Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

A kind of defense with him. Un- educated, unable to talk good Eng- lish, so he made with the dear-dear stuff. It was a cover-up for him. It helped him to get even for the short-changing which he felt the world had given him. That was probably the source of a lot of Duke’s nastiness: a feeling of in- feriority. But why the hell didn’t he get at the source of it? With his dough, he could ... Abruptly, for no reason he was aware of, Mitch’s thoughts shifted from Duke to his own pleasant prospects. Eight grand. Between eight and nine grand! The first really big dough he’d ever got his hands on. To hell with a mere stateroom! He’d take a two-room suite on the Super Chief. And when he hit New York—brother! The big town would never be the same again. They’d be cleaning up the red-paint for the next cen- tury. It is about one hundred and thirty miles from Los Angeles to San Diego. They got there shortly after dark, and Mitch parked a little below and across the street from the bar. Duke looked at the place, frowning, as they got out of the Cad. “You can’t mean it, dear. A priceless antique is in a flyspecked hole-in-the-wall like that?” “T told you,” Mitch shrugged. “Incredible! And how did yon uncouth creature get it into his possession, dear boy?” 16 “How do I know? What’s the difference as long as he’s got it?” “An interesting question. Pray - precede me, sweetheart.” Mitch started across the street, a careful two paces ahead of Duke. He was ever so slightly uneasy as he stepped through the door of the bar; just a little worried by Duke’s remarks. Then, his eyes lighted on the what-not behind the cash register, and his uneasi- ness vanished. The chalice was there. It was still what his memory had told him it was; invisibly marked with the imprint of capital-d dough, glowing with the strange beauty which the centuries could not and would never dim. “Made it, huh? The proprietor beamed at Mitch. “That dame, the redhead, said you wouldn’t, but I knew better.” He got a piece of newspaper and began wrapping the cup. Mitch watched him, doing a little rapid arithmetic in his head. The girl had a grand in cash. If she’d ped- dled that junk furniture of hers, put the bite on some of her boy friends, she might have raised as much as . “How much?” he said. “Well, you know you promised to give me an extra two hundred. Whatever she offered you—” “I know. How much altogeth- err “Six dollars.” thousand, two hundred ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE Comicvooks sco