Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 80: what you’re looking at

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

“Very well,” he said, counting from a sheaf of bills. “Oh, but very well, dear. But this hadn’t better be what it might be.” The proprietor shoved his mon- ey with Mitch’s, and gave it a fast recount. He said, “Sixty-two hun- dred, on the nose,” and handed over the cup. Mitch left the place, still walk- ing in front of Duke. He got be- hind the wheel again, Duke got back into the rear seat and they headed for Doc Krug’s house. It was near the ocean, a cottage sitting far back from the street and almost hidden by trees and shrub- bery. The dense foliage, dank with the night dew, accented the lone- liness of the place, gave it a deso- late mournful air. As Doc opened the door for them, Mitch felt like he was entering a tomb rather than a house. They went down a short hall- way, and into a living room. Doc sat down at a table, switched on the brilliant overhead lamp and looked leeringly at his two guests. _ “So,” he said, “you have a chal- ice by Cellini. The exact duplicate of an item which is known to be unique. It has no authentic dupli- cate, and yet—” “But you were damned hot to buy it,” Mitch snapped. “You were ready to pop six grand for it.” “Did I, indeed? And when and where did I do that?” ‘ “Come on!” Mitch said. “Stop bluffing and open it up. Look at it and then tell me it’s a fake!” “Please, dear.” Duke gave him a deadly grin. “Don’t ask him to tell us that. Think how badly I'll feel if he does.” He slid a hand inside his coat. He jerked his head at Doc, and Doc picked up the cup. Slowly, his fat fingers fumbling, he began to unwrap it. Mitch watched him, almost for- getting to breathe. A fine cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He chewed his lip, angrily asking himself why the nervousness. The cup was the McCoy, just like the first one had been. He knew it as well as he knew he was alive. He’d known it last night; he’d known it tonight when he saw it for the second time. It had seemed to call to him from its perch on the what-not shelf, whis- per the magic word, money, to which his ear was ever attuned. And as he watched, the bar owner had lifted it down from the shelf and—and— Mitch’s heart skidded. His stom- ach did a slow, sickening flip-flop. The guy had got sore, just as he finished wrapping it. He’d tossed it out of sight, under the counter, and—And there could have been another cup there! A> fake, wrapped in exactly the same way as the real Cellini .. . Mitch shot a swift glance at Duke. The racketeer was leaning forward a little, all his attention riveted on Doc and the object he 78 ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE EOPMICLOOKS.6©