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

“Listen, fellows, I’m going to mosey inside. You come when you’re ready, have a cold drink and a bite to eat, and I’ll give you a rundown on the Dart that disappeared last night when Mr. Sangriff’s car was left off.” He hustled toward the office, his short legs making surprisingly good time.

Jeff stood out of the way, waiting for Packet to decide whether he should change the flat. Sangriff hadn’t noticed him, hadn’t placed him as Sis’s brother, even though just last month he had given Jeff a hundred dollar bill to detail the Jaguar. Spare change, he’d called it. Big-shot showoff. The car had been road grimy, sure, but Sangriff’s real motive was having an hour or two alone in the house with Sis while Mom was at a movie.

Jeff, full of his own motives, had obliged eagerly.

It hadn’t taken long at all to find the shallow false bottom in the Jaguar’s trunk. Customs officers, acquainted with Sangriff and his big-shot international trading company, likely wouldn’t bother looking past the trunk full of cartons and spare tires.

After a quick trip to the hardware store for polish, Jeff had pocketed copies of Sangriff’s keys, house, garage, and Jag. All he had to do then was wait for golden boy’s next trip down south.

Jeff pictured the sick look on Sangriff’s face that morning when he opened his garage, ready to make his drop, and found his precious sports car missing, along with its even more precious cargo. Tanninger must be half crazy about now, wondering how the tags from the Cutlass ended up on Sangriff’s Jaguar.

“You want me to change that flat now?” Jeff said. “Looks like the spare could use some air. Seal doesn’t look tight.”

Sangriff’s upper lip was beaded with sweat, despite the cool breeze that wafted across the car lot.

“Ahhh, now that I think about it, that tire’s not in real good shape,” Sangriff said. “Why don’t I call a tow truck and have the car taken to my garage where they can check it out, make sure the creep that stole it didn’t pour sugar in my gas tank or something else crazy like that?”

But Jeff had already picked up the spare. “Whoa. That’s as heavy as a truck tire.” He glanced at the rookie cop.

Lips pressed into a tight slash in his bony face, Packet met Jeff’s gaze. His eyes flickered with vague understanding. He swung the spare out of Jeff’s grasp and bounced it on the ground. It thudded heavily.

“You go ahead and call that tow truck, Mr. Sangriff. Might as well let the kid check out the spare, save you a little time and money.” He rolled the tire toward the garage at the back of the office.

“Naw, really.” Sangriff’s snappy Italian coat showed dark circles around the armpits. “That’s not necessary. I’d feel better if my mechanic took care of the whole thing.”

But Packet continued onward as the older cop responded to a squawk from his car radio.

Jeff settled the wheel over the pneumatic tire changer, noticing that Sangriff had hung back, looking like he wanted to run. Jostling the wheel into better position, he pressed the foot feed and heard a sharp hiss, rubber separating from metal.

Footsteps crunched across the shell as the older cop joined them.

“Found the Dart,” he said. “About four blocks down the street. People opened their garage door and the Dart was sitting in the driveway, blocking their exit. The Jaguar’s tags were laying on the back seat.” He placed a reassuring hand on Sangriff’s shoulder, urging him forward. “Beginning to look like a prank after all, Mr. Sangriff. Maybe you ought to think about who you know that’d go to such lengths to cause you a little grief.”

Jeff looked up at Sangriff as he inserted the tire tool under the metal. Sangriff’s eyes were glued miserably to the tire popping free of the spare’s rim and to the avalanche of small plastic bags filled with powdery white crystals.

The rookie cop grinned at Jeff as he picked up one of the plastic bags.

“I’d say somebody caused you more than just a little grief, Mr. Sangriff,” he said.

Papa Mozart in France

by Ben Pastor

To Frau Anna Maria Mozart, Getreidegasse by the Loechelplatz, Salzburg. October 1763.

Dear Wife,

As I promised, here is a letter to inform you that Wolfgang and I arrived in France in fair health and fine spirits, and we expect to catch the post for Paris tomorrow. Wolfgang has being doing much better and has quite recovered from the stomach upset that plagued him during the trip across Switzerland. He has been practicing the harpsichord nearly every day and sounds marvelous.

You will not believe what has befallen us during the last twenty-four hours of our stay here at the Reine Margot Inn. Yesterday morning, as I prepared to put on my frock to go downstairs for breakfast, the voice of the innkeeper’s sister — you remember her from last year’s trip, she’s a stout, pleasant woman with a liking for Polish-style ribbons in her dress — called me in alarm from outside our room’s door.

“Herr Mozart, Herr Mozart!”