Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

Skyler Hobbs and the Garden Gnome Bandit by Evan Lewis

Evan Lewis’s story “Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man,” which appeared in our Department of First Stories in February 2010, won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for best short story by a new writer. Since then, the Oregon writer’s work has appeared in the Western anthology A Fistful of Legends, in the BEAT to a PULP print anthology, and in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine (see May 2012’s “Mr. Crockett and the Bear”). He returns to EQMM with another humorous case starring Holmes adherent Skyler Hobbs.

Skyler Hobbs, his eyes bright as diamonds, thrust a page of The Oregonian at me.

The headline said Garden Gnome Bandit Strikes Again.

I said, “So?”

The story hardly qualified as news. The spate of garden-gnome thefts in the Southeast Portland area had been the darling of TV newscasters for the past month, always with much grinning and rolling of eyes. One local wag had even filmed an interview with a talkative gnome who had seen several friends spirited away by a hooded figure on a bicycle.

Hobbs looked down his long, thin nose at me. “Surely, Watson, you recall the affair of the Six Napoleons.”

“Wilder,” I said with a sigh. “Jason Wilder.” I’d been renting a room from him here at 221B SE Baker Street for a year now, and he still couldn’t remember my name. “Now what’s this about Napoleons?”

“You wrote a quite sensationalized version of the tale for The Strand, did you not? Or rather, Watson did.” He added this last bit with a broad wink.

“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.

Candy read it and giggled. “Well,” she said, “you can operate on my software anytime.” Then, laying a warm hand on my leg, she stretched and kissed me on the neck, sliding her lips up to my ear.

I must have closed my eyes for a moment, because next thing I knew a grim-faced man with a silver Cervélo road bike stood across the table glowering at me. He wore a black leather vest over a sleeveless Ramones T-shirt, and tattooed snakes crawled up his arms to bare their fangs on his biceps.

His eyes fixed on mine. “You got some kind of death wish?”

“When I go,” I said, recalling a line from Nick at Nite, “I just want to be stood outside in the garbage with my hat on.”

“Done,” he said, leaning his bike against the table. “Too bad you forgot your hat.” He flexed his muscles, making the snakes writhe horribly, and grabbed a handful of my shirt. The cotton ripped as he yanked me off the bench and spilled me onto the blacktop.

He bashed me in the leg with a surprisingly heavy chukka boot, and I rolled with the motion, pushing to my feet just in time to avoid a second kick. Catching him off balance, I landed a roundhouse right to the side of his head. The blow should have knocked him to his knees, but he merely snarled and threw a solid jab to my jaw. My head swam with stars.

“Quinn!” the cry was Candy’s, and she sounded plenty mad. “Leave him alone!”

I blinked, clearing my vision, and saw her grab Hobbs’s gnome from the table and swing it towards Quinn’s face. He swore as the figure smacked him in the nose, then wrenched it from her and dropped it at his feet.

“Watch close,” he said to me. “Here’s what’ll happen if I catch you sniffing around Candy again.” He raised his boot and slammed the heel down on the gnome, scattering chunks of colorful plastic over the blacktop. “Get the message?”

I did.

Quinn swung aboard his bike like an outlaw who’d just shot the sheriff. With a parting sneer, he sped off into the night.

I expected some reaction from Hobbs. At the very least, a pointed I told you so.

Instead, he turned to Candy. “Quickly! Tell me where that fellow lives.”

She shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me squat about himself. That’s why I dumped him.”

Hobbs swung to the four boys behind him.

“I have five dollars,” he said, “for the first lad to bring me that fellow’s address.”

The boys looked at each other.

“Ten,” said the white-haired kid.

Hobbs grimaced. “Ten.”

When my cell phone rang next morning, the kid wanted twenty. I served as go-between for the negotiations.

“Twelve,” Hobbs said.

“Twenty,” countered the kid.

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

An hour later I pulled my ultra-blue PT Cruiser into a Burgerville lot kitty-corner from Cartopia. The white-haired kid was there leaning on a black Schwinn and munching a cheeseburger.

Hobbs spoke through the car window. “Sorry,” he said, pawing through his wallet. “It seems I only have eighteen dollars.”

