Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
“Refresh my memory.”
“The crux of the matter was that an otherwise sane fellow was going about smashing busts of Napoleon, and no one had the slightest idea why.”
“Except,” I said, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
He nodded. Modestly. “It developed that one of the busts contained the black pearl of the Borgias, and he was determined to get it. In the end, all he got was a room in the jail.”
“Thanks to Holmes, of course.”
He shrugged. Modestly.
“So you think the Garden Gnome Bandit is seeking a rare jewel.”
“Not particularly. But perhaps he does believe something is concealed inside one.”
I flipped through the paper. “Look, there are plenty of real crimes to choose from. Man Killed in Convenience Store Robbery. Arson Suspected in Church Fire. Even this one, Bike Theft Statistics Mount. Why not investigate something that matters?”
Hobbs regarded me over steepled fingers. “I fear, Doctor, that you simply do not understand.”
He was wrong. I understood all too well. My friend Skyler Hobbs, you see, believes himself to be the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes, and considers such mundane crimes beneath his notice. He craves the unusual, the outrageous, and sometimes the ridiculous. And I, the man he believes heaven-sent to be his Watson, am powerless to dissuade him.
In a sane world, a footloose bachelor like myself would spend Friday night on a hot date, or with a group of buddies at a tavern. But in this world, the one I shared with Mr. Skyler Hobbs, I sat at a picnic table at Cartopia, Portland’s hippest food-cart court, at the corner of SE 12th and Hawthorne. It was nearly midnight, but the place was just coming alive, and hummed to a crowd of hipsters and slumming yuppies. There were plenty of girls here, and tasty dishes of all varieties. But as Hobbs kept reminding me, we were not here to enjoy ourselves. We were here to catch the Garden Gnome Bandit.
Still, I was feeling pretty good. I was scarfing down an order of poutine — a mound of french fries smothered in cheese curds and gravy — from the Potato Champion cart and considering which place to try next. At the moment, it was a tossup between El Brasero (rumored to serve the messiest burrito in town) or Bubba Bernie’s, whose chicken jambalaya had become legendary.
Hobbs got a beef-brisket turnover (being the closest he could find to steak and kidney) from Whiffies Fried Pies, but forgot it after the first bite. His attention was focused on a garden gnome on a table near Perierra Crêperie. The gnome belonged to Hobbs, and he had placed it there himself as bait.
“No one’s going to steal it in front of all these witnesses,” I said.
“I do not expect them to,” Hobbs said. “But it is quite possible someone will display an undue interest in the little fellow. At the very least, he may provoke comment, and I shall be listening.”
His reasoning was not altogether bad. Cartopia was in the very neighborhood where most of the garden-gnome thefts had occurred, and the court was a favorite hangout for denizens of the night. If anyone had knowledge of the Bandit, it would be folks like these. It was even likely the bandit, himself a denizen of the night, would pay occasional visits to this mecca of comfort food.
Cartopia was aptly named. Each of these eateries was actually a small trailer, and they now circled the corner lot like a wagon train under siege. Because this was Portland, a variety of canvas, metal, and plastic tents stood ready to shield patrons from occasional showers.
We had been here the better part of an hour, and while the gnome had drawn curious glances and colorful jokes, it had yet to ferret out a suspect or clue. Which was fine by me. I was enjoying the poutine and the view.
At the table with Hobbs’s gnome, a group of young women chattered and picked at their crepes, watching the crowd and watching the crowd watch them. I was watching one girl in particular, a slim, blue-eyed minx whose hair was the color of carrots.
All at once our eyes met, locked, and before I could turn away, she winked at me. Relieved, and more than a little excited, I winked back.
She said something to her friends, who looked at me and giggled, and I felt my face burn. The redhead rose with catlike grace, snatched up the garden gnome, and stood examining it.
“Watson!” Hobbs was stiff with excitement. “Someone has taken the bait!”
“Uh, maybe,” I said, and got no further because the redhead came sashaying toward our table, the gnome swinging in her hand.
She stood the little bugger on the table between Hobbs and me.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Candy.”
I cleared my throat and swallowed. “You certainly are.”
She gave me a wicked smile.
Hobbs gaped at her with no more expression than a trout.
Candy thumped the gnome’s head. “I saw you put this guy on our table. Is this some pervy way of trying to meet girls?”
I shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
She slid onto the bench beside me and batted her black eyelashes. “If you like,” she said, “you can buy me a cactus and mushroom burrito.”
So I did.
While Candy and I flirted, Hobbs turned away, pretending to study the crowd. I felt sorry for him — a little. His plan had netted him nothing, but had snagged me the company of this lovely young lady. In profile, Hobbs bore a striking resemblance to a young Basil Rathbone, and I wondered if this chance of nature had inspired — or merely accentuated — his peculiar delusion.
The table next to ours was occupied by four boys who looked no older than thirteen. Under normal circumstances it would be strange to see them out this late alone, but Cartopia was something of a magical carnival, where all things seemed possible.
I’d been trying to tune out their conversation, devoted mostly to movies, vampires, computer games, and girls. I had assumed it was annoying Hobbs as well, until he abruptly turned to face them.
“Say, lads, how would you like to earn a bit of pocket money?”
All eyed him stonily a moment before one spoke up. “How much?”
Hobbs extracted a coin from his pocket. “A shiny new quarter. Each.”
“Jeez,” said another. “Who do we have to kill?”
“Nothing so difficult, I assure you. I merely seek information regarding a hooded figure riding a bicycle in this neighborhood.”
“I know him,” said a boy with a shock of white hair. “Cost you five bucks.”
Hobbs squinted at him. After much agonizing, he pulled out his wallet and gave the kid a five. “What can you tell me?”
“He’s the Garden Gnome Bandit, of course. Don’t you watch TV?”
“I know his sobriquet,” Hobbs said testily. “I wish to know his given name and where he lives.”
“Heck,” said the kid, “if I knew that I’d sell it to CNN for a million dollars.”
When no further information was forthcoming, Hobbs turned about in disgust. “When,” he asked of no one in particular, “did our younger generation become such a nest of vipers?”
Hobbs directed his sour disposition at Candy. “I must inform you, miss, that the good doctor cannot possibly take you to wife. He is fated to marry a woman named Mary, or Margaret. Something beginning with an ‘M.’”
Candy rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, damn.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ain’t it a shame?”
I dreaded the explanation that must surely follow. That because Hobbs considered me his Watson, sent by providence to assist him in his work, I must therefore follow in Watson’s footsteps and choose a wife with the same initials as Mrs. Watson, the former Mary Morstan.
Instead, Candy said, “You’re a doctor?”
Sighing, I slipped a card from my shirt pocket and placed it before her. Jason Wilder, it said, Computer Doctor.