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

Corland Big-shot Sangriff and Arnold Tanninger. Nobody would ever’ve paired those two. Jeff had seen Sangriff at the Exxon often enough, though, Tanninger airing the tires and checking the hood, golden boy Sangriff standing around with his hands in his pockets. The day after returning from one of his buying trips, Sangriff always turned up bright and early at the station, getting the Jaguar serviced.

Jeff wished he knew what Sis saw in the creep. If Dad were still around, he wouldn’t be taken in by the flashy car and designer clothes; he would’ve noticed Sangriff’s too-bright eyes after one of his long stints in the john. The day his father died, he’d made Jeff promise to take care of his older sister, but that was tough with Mom working against him, thinking Sangriff was Sis’s ticket to the good life.

Jeff slowed at a stop sign, checked both ways, and sailed through the intersection. Murley would be ticked off that he stopped at Jack-in-the-Box instead of going two blocks farther to Burger King, but Jeff could see the drive-through was empty. With luck, he could be in and out and back at Murley’s before anything important went down.

One more month and he’d be driving his own car right now. One month until his sixteenth birthday, when he’d be old enough to get his driver’s license. By then he’d have enough money socked away to buy that honey Mustang on the back lot — not on one of Murley’s sucker plans but straight-out cash. He’d miss the wind in his face and the music of his spoke flaps, but having his own car was a milestone right up there with finishing school and becoming a cop.

When he sailed into the car lot and braked beside the office, another squad car was parked on the shell drive, and Sangriff was climbing out of it. The rookie cop had the Jaguar’s trunk open.

“You must have a lot of tire trouble,” he said as Sangriff walked up. “Carrying around two spares.”

Sangriff grinned, teeth lined up and gleaming like new piano keys. “I spend a lot of time on the road late at night. Can’t be too careful.”

Jeff wandered closer, holding the bag of burgers. Besides the two tires, the trunk held a bumper jack, a pouch full of wrenches, and several boxes of odds and ends that belonged in a garage. One of the spares was a small emergency model, good for a few miles at best. The other was full size. Both were mounted on wheels that matched the four on the ground.

“That little doughnut won’t be doing you much good,” the cop said. “Got a hole in it as big as the one up front.”

Sangriff’s smile dimmed a notch. He walked to the front of the Jaguar to stare down at his ruined tire. A flicker of real anger hardened his mouth for a moment; then the lips pulled back and quirked up at the corners, and he turned on the old charm brighter than ever.

“I suppose I should count my blessings that the car wasn’t stripped. Isn’t that what usually happens?”

The officer from the second squad car, older and stockier than Packet, walked along the other side of the Jaguar, looking it over. Jeff wondered whether he was admiring the car or hanging around for more official reasons.

“This theft has a few other peculiarities,” Packet said. “You know a man named Arnold Tanninger?”

“Tanninger?” Sangriff hesitated an instant. “Yes, I suppose you could say I know him. He takes care of my car, changes the oil and keeps it roadworthy.”

“Tanninger’s been picked up for questioning,” the second cop contributed. “Heard it called in. He denies knowing anything about the theft.”

Jeff watched a bead of sweat travel down the side of Sangriff’s hairline. His golden tan seemed suddenly paler against the stark white of his shirt collar. He unbuttoned his snappy blue Italian sport coat and adjusted the knot of his signature tie.

The greasy burgers were bleeding through the sack. Jeff handed them to Murley. The carrot stump bobbed and rolled to the other side of Murley’s mouth.

“Say,” he said, obviously eager to get inside and chow down now that the Jaguar had slipped firmly from his grasp. “The kid here can change that flat, get you back on the road. Looks like you still got one good shoe left to put on the ground.”

Packet glanced at the other cop. “That’s another of those peculiarities I mentioned. Why not disable all three tires if the objective was to keep the car from going anywhere? Otherwise, what’s the point in slashing any of them?”

Sangriff’s forehead wrinkled; his sissy mouth pursed with consideration.

“I understand what you’re saying, officer. Looks like somebody wasn’t thinking too clearly. But if, as you say, Tanninger had something to do with this, I suppose I’m not terribly surprised. He isn’t what I’d call the brightest person I’ve ever met.”

Murley rattled the grease-stained sack growing cold in his hands.