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

“Yeah, honey?”

Mitch stammered out an explanation. 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 wouldn’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 pleaded. “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.

“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 money with Mitch’s, and gave it a fast recount. He said, “Sixty-two hundred, on the nose,” and handed over the cup.

Mitch left the place, still walking in front of Duke. He got behind 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 shrubbery. The dense foliage, dank with the night dew, accented the loneliness of the place, gave it a desolate 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 hallway, 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 chalice by Cellini. The exact duplicate of an item which is known to be unique. It has no authentic duplicate, 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 forgetting 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, whisper 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 stomach 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 was unwrapping. Mitch measured the distance between them. He edged sidewise cautiously, every muscle tensed, braced for immediate action.

The last wrapping fell from the cup. Mitch didn’t need to be told it was a fake. He yelled unnervingly, swung his stiffened right arm with all his fear-inspired strength. It struck Duke’s shoulders like a club, knocking him off balance, pitching him forward across the table.

He bowled into Doc. Doc shot over backwards in his chair and Duke landed on top of him.

Mitch ran; hell, he was already running. There was an ominous ker-chung as he hurled himself toward the hall — the sound of Duke’s silenced gun. There was another as he clawed open the door, cleared the porch and the steps with one flying leap. Ducking and darting, he fled through the trees toward the street. Racing against the bullets that were certain to follow the first two.

Duke would be on his feet by now. He’d be lunging out the door, plunging through the trees in hot pursuit. He’d never swallow this, the rooking he thought he’d been handed.