“I have my bus pass,” Hobbs said. “How about you two?”
“Bus?” Whitey and I looked at each other. His grimace mirrored my own.
“In that case,” said Hobbs, “we’ll hire a cab.”
“You said you were out of cash.”
“It happens I am. But I know someone who has at least forty-five of my dollars.”
Whitey snorted. “No way. You jerks got me into this.”
And the stalemate might have continued, had not a middle-aged couple chosen that moment to exit the coffee shop and stroll to their car.
Whitey sank to his knees, emitting the most pitiful wail. His sobs were so heart-wrenching that I involuntary took a step forward, compelled to comfort him. Then I remembered who I was dealing with.
The couple on the sidewalk rushed forward, the woman kneeling to wrap an arm about the kid’s shoulders while the man glared suspiciously at Hobbs and me.
“What is it, son?” the woman said. “Are these men bothering you?”
“Nah,” Whitey said between sniffs. “They’re trying to help me. But someone just stole my bike, and we have no way to follow.”
The man looked undecided, so I chimed in. “It’s true. We could get the boy’s bike back, if only we had a ride.”
“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 res
cue 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.
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 do
ors 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.”
Hobbs and I shared a look. I wrinkled my nose. Harold. No wonder he preferred Whitey.
A weak voice answered from within, but I could not discern the words. Whitey led us in, pausing at a dresser to switch on a lamp.
“I brought visitors, Grandma. Look.”
On a frilly white bed lay a woman with tufts of grey hair protruding from an old-fashioned nightcap. Thin, mottled arms extended from the sleeves of a flowered nightdress, while a thick quilt was bunched beneath her chin.
At the sight of us, her eyes brightened and twenty years seemed to fall away. Her smile was enough to warm the hardest heart.
“Oh!” she said. “How delightful. What are their names?”
Hobbs gave a short bow. “I am honored to be Mr. Skyler Hobbs, madam, and this is my good friend Dr., uh . . .”
“Wilder,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
The woman continued to beam, but I noted something strange. She was not looking at our faces, but at the gnomes in our hands.
Whitey stepped back, taking the one Hobbs held. “This,” he told his grandmother, “is Percival. He’s a carpenter. You can tell by the little hammer.”
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 Page 8
