Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

went up to thirty-three hundred. Mitch accepted this last bid, and took a cab to that “right” dealer in art objects. 3 He was a gnomish little old guy, with twinkling black eyes and a head of thick gray hair. His hands moved over the cup lovingly, pat- ting and caressing it as though it were alive. “Beautiful, oh, but beautiful! And exactly as Cellini describes it in the Autobiography. He made it for—was it the Doge, or the King of France? Well, no matter.” He gave it a final pat, and looked up at Mitch. “Doc Krug, eh? I had heard some rumors—unfounded, I thought—that it was in his posses- sion.” “Doc Krug,” Mitch nodded. “And how is the good doctor?” “He’s got a few lumps,” Mitch said. “He’s staying in a cesspool for awhile. “Very shrewd of him,” the deal- er said gravely. “The cool atmos- phere will reduce the swelling. Now as to your price, Mr. Allison —I think ten thousand is a little exorbitant.” “T don’t.” “What would you say to the sug- gestion that you make me a pres-. ent of it, out of gratitude for my failure to call the police?” “Td tell you to go to hell,” Mitch said. “We-ll .. .” the dealer shrugged. “One must always try, you know. Do you mind taking a check?” “Why should I?” Mitch said. “You'll go right along to the bank with me to get it cashed.” There were a number of people waiting to board the Chicago- bound Super Chief. One of the finest trains in the world, the Su- per Chief is invariably well-patron- ized, despite the somewhat awe- some prices on its deluxe accom- -modations. Mitch stood a little to the rear of the well-dressed crowd; tired from much rushing around, but still very happy. There was a thou- sand-dollar watch on his wrist. He was wearing five hundred dollars © in clothes, and there was another five hundred bucks’ worth in his two new suitcases. He looked more prosperous, better turned out, than anybody here. And still, de- spite his expenditures, he had al- most twenty thousand dollars in cash. He was set, loaded. He could burn it up for the next year, with- out turning a lick. He could—but he wouldn’t. Already his eyes were roving the crowd, searching, seek- ing; hunting. He did it uncon- sciously. Because he was a hustler, and a hustler must always hustle. His gaze roved. It ceased to rove. His eyes narrowed, held on the target. Then, they shifted casually 84 ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE EOMMICLOOKS. EO