Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (44 page)

I
nodded, coming up with a phrase I’d once used in an article for the
Bugle
.
‘You could say his men were just the cat’s paws.’

I
cringed, as memory pointed out that my article had not been a great success. It
started with a lunchtime lager in the Feathers where, despite furious bellows
from Featherlight, who was in dispute with some unfortunate customer, I’d
overheard talk from a gang of shoplifters who’d just arrived in town. Having
managed to identify the brains of the outfit, and where they were going to
strike next, I rushed back to the office and typed up a couple of hundred
words. I’d been extremely proud of the article and even Editorsaurus Rex had
seemed pleased, until it turned out that my shoplifters had really been
shop-fitters. Following a painful and unnecessarily prolonged interview with
the Editorsaurus, I was rarely assigned to report anything other than pet shows
and fetes.

Still,
Hobbes chuckled. ‘Cat’s paws! That’s a good one.’

‘I
still don’t understand what’s going on,’ I said, feeling even thicker than
usual.

‘But
I’m beginning to.’ He smiled. ‘Yet, I fear I’ve been slow; I had all the
evidence and still couldn’t fit it together, though, in fairness, it is an
unusual case.’

I
waited, puzzled, as he sat, eyes closed, as if in a deep trance.

‘I
couldn’t understand,’ he continued, ‘why, though I could track the cats, their
spore would suddenly vanish. I have an idea now.

‘Are
you absolutely certain both Mr King and Miss King spoke to you last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent.
You see, I was stumped because having examined the place we found you, I found
no trace of Mr King.’

‘But
he was there, honest.’

‘I
believe you. I did, however, find signs of two big cats and some tufts of fur
that might suggest a fight, which agrees with your information. What I found
really baffling was coming across clear signs a human had been there, though
only around where you were lying. From the size of the footprints, I was almost
sure it had been a lady, and I’m now confident it was Miss King. Strangely, she
had bare feet and left no apparent trail either approaching or leaving.’

Having
great faith in Hobbes’s tracking skills, I was puzzled by such a failure. ‘She
must have done. She couldn’t just appear out of thin air, unless she swung
through the trees like Tarzan.’

‘I
did, in fact, check the trees and found nothing to suggest she’d been climbing.
However, I think you may have provided the key to explain it all.’

‘Go
on,’ I urged, unable to think of anything I’d said that was important.

‘Right.
Consider this. Both Mr King and his sister spoke to you, yet he, apparently,
left no marks at all, while she only left them near where you’d fallen.’

‘I
still don’t understand.’

 Hobbes
grinned. ‘Yet, there were two distinct sets of big cat prints. Both had approached
you and gone away.’

‘Weird.’

‘Precisely
what I thought, so I had a word with Mr Catt at the Wildlife Park this morning.
I showed him the fur I’d picked up and some casts I’d made of the paw prints
and he was adamant they weren’t from a panther, or any cat he’s aware of.’

‘So,
what are you getting at?’ I asked, starting to get an inkling, though my brain
was having difficulties.

‘There
is an explanation that fits the evidence.’

At
the moment an unearthly cackle announced that Mrs Goodfellow had brought in the
tea and, had I not been so sore and stiff, I’d have jumped into orbit, as
usual. Setting down the tray, she filled two mugs. Hobbes chucked in a handful
of sugar, stirred his mug, sucked his finger and took a great swig. He sighed,
the sigh of a contented police officer.

‘Thanks,
lass,’ he said.

She
nudged me and grinned. ‘Well done – you’ve cheered him up again.’

‘I’m
not sure how,’ I said, ‘but I think I’m going to find out.’

As
she headed back towards the kitchen, I took a sip of tea, squealing as it
parboiled my split lip. Hobbes poured himself a second mug, giving me a few
seconds to think. It didn’t help.

‘So,’
he said, ‘have you got it yet?’

‘Umm
… I’m not sure. You say Felix wasn’t there but a panther, no … umm … some
mysterious big cat was? So was it a talking cat?’

