"Are you Mr. Digger?" asked the hobbit woman while the man looked nervously
around my office.
"Who's asking?" I asked her.
She pulled herself up to her full height, which wasn't much past my knees, and said, "I'm Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and this is my husband, Otho."
"Afternoon," said Otho when his wife glared at him.
"We've got a proposition for you, Mr. Digger," Lobelia went on. "We're willing to pay handsomely for your talents."
Something about this was making my hair stand on end. It didn't help that the two of them reminded me of the twitchy, curly little dogs one of my exes used to keep. Why were a couple of hobbits going outside the Shire to one of the Big Folk with their business?
I know a little more about hobbits than your average Man. A little fellow named Oliver works with me sometimes, getting into places I can't, and he's taught me a few things about where he comes from. I knew that the two in front of me were from the very top of hobbit society. They were wealthy and probably well-connected. What could they possibly need from me that they couldn't get in the Shire?
I should've just sent them away, but I needed the money I knew they could pay me. Money. It's a cruel mistress. Makes you feel on top of the world one day, and leaves you the next, right when you need it most.
"What's your proposition?" I heard myself asking. It sealed my fate.
"We need you to find Bilbo Baggins," said Otho, and he'd probably have said more if his wife hadn't elbowed him in the gut.
"The truth is, Mr. Digger," she said, "that we think Bilbo might've come to a bad end. He's a dear relation of ours." Otho coughed. "Many years ago, he took in his nephew, Frodo. Frodo comes from the disreputable side of our family, the one connected with the," her face got even more pinched, "Tooks and Brandybucks. As I said, Bilbo took in young Frodo out of the goodness of his heart after Frodo's parents died in a mysterious accident. They drowned, could you believe? It's very suspicious that they died and their son lived, if you ask me. Now, Bilbo just turned 111, and at his birthday party, why, he disappeared!"
"You mean he left his own party?" I asked.
"No, he disappeared," said Lobelia. "Poof! Right in front of everybody and all. That so-called 'wizard' Gandalf was there and tried to pass it off as a party trick, but here's the thing: nobody's seen Bilbo since! Frodo now claims Bilbo went on a trip--he was working on a book of some sort--and left him all of Bag End. That's Bilbo's house, by the by. Left him Bag End and all his possessions, even the ring he carried with him everywhere." She thumped her husband in the belly again. "Otho and I think it stinks."
I filled my pipe again and lit it. "What do you think the story is?" Everybody's always got their pet theory, and it saves time if you find out up front what they want you to confirm for them.
"Well," said Lobelia, "there's been a story going 'round for years that Bilbo had hidden away some treasure. It was ridiculous, of course- something about it being part of a dragon's hoard--but there were some foolish souls who placed great stock in it. We figure young Frodo heard about it, and when his uncle wouldn't let him in on it--" Lobelia clapped her hands together, "--murdered him! And he got that no-account Gandalf in on it, too. Probably promised him a percentage or whatnot."
I could see where this was headed, and it wasn't a place I wanted to go. I found out the hard way that when you're a Man, you keep your nose out of matters that don't concern Men. My misgivings were wrestling with my need for money, which usually wins two falls out of three in situations like this.
"What do the other Shirefolk think?" I asked, hoping the delay would wake up my good sense.
Lobelia got more pinched than ever. "Oh, they're all crazy about young Frodo, think he's the greatest thing since pipe-weed! I'll tell you: that one has the face of a Maia, but the heart of a Balrog. Mark my words. We know him better than most, and we know his branch of the family. Nothing good ever came from them; no, sir!"
The screaming emptiness of my moneybag drowned out the sensible little voice in my head, and I heard myself saying, "So all you want is for me to find out what happened to Bilbo Baggins?"
"That's exactly it, Mr. Digger," said Otho. I don't know what he did wrong that time, but Lobelia elbowed him again.
"We want you to find out what Frodo had to do with his disappearance, too," she said. "I don't trust that young one at all, and I don't mind telling you that, Mr. Digger."
I didn't think she did, considering she'd already said as much four or five times. I took a long drag on my pipe, wishing I was a better man, a man who'd send these two packing from his doorstep. But I wasn't.
"I'll take the case," I said.
