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:
Hobbs said, “You too, Lafarge. Now!”
Lafarge swung his head toward us. “Me? Are you nuts? Just who are you guys?”
“Inspector Doyle,” Hobbs said, “and Sergeant Watson. Now kindly place your pistol on the floor.”
A gang member made a sudden dash toward the truck.
“Halt!” I shouted.
But the guy was already in the cab. The van’s big headlights lit the room, clearly illuminating Hobbs and me. And, right beside me, Whitey.
“Cops, hell!” someone shouted. “They don’t even have guns.”
The gang boiled into action, scooping weapons from the floor and surging toward us.
I looked at Hobbs, received a quick shrug, and started dodging blows. The next few minutes were chaos, made somewhat surreal by the illumination of the truck lights. The fight swirled in and out of the darkness, making it impossible to tell where the next punch, kick, or tire iron was coming from. Hobbs went into his baritsu stance, looking much like a praying mantis. He moved not at all until a foe was nearly upon him. Then an arm or leg would shoot out and a gang member would go flying back into the darkness. Having no such skill, I employed fists, feet, and elbows long enough to get my hands on a better weapon. Since all the small ones were taken, I darted to the line of bikes and culled Lafarge’s from the herd.
The carbon-framed Cervélo was so light it seemed to float in my hands, and I raised it effortlessly above my head, then swung sideways at an onrushing gang member. Light as it was, the bike had plenty of sharp edges, and caught the guy in the neck, sending him sprawling.
Feeling the rush now, I channeled Jackie Chan, calling my enemies to attack me and smacking them aside with ease.
Whitey became a creature of the shadows. Gripping a loose set of handlebars, he darted out when least expected to whack a guy in the head or knee before scuttling back into the darkness.
Lafarge, reluctant to fire his gun, employed fists instead, delivering quick, clean jabs and ferocious straightarms that cracked against the gangsters’ jaws. All the while he danced, and even seemed to be humming to himself.
My blood was up, a sort of high I had never experienced, and I was ready to take on the world, when suddenly it was over. Beside me, Hobbs was still in baritsu stance. The six bike thieves lay sprawled at our feet, while Lafarge trained his gun on them. Whitey emerged from the shadows and hurried to his Schwinn, kneeling to inspect it for damage.
Lafarge swung his head to glare at me, then at Hobbs. “Now. Who are you guys?”
“We,” said Hobbs, “are the men who will put you behind bars.”
Lafarge smiled at him. “Funny. I have the same plans for you.”
Lafarge, it developed, was an undercover cop, and when his buddies in blue arrived he announced the bust would have gone smoothly if we three hadn’t bungled in and alerted the gang to his presence.
As he said this, I looked hard at Whitey and thought to say something, but Hobbs caught my eye and shook his head. Whitey had been about to leave when the cops burst in and ordered him to stick around. He now leaned on his bike, looking bored.
Lafarge had been after the bike ring for months. The cops had known it was a big operation, extending north to Seattle, east to Spokane, and south to Eugene, but had no solid proof until this bust.
“I take it, then,” Hobbs said to Lafarge, “that you are not the Garden Gnome Bandit.”
“Is that what you clowns thought?” Lafarge had a good laugh.
Hobbs bristled, but I had no argument. We really had made fools of ourselves.
“The city,” Lafarge said, “will be much safer with you two off the streets. Interfering with a police operation will get you serious time.”
Hobbs’s mouth dropped open. “But it was we who saved you from these villains. Without our assistance, they would have escaped. You might well be dead.”
“This for that,” Lafarge said, thumbing his nose. He went back to making notes on a report.
Hobbs, looking dejected, sat on a wooden crate and stared gloomily about.
I strolled over to Lafarge. “We need to talk. Privately.”
Lafarge rolled his eyes, but finally agreed, and we retired to the warehouse office.
He fixed me with his best cop glare. “What?”
“You assaulted me last night at Cartopia. Before witnesses.”
He flushed. “Sorry about that. Candy... well, I’m just not over her yet. You know how it is.”
“I know how it is with the media. They love police brutality. Brings out all the crazies. Along with marches, petitions, lawsuits, investigations...”
Lafarge glowered at me. “What do you want?”
I told him. He sputtered, argued, pleaded, even threatened, but in the end he agreed.
“With one condition,” he said. “You stay the hell away from Candy.”
I didn’t like that. But all in all, I was getting the best of the bargain.
I said, “Deal.”
Hobbs, Whitey, and I left together through the big garage door.
“Congratulations,” I told Hobbs. “You solved the Northwest Bike Ring Case.”
“I did?”
“That’s what Lafarge will tell everyone. He was acting on information provided by local consulting detective Mr. Skyler Hobbs.”
“I thought he was arresting us.”
“You misjudged him. He’s a swell guy at heart.”
Hobbs eyed me queerly, but offered no argument.
“Be seeing you,” Whitey said. “Call when you have more twenties.”
He looped a leg over his Schwinn and was about to pedal off when Hobbs clamped a hand on the rear rack, holding the bike in place.
“A moment, if you please. We have unfinished business.”
Whitey squinted at him. “I thought you were broke.”
“You were paid,” Hobbs said, “to assist me in catching the Garden Gnome Bandit.”
“And you blew it. Not my problem.”
“Isn’t it?”
Whitey’s face tightened. He looked ready to cry again.
“Hobbs,” I said, “you’re scaring him. You want him pulling that bawling act with the cops?”
“Hardly a concern.” Still holding the bike, Hobbs ripped open the Velcro strap on one of Whitey’s pannier bags. With a flourish, he reached in and pulled out an ugly little garden gnome. “Not when he’s the bandit.”
The ride across town was noisy. Despite the kid’s protestations, Hobbs was determined to lay the matter before his parents before deciding how to proceed. Whitey had at first denied the charge, but faced with the evidence of two more gnomes and a black hoodie, he gave that up. He then claimed to have no parents, so we could not possibly speak with them, but Hobbs badgered him until he directed us to a quaint old house on SE 16th, only a few doors off Hawthorne.
“What tipped you off?” Whitey wanted to know.
Hobbs looked smug. “Lint,” he said, “and beauty bark.”
Whitey just stared.
“When I saw you on the sidewalk after your bicycle was stolen, you had black cotton fuzz in your hair, indicative of a hood. And your jeans bore traces of bark dust, showing you had been kneeling in someone’s garden.”
Whitey’s shoulders slumped. “What if I promise never to do it again?”
“A good start,” Hobbs said. “Now please escort us in, or the good doctor will sound his horn and raise the entire neighborhood.”
So in we went. Hobbs carried one of the hot gnomes as evidence, while I toted the others.
The door opened onto a dark entryway, with stairs on one side and a living room on the other.
Head hanging, Whitey led us toward the back of the house, where he knocked softly at a door. “Grandma? It’s Harold. I’m home.”