‘You
might say that.’

‘Really?’
I let the idea settle in my brain. ‘And you reckon Violet also got there
without leaving a trace, though she was there, and there were signs of two
cats.’

‘That’s
right. Do you get it yet?’

‘No
… not unless Violet and Felix could turn into cats!’ I laughed.

Hobbes
wasn’t laughing.

‘Come
off it,’ I said. ‘It’s bad enough the Bashems turning out to be werewolves, but
now you’re saying my girlfriend is a cat?’ I shook my head. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

‘Is
it?’

‘Of
course. Look, if she was a cat, I’d know and would have taken cat food on the
picnic and, what’s more,’ I felt myself blush, ‘I have … umm … kissed her, and,
I can tell you, she’s a real woman.’

‘What
I mean,’ said Hobbes, ‘is that she and her brother are werecats.’

‘You
really mean she can change into a cat?’ I asked, trying to maintain a front of
scepticism, even though what he was suggesting made sense, in a thoroughly
nonsensical way. ‘You’re saying she can somehow – what’s the word? – wolfifest
into a cat?’

‘The
word we use with werecats is transmogrify,’ he said, ‘though, apart from that,
you’ve got it. Of course, they can revert to human form whenever it suits them.’

By
then, I was too full of conflicting thoughts and swirling emotions to cope.
Shaking my head, staggering upstairs, I collapsed onto my bed and curled up
into the foetal position, my mind squirming with confusion, horror and doubt.
After about ten minutes, feeling no better but still with an urge to know, I
returned to the sitting room, where Hobbes had taken advantage of my absence to
squeeze a third mug of tea from the pot. Dregs was dozing at his feet.

‘You’d
better tell me everything,’ I said. ‘Just take it that I believe you.’ Though I
wasn’t sure I did, nothing else made sense.

‘I
will,’ said Hobbes, finishing his tea and taking a deep breath. ‘To start with,
the big cat sightings only started after Mr King moved into the area, which, I
admit, is purely circumstantial evidence. Then, as you know, they vanished
whenever I tracked them and, since I often came across tyre tracks close to
where I’d lost the trail, I assumed someone was transporting them. I now think
it likely they drove themselves. Another thing which may be significant is that
Mr King wears an overpowering aftershave or cologne, which I suspect he uses to
mask any animal odours. Otherwise, I’m certain I’d have noticed something.’

‘It
put you off the scent?’

‘Or,
the scent put me off. And Miss King uses perfume, does she not?’

‘Yes,
though that’s not unusual, is it?’

‘No,
not in itself, but she does use rather a lot. Furthermore, we only became aware
of two big cats after she joined him here. There is one point, though: has she
ever met the dog?’

Dregs,
opening an eye, wagged his tail.

I
thought for a moment. ‘No, never. Except … umm … nearly that time at the
Wildlife Park when something frightened him when he went inside …’ I ground to
a halt, seeing what Hobbes was getting at.

‘Dogs
have excellent noses and aren’t easily confused by artificial perfumes. I suspect
her animal scent scared him. Of course, my nose wasn’t all it should be that
day, with all that camel hair. You know something? I’ve a feeling Mr King might
have got away with his intimidation of Eric and Featherlight and, I suspect,
others who’ve sold property to him recently, had he not become aware of the
Bashems. His schemes were overturned by his hatred of werewolves.’

‘But
why does he hate them? Aren’t werecats and werewolves equally cursed?’

‘It
only becomes a curse if they let it become one. The Bashems are perfectly happy
with their heritage. As for Mr King’s hatred, I can only speculate that it
started out as the usual cat and dog thing, but it seems to have grown out of
all proportion. I fear he may be somewhat unbalanced.’

‘He’s
stark raving mad,’ I said, remembering his tirade in the woods and shivering, ‘but
what about Violet? She was nice to me.’

‘I’m
sorry, but I fear she used you to get information about me. I was obviously a
threat, being what I am.’

‘What
are you?’ I asked, hoping for insight.

‘A
police officer.’