Next time: The Thin Hobbit!
"Who's asking?" I asked her.
She pulled herself up to her full height, which wasn't much past my knees, and said, "I'm Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and this is my husband, Otho."
"Afternoon," said Otho when his wife glared at him.
"We've got a proposition for you, Mr. Digger," Lobelia went on. "We're willing to pay handsomely for your talents."
Something about this was making my hair stand on end. It didn't help that the two of them reminded me of the twitchy, curly little dogs one of my exes used to keep. Why were a couple of hobbits going outside the Shire to one of the Big Folk with their business?
I know a little more about hobbits than your average Man. A little fellow named Oliver works with me sometimes, getting into places I can't, and he's taught me a few things about where he comes from. I knew that the two in front of me were from the very top of hobbit society. They were wealthy and probably well-connected. What could they possibly need from me that they couldn't get in the Shire?
I should've just sent them away, but I needed the money I knew they could pay me. Money. It's a cruel mistress. Makes you feel on top of the world one day, and leaves you the next, right when you need it most.
"What's your proposition?" I heard myself asking. It sealed my fate.
"We need you to find Bilbo Baggins," said Otho, and he'd probably have said more if his wife hadn't elbowed him in the gut.
"The truth is, Mr. Digger," she said, "that we think Bilbo might've come to a bad end. He's a dear relation of ours." Otho coughed. "Many years ago, he took in his nephew, Frodo. Frodo comes from the disreputable side of our family, the one connected with the," her face got even more pinched, "Tooks and Brandybucks. As I said, Bilbo took in young Frodo out of the goodness of his heart after Frodo's parents died in a mysterious accident. They drowned, could you believe? It's very suspicious that they died and their son lived, if you ask me. Now, Bilbo just turned 111, and at his birthday party, why, he disappeared!"
"You mean he left his own party?" I asked.
"No, he disappeared," said Lobelia. "Poof! Right in front of everybody and all. That so-called 'wizard' Gandalf was there and tried to pass it off as a party trick, but here's the thing: nobody's seen Bilbo since! Frodo now claims Bilbo went on a trip--he was working on a book of some sort--and left him all of Bag End. That's Bilbo's house, by the by. Left him Bag End and all his possessions, even the ring he carried with him everywhere." She thumped her husband in the belly again. "Otho and I think it stinks."
I filled my pipe again and lit it. "What do you think the story is?" Everybody's always got their pet theory, and it saves time if you find out up front what they want you to confirm for them.
"Well," said Lobelia, "there's been a story going 'round for years that Bilbo had hidden away some treasure. It was ridiculous, of course- something about it being part of a dragon's hoard--but there were some foolish souls who placed great stock in it. We figure young Frodo heard about it, and when his uncle wouldn't let him in on it--" Lobelia clapped her hands together, "--murdered him! And he got that no-account Gandalf in on it, too. Probably promised him a percentage or whatnot."
I could see where this was headed, and it wasn't a place I wanted to go. I found out the hard way that when you're a Man, you keep your nose out of matters that don't concern Men. My misgivings were wrestling with my need for money, which usually wins two falls out of three in situations like this.
"What do the other Shirefolk think?" I asked, hoping the delay would wake up my good sense.
Lobelia got more pinched than ever. "Oh, they're all crazy about young Frodo, think he's the greatest thing since pipe-weed! I'll tell you: that one has the face of a Maia, but the heart of a Balrog. Mark my words. We know him better than most, and we know his branch of the family. Nothing good ever came from them; no, sir!"
The screaming emptiness of my moneybag drowned out the sensible little voice in my head, and I heard myself saying, "So all you want is for me to find out what happened to Bilbo Baggins?"
"That's exactly it, Mr. Digger," said Otho. I don't know what he did wrong that time, but Lobelia elbowed him again.
"We want you to find out what Frodo had to do with his disappearance, too," she said. "I don't trust that young one at all, and I don't mind telling you that, Mr. Digger."
I didn't think she did, considering she'd already said as much four or five times. I took a long drag on my pipe, wishing I was a better man, a man who'd send these two packing from his doorstep. But I wasn't.
"I'll take the case," I said.
Next time: The Thin Hobbit!