“Sorry,” the kid said. “Seems I caught amnesia.”

Hobbs scowled and handed him a twenty.

“Couldn’t get his address,” the kid said, pausing as Hobbs turned purple, “but I got something just as good. His license number.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his pants pocket.

Hobbs stared at him. “His bicycle has a license?”

“You don’t know nothin’, do you? Nah, the dude stashed the bike in the back of a Subaru. You really think he’s the bandit?”

“Quite possibly.” Hobbs eyed the kid with new interest. “You remind me of someone I once knew. By any chance, is your name Wiggins?”

“That’s a dumb name. Everyone calls me Whitey.”

Hobbs nodded as if the kid had said yes. “Tell me, Whitey, would you be interested in earning an odd dollar now and then, purely in the pursuit of justice?”

The kid flicked his fingers, making the twenty snap to attention. “At these rates, sure. Call me.”

“And how will I reach you?”

Whitey leaned down, looking past Hobbs at me. “Why do you hang out with this tool?”

I shrugged. “Because I seem so cool by comparison.”

The kid studied me a moment. “Nah,” he said. “You don’t.”

While I fired up my laptop and plugged in my wireless Internet connector (guaranteed to work anywhere this side of the Sahara Desert), I explained that I had Whitey’s phone number in my cell-phone log.

“Your telephone knows who calls you? That’s ingenious.”

“You bet. It was the latest thing back in 1988.” I was now into the DMV records. “2006 Subaru Outback, registered to Gregory Aaron Lafarge. 13606 SW Gaston Circle.”

“Gregory, eh? Your young lady addressed him as Quinn.”

“My fiancée” I lied, just to needle him. “Candy is only a nickname, you know. Her real name is Martina McBride.”

“You are a poor liar, Doctor. I happen to know that her given name is Candace Blotnick.”

“Don’t tell me. You somehow deduced this from her accent, her brand of cigarettes, or the chips in her fingernail polish.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I searched her purse while she was busy trying to save you from that Lafarge fellow.”

I had now breached another supposedly secure site. “No criminal record,” I said. “At least under that name. And for your information, I was just about to open a can of whoop-ass on him when she interfered.”

“Of course you were.”

The bossy lady in my GPS device, whom I affectionately call Gypsy, led us across the Willamette River and up the steep slope of Council Crest. That hill is a mare’s nest of twisty streets and treacherous dead ends, but once she’d sorted through Gaston Lane, Gaston Avenue, Gaston Street, Gaston Drive, and Gaston Court, she brought us at last to the Lafarge abode.

It was a canary-yellow house with a plastic picket fence, a deflowered dogwood, and a bunch of flowers I couldn’t name. There was no garage, and the carport was empty.

“Our bird is out.”

“So it would seem,” Hobbs said. “Still, we had best make sure.” And before I could stop him, he hopped out, trotted up the walk, and pressed a finger to the doorbell.

I watched from the car, wishing I’d brought a baseball bat, or my set of ninja stars. I didn’t want to end up like that gnome back at the food-cart lot.

No answer.

“Too bad,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Holding up a finger, Hobbs strode briskly along the front of the house, into the carport, and opened a gate into the backyard. The finger beckoned me to follow.

“Damn,” I said. But I went. And stopped short, staring.

The front yard had shown the hand of a skilled gardener, but the back was where that gardener really went to town. And that person had an inordinate fondness for garden gnomes. They peeked from under bushes, lurked behind flowerpots, and lounged upon birdbaths.

“Bingo,” I said.

“Or in the modern vernacular,” Hobbs said, “cowabunga.”

I’d counted over a dozen gnomes when a patio door rolled open and a head emerged, bundled in a fluffy white towel.

“What the hell,” said the head, “are you doing in my yard?”

The head belonged to a woman swathed in a pink bathrobe and fluffy white slippers.

Hobbs said, “I am pleased to inform you, madam, that your yard is being considered for a feature article in Horticulture magazine. Tell me, is this masterpiece of your own design or have you employed a team of professionals?”

“If you’re from Horticulture,” the woman said, “I’m Lady Gaga.” She thrust a hand through the door, a hand clutching a telephone. “See this? I’m already dialing nine-one-one.”

