Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 79: what you’re looking at

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

“Six thou—!” Mitch let out a gasp. His eyes narrowed to angry slits. “What the hell are you try- ing to hand me, buster? That babe couldn’t have—” “What do you mean, what am | trying to hand you?” The proprie- tor bristled. “You calling me a liar?” “But ... No, of course not—” The man snatched up the cup and tossed it under the counter. Chin jutting stubbornly, he ges- tured toward the door. “Get outta here! No one calls me a liar!” “T’m_ sorry,” Mitch apologized. “IT didn’t mean it like it sounded. I was just surprised, you know, I hadn’t counted on .. .” Dammit, Doc Krug must have got to the babe after all! Only he could have bid the price this high —one so high, he thought, that Mitch couldn’t meet it. And even at six grand he was getting a bar- ain. “Well, all right,” the proprietor grumbled, “as long as you didn’t mean it. Just give me sixty-two hundred and we'll get this over with.” . Mitch hesitated, shooting an un- easy glance at Duke. This was go- ing to knock hell out of his prof- it, and it was going to look funny to flash four Gs in front of Duke. Still, he’d either do it or there’d be no deal. “Yeah, honey?” Mitch stammered out an expla- THE CELLINI CHALICE nation. A couple of other guys had given him some backing. He’d kept quiet about it, for fear that Duke would think he was lying and get sore. “What a dreadful picture you have of me!” Duke said. “I would- n’t think of cutting in on you, honey.” “But—” | “Huh-uh. There’s a distinct odor of frammis about this. The old razza-ma-tazz. When I put money into a tin cup it has a blind guy holding it.” “Tin hell!” Mitch yanked out his wallet and slapped all but a few small bills onto the counter. “There’s four grand I’m putting up. Would I do that if this wasn’t on the level?” “Not an unremote possibility, honey. The old clincher, you know. Still...” Still the dough had impressed him. It was the one thing that invariably impressed Duke, Mitch knew. The proprietor scowled at Duke with obvious dislike. In about a minute, Mitch guessed, he’d order them both out of the place. “Come on, Duke,” Mitch plead- ed. “Play with me on this. You’ve made the trip. You’ve got the dough. Don’t back out on it now, just when—” “You better do somethin’,” the proprietor cut in with a growl. Duke looked from him to Mitch. His eyes remained on Mitch as he reached for his wallet. 77 COPMICLOOO© ‘Ss Gom