Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

Jeff was scared. It had been stupid to pop off to Tanninger. Now he was in deep trouble.

By that time they were passing the Patterson house, where Jeff had become a hero after finding the cat. He had also helped Mr. Patterson plant Spanish daggers under all the windows to ward off burglars when he worked late and had to leave his family at home alone. The concrete sidewalk lay close to the Pattersons’ house, Spanish daggers grown up man-size after two years, sharp pointy leaves stretching in all directions.

One eye on the ugly knife, Jeff pretended to trip on a deep crack. He feinted a fall and jabbed his elbow into Tanninger’s side, shoving him into the daggers and turning fast, a well-placed kick finishing the job. He hadn’t hung around to find out how Tanninger freed himself, but he heard later that Mrs. Patterson called 911 with an attempted burglary. The wicked knife bearing Tanninger’s prints hadn’t won any favors with the cops.

But a fast-talking lawyer had gotten the attempted burglary charge thrown out of court, and Jeff knew it was only a matter of time before Tanninger would be leaning on him again. One of the daggers’ leaves had missed slicing out Tanninger’s eye by a gnat’s breadth, leaving a deep scar along his cheekbone. Jeff, on his way to Murley’s Used Cars every weekend, had to bike right past the Exxon where Tanninger pumped gas.

Packet had returned from the squad car with a pair of thin rubber gloves. Now he slipped them on and grasped the Jaguar’s door handle. The door swung open.

“Guess you won’t need the slim jim,” Murley said. “And look there, the keys’re hanging right there in the ignition.”

The officer removed the keys before copying down the chassis number and strolling across the shell drive to call it in.

Turning on the hand vac, Jeff ran it over the Chevy’s floor mats, hoping the noise would keep Murley from asking why the car’s detailing was taking so long. He watched the side mirror until he saw the officer’s reflection returning, then clicked off the vac and began polishing the inside glass.

“No report on any stolen Jaguar,” the officer said, glaring at Murley like maybe he thought somebody was pulling his leg. “Computer’s running the body number.”

Murley swiveled the carrot to the other side of his face. “Suppose nobody claims it? Guess by rights that makes it mine, wouldn’t you say?”

The officer didn’t say anything, his smirk indicating he thought Murley was a card or two shy of a full deck. He leaned inside the Jaguar to look around, not touching anything, then squatted to run his gloved hand under the driver’s seat and came out with a pint-size bottle of Wild Turkey. Holding it up by two fingers, he checked the contents — half empty — and put the bottle back where he found it.

“Don’t make sense,” Murley said. “Anybody losing a car like this would be tearing up the police station trying to get it back.”

Once again the officer didn’t say anything. Jeff figured he agreed, though, that it was strange, the car’s loss not being reported.

“Unless the owner didn’t know the car was gone,” Murley added.

“What time did you open this morning?”

“Noon. Always open at noon on Saturdays and stay open till midnight. Folks buy a lot of cars after a Saturday night date, a nice meal and a few drinks.”

Jeff checked the Chevy’s dash clock. Nearly three thirty. Even a late sleeper should’ve noticed by now that his big-shot Jaguar was not parked where he left it.

The officer opened the passenger door, ran his hand under the seat, and came up empty. He opened the glove box, thumbed through the papers, closed it.

“You sure you didn’t take a peek inside here before calling it in? Maybe thinking one of your sales boys had played a little prank?”

“Hell, they ain’t got time for no pranks. They’re busy selling cars.” Murley pointed across the lot to where one of his salesmen was showing a Toyota to a young couple. His gaze fell on Jeff, sitting inside the Chevy, and he frowned. “Hey, boy! Come outa there.”

Jeff scrambled out. The police radio let out a loud squawk, and the cop went jogging toward the squad car.

Murley waved Jeff closer. The stumpy carrot between his fingers had turned brown and looked so much like a dead cigar that Jeff half expected smoke to curl up from it. After fishing a role of bills out of his pants pocket, Murley peeled off a twenty.

“Run over and get us some burgers. My stomach thinks I forgot how to chew.” He glanced at Packet, mike in hand, standing outside the squad car. “Get a couple for him, too.”

Jeff shoved the bill deep in his pocket, thinking it was just his luck the case would probably bust wide open while he was gone. He shuffled past the squad car, headed for his bike.

“Sangriff?” the officer was saying, writing it on his notepad. “S-a-n-g-r-i-f-f, Corland. You notified him his Jag turned up at Murley’s Used Cars?”

The radio squawked in reply, but Jeff was already on his bike and racing down the shell driveway.