Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956

“So?”

“Well, I didn’t like him a bit. I mean, I’m an awfully good judge of character — everyone says so. And I knew that was one man I’d certainly have to watch my step with. He was so sneaky looking, so kind of oily and—”

Mitch suppressed a groan of impatience. “You’re absolutely right about him, sweetheart. He’s a stinker in spades. But what about the eight thousand you’re going to get from him?”

“The eight thousand?”

“Yes!”

“For another chalice?”

“God!” Mitch groaned. “Holy God!”

“Now, look,” the girl twitched. “You don’t need to be so cross about it!”

“Cross? You mean you thought I was cursing?” Mitch laughed hollowly. “Why, I was praying, my pet!”

“Oh, how sweet! Do you always pray at this time?”

“Always,” Mitch sighed. “Always and always. Now, please, baby! Take it from the beginning and...”

Gradually, he got the story out of her.

Distrustful of Doc Krug, she’d told him that she didn’t have another chalice at the house, but that she thought she had one stored away in an old trunk. It was in a warehouse, she’d said, and she couldn’t get into it before morning. Actually, it was in a bar — it belonged to the owner — down near the railroad station, where she, or rather a boy friend she was with at the time, had bought the first one. They’d been just a teensy-bit tipsy that night and the boy friend had thought it would be a swell thing to drink beer out of. So he’d bought it from the proprietor for two dollars.

“An awful old grouch,” the girl added. “I mean, he didn’t act that way the first time, but he was just as mean as he could be tonight. Why, he wasn’t using it at all. It was just sitting up there with a lot of old receipts and things stuffed into it. But when I offered to buy it from him — and I wasn’t snippy at all, Mitch; I most certainly wasn’t trying to throw my weight around like he said I was...”

But anxiety had probably made it seem that she was, Mitch guessed. And apparently the proprietor was one of those stubborn, independent birds. At any rate, he’d told her that if she wanted the cup it would damn well cost her. Either she laid a hundred bucks on the line, or he’d keep it himself.

“And you didn’t have the money, so you came to me,” Mitch finished. “Where did you say this place was, honey?”

“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 assured her. “I’ll be right back, honey. Right back.” He literally ran out of the room. He left the hotel on the double, gradually slowing 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 nice 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 duplicate 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-needed money for traveling expenses. 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 exactly 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 otherwise. I—”

“Yes or no?”

He heard Doc gulp. “All right, Mitch,” Doc said in an agonized whisper. “When...?”

“I’ll 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 eyes moved to the top shelf of a tiered what-not.