“I apologize for the subterfuge. We were merely seeking an old chum of ours, Mr. Gregory Lafarge.”

“You’re friends of Greg’s? Now I’m really calling the cops.”

“Please, good lady. I entreat you. Could you not tell us when he will return?”

“Never, I hope. Next time I see that bastard it will be in court. Now get your butts off my property.”

Hobbs backed quickly toward the gate. “One last question, if I may. When you last saw your Greg, was he in the habit of smashing garden gnomes?”

The woman was speaking into the phone.

“If you’re still here when I hang up,” she yelled, “I’ll be smashing garden gnomes over your heads!”

Hobbs was feeling grumpy. I would be too, if I’d just paid that wiseass Whitey another twenty bucks to find out where Lafarge had parked his car the night before.

We sat in the Cruiser on SE 7th Avenue, a street of mixed business and residential buildings, with a low-hanging elm shading us from the streetlights. At last, shortly after 9 p.m., Lafarge’s Subaru tooled past and parked on a dark side street.

At first I feared Whitey had stiffed us, for the man who emerged wore a preppy golf jacket and chinos. But the jacket came off and the chinos came down, revealing the familiar leather vest, sleeveless T-shirt, and too-tight jeans. Popping the rear hatch, Lafarge extracted his Cervélo bike and leaned it against the car as he donned one more article of clothing — a dark sweatshirt with a hood.

“Don’t say it,” I told Hobbs. “I know. Cowabunga.”

Lafarge sped off in the direction of the food-cart court, and I drove a parallel street, just close enough to follow. After a quick stop at Cartopia — looking for me and Candy, no doubt — he left the bright lights behind and sped off in a zigzag pattern through the residential neighborhood.

I followed, turning off my lights so as not to alert him, and pulled over on several occasions when we had a clear view of his progress. Hobbs fretted all the while. Each time I stopped he admonished me not to lose our quarry, while every time we got under way he warned me against getting too close. Hobbs will make a fine mother some day.

On we went, heading alternately north and east, through a neighborhood undoubtedly rich in garden gnomes, and I feared at any moment he would pull into a dark driveway and vanish.

At last he turned right onto Belmont, another major through-street, and swung to a stop at a row of bicycle racks at the corner of 34th Avenue, just outside Stumptown Coffee.

Several nearby businesses were open. Aside from the coffee shop, his most likely destinations seemed the swanky Aalto Lounge & Bistro, the neighborhood tavern called the Belmont Inn, or Zupan’s Market, the grocer of choice for neo-hippies. I would have laid money on the Belmont Inn, but Lafarge fooled me by slipping into the gaudily painted Laughing Planet Café.

Then there was nothing to do but wait, which I did by leaning back to rest my eyes. It didn’t take both of us to watch the front door of the cafe.

Almost at once I got a punch in the arm.

“Watson, look!”

I bolted erect. “Is he leaving?”

“No. But look who is arriving. Our greedy friend Whitey.”

He was right. The white-haired kid was just now chaining his bike to the rack, right next to Lafarge’s. A moment later he strode down the block and entered the Laughing Planet.

“Dining on me, no doubt,” Hobbs said sourly.

“Look on the bright side,” I said. “Maybe he’ll get something on the bandit. You have another twenty on you?”

Hobbs looked even more sour. “No. Still, I must know what he’s doing here.”

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Kids get hungry too. You were a kid once, weren’t you?”

The look he gave me chilled me to my heels.

“Silly question. Of course you weren’t.” Since he was already mad, I plunged ahead. “How does this reincarnation stuff work, anyway? Were you born with Holmes’s knowledge and memories full-blown in your head, or did they sort of creep up on you?”

Hobbs’s face softened, and I thought he might actually tell me. But before he could speak the door behind me opened and a dark figure slipped into the Cruiser. We swung about, staring.

“You bozos had me fooled last night,” Lafarge said, “but going to my house was a stupid play.” He showed us the snout of a gun. “Hands on the ceiling, quick. And they better be empty.”

We complied.

Hobbs was calm. “Your wife told you.”

“She hates me,” Lafarge said, “but she loves me too.”

