Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956
- Автор: Дил Борден, Томпсон Джим
- Год: 1956
- Язык: английский
- Год: H.S.D. Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956». Краткое содержание книги:
“But... what will happen to you? How will you live?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mitch said gently. “I don’t have long to live, anyway.”
It went against his hustler’s pride to deal out such terrible corn. But Peggy Turner was lapping it up. Timidly, she suggested lending him a few dollars. He refused it with a firm smile of thanks.
“I do wish you had something I might buy from you, Miss Turner, but since you haven’t, I’ll—”
“I really don’t, Mr. Allison. Honest, I don’t.” Her tear-dimmed eyes strayed to the shelf. “Except maybe that old goblet. But I doubt that’d be any good to you.”
“I’m afraid not,” Mitch said doubtfully. “Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to look at it.”
She handed it to him. Mitch examined it, his lips pursed deprecatingly to conceal his excitement. Its finish was dull, greenish with age. Each of the four grime-obscured handles was formed in the shape of a different figure, a mermaid, a knight and so on. The under-rim was a metallic circle of lace — filigree — as exquisite as it was intricate.
“Kind of cute, isn’t it?” the girl said. “I was trying to remember where I got the thing.”
“Yes,” Mitch murmured. “It is kind of cute.”
He hefted it casually, deciding that it was undoubtedly gold. Of course, lead or some other base metal would weigh heavily, too. But it seemed unlikely that any metal but gold would have received so much careful workmanship.
It just wasn’t done, Krug had explained to him. Diamonds were not mounted in tin. Expert craftsmen did not spend their valuable time on the intrinsically cheap.
He looked up suddenly. There was a peculiar expression on the girl’s face, something that seemed strangely close to amusement. It disappeared immediately, so swiftly that he was not sure he had seen it. He decided that he hadn’t, that it was only his guilty imagination, and the tension drained out of his body.
“Well,” she said. “Is it worth anything, Mr. Allison?”
“Well,” Mitch said. “It’s not completely worthless.”
“I see.”
“There’s a little silver in it. Just plate, you know, but it is worth something.”
“Yes?”
“Well,” Mitch squirmed inwardly. Was she wise? Was she just leading him on, building up to a horse-laugh? “Well, I have to make a little profit. Not much, only fifty cents or so, or maybe a dollar.”
“Yes?”
“I can offer you two dollars for it,” Mitch said.
The girl choked, and burst into laughter.
Mitch’s eyes flashed venomously. He got a firm grip on the cup, and pushed himself up from the chair. One of his hands balled into a fist.
“Please,” Peggy Turner gasped. “Please forgive me, but—”
“Sure,” said Mitch grimly. “Sure, I’ll forgive you.”
“You poor innocent, you! You poor helpless thing! Of course I won’t sell you that cup!”
“Of course you won’t,” Mitch 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.
“I wouldn’t think of taking your money,” she said. “I’ll 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 Allison was lost.
He knew when something was valuable; a hustler was born knowing. 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 rooking down to a minimum, to drive the best bargain which his ignorance of values 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 workbench this morning,” he said. “After you left, it was no longer there. You will return it, please.”
“Why not?” Mitch handed it back to him with a shrug. “It’s not worth a five-spot.”
“So.” Doc nodded. “Otherwise, you would not have stolen it. Only the cheap, the shoddy, do you have an eye for. Apparently, you are traveling under false colors. Apparently, there is another Mitch Allison — a truly fast boy, not a clown who could not hustle a dime at a world’s fair — and you have taken his name.”
He shook his head contemptuously.
Mitch reddened. “Look who’s talking,” he sneered. “If you’re sharp, then I’ll shave with a wet noodle! How the hell the word ever got around Los Angeles that you were the guy for a hustler to come to—”
“A real hustler. A boy who recognizes opportunities, such as I have wasted upon you. You yourself know many such men. None of them, I believe, has ever accused me of a lack of sharpness.”
Mitch had to admit it, but he did so silently. How Doc had got his reputation he didn’t know, but all the fast boys spoke highly of him.
“I send you to a good neighborhood,” Doc continued, “and you do nothing. I send you to a poor neighborhood, a place where all of my former associates have done well, and still you do nothing. You lack nerve, presence, intelligence. You expect to swindle a pro, yet you cannot cheat a housewife.”
“I can’t, huh?” Mitch’s face was scarlet. “What do you think I’ve got in this sack?”
“Bananas?” Doc guessed. “Have you raided a fruit-stand, you oh-so-daring young man?”
Mitch ripped the sack from the cup. He set it in the window of the wicket, forcing himself to calm down, realizing that Doc was angering him deliberately.
Had he glimpsed the cup over the top of the sack? Had its outline against the paper hinted of its value? Mitch thought, yes — hence Doc’s attempt to upset him. But there was nothing to bolster the hunch in the fat man’s expression.
“I apologize,” Doc said. “It was a trash pile you raided, not a fruit store.”
Mitch shrugged carelessly, and reached for the cup. “I’ll just take it along with me,” he said. “Save you the trouble of throwing it away.”
“Wait.”
Mitch grinned.