Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

“Just about three blocks from here.” She gave him the address. “Could I have my four thousand dollars, honey? I’ll go and get the cup, then, and—” “Certainly, you can have it,” Mitch said: “Just as soon as I run out and get some change. It’s all in—in big bills. A five-thousand and a three-thousand. I—uh—” “Three-thousand?” the girl frowned. “I didn’t know they made three-thousand-dollar bills.” “They just started,” Mitch as- sured her. “I'll be right back, honey. Right back.” He literally ran out of the room. He left the hotel on the double, gradually slow- ing to a thoughtful walk. Take it easy, he cautioned himself. Maybe she misunderstood Doc. Maybe he lied to her deliberately, to get her good and burned with me. Turning in at a newsstand, he phoned Krug—at his house since the shop would be closed at this hour. Doc snickered at the sound of his voice. “You have had a mice visitor, yes? When do the doctors think you will recover?” “She was very nice,” Mitch told him. “Nice enough to tell me where I could pick up the dupli- cate of that Cellini chalice I sold you.” “Please do so. It will confirm my opinions as to your stupidity.” Mitch was silent. Doc laughed | with a trace of nervousness. “I think I have punished you enough, Mitch. Save your much- THE CELLINI CHALICE needed money for traveling ex- penses. There is no duplicate of the chalice.” “There isn’t, huh?” Mitch said. “Well, well.” “Indeed, there isn’t, Mitch! If she knows of a similar one, it is certain to be a fake. It would be worthless. It—uh— Of course, if it is a very good fake I might pay a little for it. I would be very happy to examine it, and—” “You’re showing your seams, Doc.” Mitch laughed © shortly. “Now, lay it on the line and do it » fast. That chalice will cost you ex- actly ten thousand dollars. Do you want it or not?” “Ten thousand!” Doc squealed like a stuck pig. “But it is a fake, an imitation! It cannot be other- wise. [—” “Yes or no?” He heard Doc gulp. “All right, Mitch,” Doc said in an agonized whisper. “When ... ?” “Tl get in touch,” Mitch said, and he banged up the receiver. He arrived at the block the bar was in, crossed the street, and studied it from the other side. It was a wine-and-beer joint, rather than a regular bar. Its four stools and one small booth were empty. The proprietor, a beefy square- faced guy, was lounging behind the counter reading a newspaper. Mitch crossed the street, and entered. Taking the front stool, he laid a coin on the counter and ordered a-beer. He sipped, and his 63 Gomicbooks-co