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:
“Where do you want to go?” The guy was still doubtful.
The blip on my computer was now stationary. Lafarge appeared to have stopped.
“Sixtieth and Burnside,” I said. “We hate to inconvenience you, but we really do want to help the boy.”
At this point, Whitey took his cue and delivered a wonderfully mournful howl.
“You poor dear,” the woman told him, “of course we’ll help.”
On the way, Hobbs regaled the couple with deductions regarding their personal habits and peccadilloes, and by the time we reached the Cruiser they were glad to be rid of us.
The car was parked a block and a half off Burnside. I was relieved to find it undamaged.
“So you found the dweebmobile,” Whitey said. “Now what?”
“I suggest,” Hobbs said, “that we seek out a nearby bicycle shop.”
Whitey pointed. “Two blocks over. I checked it out once, but the place gave me the creeps.”
I could see why. The entrance to Wheels Within Wheels looked seedy and uninviting. A dusty display window held old bikes and pieces of bikes. One sign said repairs, one said bikes bot and sold, and another said closed. The place appeared thoroughly deserted.
Hobbs stood with his head at an odd angle. “Do you gentlemen hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Voices. And if I am not mistaken, the clink of metal upon metal. This way.”
He scampered off, as he does when excited, and it was all Whitey and I could do to keep up. Racing around the block, Hobbs halted at a dark, unmarked warehouse directly behind the bike shop.
“This place,” Hobbs whispered, “is not quite so deserted.”
By now, I too heard muted voices. The building had several windows, high up, from which light glowed.
“Watson,” Hobbs said, “I trust you have brought your service revolver?”
“Wilder. And you know I hate guns.”
Whitey snickered.
“In that case,” Hobbs said, “I must insist the lad return to the car and await our return. This could prove dangerous, and we cannot be responsible for his safety.”
“No chance,” Whitey said.
I shrugged. “Look on the bright side. If he’s killed, you can frisk him and get your money back.”
Hobbs made a disapproving face as he set to work examining the exterior of the warehouse.
The front of the building bore a large garage door, easily big enough to accommodate the van carrying the bicycles. An unmarked people-sized door was the only other entrance from the street. Hobbs tested the knob and shook his head.
“Before we risk our necks here,” I said, “I’ll remind you of our mission. We’re chasing the Garden Gnome Bandit. Do we really care about a bunch of stolen bikes?”
Whitey sputtered in the darkness. I ignored him.
“Our bandit is nearby,” Hobbs said. “Though we have not yet discerned the importance of this bicycle theft, it is possible the two enterprises are related.”
Then he was on the move, picking his way through the undergrowth along the side of the building, and I had no choice but to follow.
As Hobbs rounded the back corner of the warehouse, I heard a soft exclamation of delight. It sounded like “Cowabunga.”
I hurried.
Hobbs stood examining a loose metal hasp at the side of a door. He reached down and rose with an open padlock in his hand. “Look. Someone has been here before us.”
Cautioning silence, Hobbs pressed himself to the door and eased it open. The voices were slightly more distinct, but still faint.
Hobbs turned to eye us. Aiming a finger at Whitey, he pointed sternly at the ground. Stay here.
Whitey merely grinned.
Hobbs repeated the motion. His lips formed a hard line.
Whitey made a face, shrugged, finally nodded.
Hobbs stepped through the dark doorway, beckoning me to follow. I did, pushing the door shut behind me.
We stood a moment, listening. I soon discerned a dim light off to our left. We were in a hallway, with boxes stacked against the walls on either side. Hobbs was already gliding toward the light.
Cursing my own foolishness, I followed. As little as I cared about chasing the Garden Gnome Bandit, I was even less anxious to get involved with bike thieves. But in the short time I’d known Hobbs, I’d come to feel responsible for him, almost like a nurse or an attendant in a sanitarium. Or, perhaps more properly, as a protector of a brilliant but impractical savant. Hobbs was simply not equipped to function in this modern world on his own. He required a Watson, and I was the closest thing he had.
The hall passed what appeared to be an office, now dark and deserted, and led to another door. From under the door shone a faint line of light. It was this light that had guided us from the rear entrance.
The voices grew louder, and I heard occasional laughter.
Hobbs turned the knob, cracked the door, and peered through.
“What do you see?”
After a moment he stepped back, motioning me forward. “Look for yourself.”
Ahead of us was another hallway, also dark, but opening on a large and brightly lit workspace. The room held at least twenty bicycles, the panel van we’d seen on Belmont, and a half-dozen young men in greasy T-shirts and do-rags. Some had chains fixed to their belts, and all looked dangerous.
They were in a jovial mood, drinking beer and smoking marijuana. Celebrating their successful heist.
Among the bikes, I spotted Lafarge’s silver Cervélo and Whitey’s black Schwinn with matching pannier bags.
From the hallway behind us, I heard small noises and cringed. Whitey. It was madness to assume he’d stay put.
“Not a gnome in sight,” I told Hobbs. “Time to call the cops.”
“And give them credit for catching these rascals? Surely not. We have done the work, and we shall reap the rewards.”
“What’s your plan? Make a citizen’s arrest and march them off to the nearest pokey?”
So help me, Hobbs seemed to be considering just that when a great racket erupted behind us. In the dim light, I saw Whitey stepping over a spilled box of bicycle parts.
Hobbs peered through the crack in the door. “They’re coming, Watson! In future, you must remember to bring your revolver.”
“Wilder. And I don’t even have a— Never mind! Let’s run!”
But Hobbs had my arm. “Wait! Look!”
I joined him at the crack, and saw the six bike thieves surround a seventh figure — a man in tight jeans with tattooed snakes running up his arms. Greg Lafarge. He’d been hiding in the hall ahead of us and was first to be discovered.
“Quickly,” Hobbs said, “we must rescue him.”
“Why? He’s the Garden Gnome Bandit.”
“If so, he is our bandit, and I prefer to capture him in one piece.”
Our plans were quickly made. While Whitey fiddled with the building’s fuse box, Hobbs and I crouched by the crack in the door. Lafarge’s gun held the gang at bay, but they were closing from all sides, daring him to shoot. He might get one or two, but the rest would take a brutal revenge.
I marveled at the man’s attachment to his bike. The Cervélo was a world-class racer and worth several thousand bucks, but hardly seemed worth risking his life for. Of course, Lafarge had been prowling the streets stealing garden gnomes, so we already knew he wasn’t playing with a full deck.
When the lights went out, Hobbs and I charged into the room.
“Police!” Hobbs rapped. “Everyone freeze!”
We punctuated the command by flicking on bike headlamps we’d found in the hall. The gang members blinked, looking stunned.
“The building is surrounded,” Hobbs said. “Drop your weapons or you will be shot.”
Wrenches, hammers, and knives clanged to the concrete floor. Lafarge kept his gun trained on the thieves.