A dark panel van the size of a UPS truck stopped at the corner ahead, blocking us from the beams of oncoming traffic. I tensed.

“Are you going to shoot us?”

“I might. You used Candy to get to me. That I cannot forgive.”

I said, “Huh?” but the word was drowned out by a clashing and clattering of metal. Hobbs and I turned to stare at the panel van. There was a flurry of activity between the truck and the sidewalk. Then the doors slammed shut, and the vehicle heaved into motion and spurted up Belmont toward 39th.

Hobbs said, “The bicycles.”

Moments before, the racks next to Stumptown had held as many as twenty bikes. Those racks were now bare, and the pavement was littered with mangled U-locks.

Lafarge said something unprintable. “Out of the car, you two. Quick! And leave the keys.”

“What?”

He waved the gun at my nose. “Now.”

I edged out of my seat, careful to grab my laptop, while Hobbs exited onto the sidewalk.

Lafarge jumped out and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said.

I stood watching the big blue rear end of my beloved Cruiser roaring off after the panel van.

I shot Hobbs a disgusted look. “Did that make any sense to you?”

“I admit I am somewhat puzzled,” he said. “What did he mean by ‘She hates me, but she still loves me’?”

“You,” said a new voice, “are such a dweeb.”

We turned to stare at Whitey, who stood on the sidewalk behind Hobbs.

I said, “What are you doing here?”

He made a face at me and turned on Hobbs. “What are you going to do to get my bike back?”

As it developed, we were not entirely without resources. My GPS was rigged so I could follow it on my laptop, allowing me to track the progress of the Cruiser. But the car was already two miles away, and still moving. And we were on foot.

“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 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.

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.”

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.”

“Hello, Percival,” the woman said warmly. “You are most welcome here.”

“And these guys,” Whitey said, “are his brothers Ernest and Murgatroyd.”

“Welcome to you all,” she said. “Harold, you’ll show them where they can sleep?”

“Certainly, Grandma. Let’s check on the others, shall we?”

“Oh yes. Let’s.”

Whitey looked at us and winked. Striding around the bed, he found a cord and pulled it, causing a frilly curtain to slide away. Through panes of glass I saw moonlit trees and bushes, but could make out little detail.

All that changed as Whitey flicked a switch, and the yard was suddenly as bright as a department-store window.

Beneath the trees and bushes were flowers of every shape and color. And next to every plant stood some variety of garden gnome. There were so many it took an effort to focus on any in particular, but I soon discovered they were all different. They were fat, thin, tall, and short. They were colorful and drab, shabby and rich, male and female. Most wore peaked hats, but others had fedoras, Stetsons, even football helmets. If Hobbs noticed the one with the deerstalker and meerschaum pipe, he did not react.

Along with the usual garden tools, some gnomes had fishing poles, golf clubs, and hockey sticks. One had a lawnmower. One rode a bike. One hung by his legs from a tree limb. One had green skin and the almond eyes of a Roswell alien. One looked like Elvis and another like Marilyn. This place put the Lafarge yard to shame.

If Grandma had seemed pleased before, she was now floating on a cloud.

Hobbs was quiet on the drive to 221B.

“Not a bad night,” I said. “You solved two cases.”

“Hm,” he said. “Perhaps.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I think Whitey is through stealing garden gnomes. With the dough he’ll make working for you, he can afford to buy them. And you’ll be pleased to know I’m taking your advice about Candy. Cute as she is, it’s pointless to date a woman with the wrong initials. She and I are through.”

“That is uncommonly sensible of you, Doctor. I suspect my company has been a good influence on you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

“It will be hard on the poor girl, though, losing a fellow as loyal — and self-sacrificing — as yourself.” With this he turned and delivered a broad wink. He knew.

“Damn you, Hobbs. How did you figure it out?”

Hobbs shook his head. “If I explained all of my methods to you, Doctor, you would soon deem them commonplace.”

I pulled over to the curb. “Give, or you’re walking home.”

Hobbs sighed. “Very well. But when you submit this adventure to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, you must promise not to reveal my secrets of deduction.”

I held my left hand out of sight and crossed my fingers. “Deal.”

“It was elementary,” he said. “I eavesdropped.”

Copyright © 2012 by Evan Lewis