the page, faint, white indentations began to stand out, slowly turning
themselves into letters. Even I could tell the small, neat, carefully formed
capitals were in a different hand to the one that had jotted down the numbers.
    'What
does it say?' I said, struggling to look over Hobbes's bulging shoulder.
    He
stood aside, frowning, puzzled. 'See for yourself.'
    I
could make out, quite clearly, that the letters formed the words, though oddly
spaced, EX WITCH IS A JOY OK .
    'What
on earth does that mean?'
    He
shrugged. 'No idea, but it might all become clear, eventually. Then again, it
mightn't. What is most interesting is that I'm certain this bit of paper wasn't
here on my last visit. Anyway, I'm done in this room and at least I now know
someone, other than Mr Roman, knew how to open the safe and they've been back, assuming
it was the same person.'
    'So
will it help you solve the case?'
    'It
may provide a lead. Possibly more than one. I'm going to take a look in his
files.'
    Folding
the paper carefully, shoving it into