Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 58: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

said, and drew a bead on her chin. He’d slugged plenty of dames for less reason. Socking this one would be both pleasurable and profitable. By the time she stopped listening to the birdies he’d have the cup to Krug, and be miles away. “Tt wouldn’t think of taking your money,” she said. “TIl give you the cup.” She wrapped it in a paper bag to carry. As he started down the street toward town, he thought he heard another burst of half-hysterical laughter. But a train was passing just then so he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t something to be bothered about, anyway. She was just a nut —one of those babes who laughed instead of crying. Now that he had the cup, she could laugh her pretty red head off for all he cared. 2. Coming out of the public library, Mitch knew a moment of regret for his lack of a formal education. He hadn’t known where to look for the information he wanted. He didn’t know the names of any of the old geezers, silversmiths and gold workers, whose craftsmanship the cup might be. He could have asked the librarian for guidance but he guessed that wouldn’t have helped him much. If this thing was as rare as he hoped, there would be no picture of it. If there was a picture, it would certainly not be labeled with a price tag. And without price tags, Mitch Al- lison was lost. | He knew when something was valuable; a hustler was born know- ing. He could not, however, say how valuable it was nor why it was valuable at all. Under the circumstances, Doc Krug would probably give him a rooking. Or try to. But there was little to be done about it. About all he could do was hold the rook- ing down to a minimum, to drive the best bargain which his igno- rance of valués would permit. Doc’s shop was on a side street in the outer edge of the business district. The sign on the door read: KRUG—ANTIQUES. Dealer in Precious Metals. A display of old coins and = ancient _ silverware gleamed dully behind the dusty windows. Inside were two long rows of showcases, divided by a narrow aisle, extending to the grilled workroom-office at the rear. Doc was a short, fat little man. His bald hard-looking head looked like it had been put on with an ice cream dipper. As Mitch came in, he dropped the loupe from his eye and dimmed the brilliant light of his work lamp. Ignoring Mitch’s greeting, he opened the wicket and held out his hand. “There was a wrist watch on my 56 ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE EOMMICLOOO KS. CO