‘Of
course. But, Felix sounded like he hated you personally.’

‘He
wouldn’t be the first.’

Though it was hard to accept, I was starting
to believe him. Once upon a time I wouldn’t have, but, since being with Hobbes,
I’d come to realise the world had more in it than I ever could have imagined.

When
we’d finished talking, Hobbes took Dregs out, leaving me to struggle with my
confused feelings for Violet. I’d believed she was special, though, in all
honesty, I hadn’t had much to compare with her. Without doubt, she’d brought
glamour and yearning into my life and there’d been days when I’d barely been
able to think of anything except her and, furthermore, there’d been whole hours
when I’d dared to hope she was mine. Now it all boiled down to one fact, and
there was no escaping it: she was a cat. I’d actually fancied a cat.

The
realisation, especially since it was more than mere fancy, for even when she’d
greeted me so coldly at the festival, I’d still warmed to her, left me utterly
bewildered and bereft. I think I had really loved her and part of me still did,
while another part couldn’t help recoiling at the thought of what she was. Even
so, such disasters just seemed to happen to me, my relations with women
seemingly cursed. Then, at the back of everything, I was struggling to come to
terms with one really odd fact, a fact that didn’t make sense: when Felix had
seemed certain to kill me, she’d come to my rescue, as if she’d really cared
for me, and her last words in the woods still haunted me. I sat for a long
time, brooding.

As
the evening darkened, Mrs Goodfellow brought a cup of cocoa. Thanking her, I
took it to bed and, after forcing my bruised body into a pair of clean, stripy
pyjamas, I sat by the window, sipping my drink, still lost in a sea of baffling
thoughts. As the lingering fronds of the day slipped away, I stared down into
Blackdog Street, glinting silver beneath the glare of electric lights, seeing
groups of people wandering past, no doubt on their way between hostelries. One
guy, swaying down the centre of the street, collapsed with his head on the
kerb, his legs stretched into the road, fortunate that no cars came by.
Eventually, his mates lugged him up and dragged him away amidst ribald
comments. The town settled into its usual background noise. Thuds nearby
suggested someone was working hard at their DIY. In the distance, a dog barked
and a plane flew high overhead, flashing red and green lights in the clear sky.

I
was just about to turn in when, fancying I’d glimpsed a greenish flash from the
roof opposite, I stared into the night, seeing nothing. Dismissing it, I got
into bed. After only a few seconds, jumping back out, I shut the window and
drew the curtains. Though it was silly, the flash had reminded me of the
glowing eyes of the previous night and, stupidly, I blushed; if it had been
Violet’s flashing eyes out there, she might have seen me undressing. Not that I
really believed anything, least of all her, was out there; it had certainly
been a trick of the light, or of my imagination. Though I lay down and tried
not to think, it didn’t work as I needed time for my twisted thoughts to
untangle.

The
church clock struck eleven as someone sang an enthusiastic, if inaccurate,
version of
The Green, Green Grass of Home
. Sometime later, the silence
in the street outside suggesting the revellers and DIYers had called it a day,
although I could have sworn I’d not slept, I jerked into full wakefulness and
sat up.

My
skin was crawling with goose pimples. I couldn’t see anything, other than faint
shadows cast by whatever light made it through the curtain, and couldn’t hear
anything beyond the hiss of my breathing and the tattoo drummed out by my
heart. I tried holding my breath, listening, hoping not to hear whatever had
alarmed me. My hope was fulfilled, which frightened me almost as much as if I
had heard something.

The
thing was, something felt wrong and, though I tried reasoning with myself,
arguing against the likelihood of anything being in my room that shouldn’t, I
was scared, really scared. Grabbing the sheets, I pulled them tight around me,
though why I thought that would help was beyond me. Then, at last, on the edge
of hearing, yet distinct, I heard a faint sound, a little like Velcro being
pulled apart. It came again … and again. It was close, very close.

‘Hello?’
I said with quavering voice that tended to falsetto. ‘Is somebody there?’