Jim Thompson

The Cellini Chalice

*1*

It was late afternoon when Mitch Allison reached the last shabby house in a shabby block of houses, and he was cursing himself for eighteen kinds of a sap. He hadn't made a nickel all day. He hadn't made bean money all week. Well, if this was the best Doc Krug could do for a hustling man, he, Doc Krug, could shove it. Doc was supposed to be a sharpie. Supposedly, he could always put a fast boy next to a good thing. But all he'd put Mitch next to was being broke.

Mitch knocked on the door of the house. He waited a second, then pounded, adding an angry kick for good measure. The door opened suddenly, and a redhead glared out at him. She was young, built like a brick henhouse in a windy country. Judging by the nightgown beneath her half-opened robe, she had been asleep.

"Beat it!" she snapped. "Whatever you're selling, I don't want any."

Mitch smiled apologetically, flashing one of Doc Krug's business cards. The card identified him as an associate of Krug's and Company, San Diego's largest buyer of precious metals and old jewelry.

"I'm not selling a thing, lady. I'm here to – "

"Yeah, yeah, I know." The girl cut him off impatiently. "I've heard the spiel before. What would I have that was worth any dough?"

Mitch's smile vanished. He was about to say that she had plenty that was worth dough, and that she was doubtless selling it regularly. But then he saw the thing – the cup or the bowl or whatever the hell it was. And the insulting words died in his throat.

"I'm terribly sorry to have disturbed you, madam," he said earnestly. "I did hope you might have some old trinkets I could purchase, but since you haven't…" He gave her a courtly bow. The girl's face and her voice softened.

"I really don't have a thing, mister. And I'm sorry if I was rude. You see, I work all night in a restaurant and – " She broke off with a gasp. "What's the matter? For God's sake, what's the matter?"

Mitch didn't answer. He simply moaned, clutching his heart, his handsome face contorted with pain. The girl's reaction was exactly what he hoped it to be. She was one of those tough babies. All the toughies had a soft streak; they were easier to handle, really, than the so-called softies.

So, less than a minute after he had gone into his act, he was seated in the living room, sipping at the glass of water which she held to his mouth.

Bent over him as she was, she gave him plenty to look at. Unfortunately, he couldn't be bothered, at the moment. His seemingly closed eyes were fixed on a shelf near the window, attempting to appraise the cup-shaped object, which stood there betwixt a withering potted plant and a battered alarm clock.

Doc Krug had tried to drum some knowledge of antiques into him. It was necessary, Doc pointed out, if Mitch was to work with him in fencing hot items. Moreover, Mitch had the hustler's instinct for something good – for a tangible or intangible that could be turned for a big dollar. Still, he had no real idea of what the thing on the shelf was worth.

All he knew was that (1) it must be worth a wad, and (2) he'd get it away from the babe if he had to slug her.

"Better now?" Her anxious voice interrupted his thoughts. "Answer me, please!"

Mitch allowed his eyes to flutter open. He gave her a brave, weak smile.

"I'm all right, now, thanks to you. You saved my life, Miss – Miss – "

"Turner. Peggy Turner. What was it, your heart?"

Mitch nodded. "It's my own fault, I suppose, for leaving the hospital this morning. But I'd been there for so long. Two years of lying on my back, accepting charity…"

"Charity?" She frowned at him suspiciously.

Mitch continued, lying with the smoothness of long practice, "My good friend Doctor Krug lent me some clothes. He gave me this job, and a little money to work with. I wish I could justify his faith in me. But" – he sighed heavily – "I haven't made a purchase all day, and it doesn't look like I will. So the only honorable thing for me to do is to quit."

"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 that 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, decided 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 horselaugh? "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 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 the town, he thought he heard another burst of half-hysterical laughter. But a train was passing, 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 of 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 in 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 wristwatch 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 his opportunities, such as I have wasted on 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 did not 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.

"I – I did not say it was worthless. Taking a second look at it, I can see that it contains silver. Almost – well, two or three dollars' worth."

"How much?" Mitch cupped a hand to his ear. "I don't hear so well, Doc?"

"Five dollars. Well, ten then. Little silver it has, but the design is nice, indeed quite interesting."

"Little silver it has," Mitch nodded mockingly. "But gold, Doc, of gold it has much. A good half-pound I'll say of about eighteen carat."

"Nonsense! It is no better than a thick silver-plate. Perhaps only a fill."

"Well, let's see," Mitch said; his hand reached for the rubber corked bottle. "Let's just – "

"Imbecile!" Doc jerked the bottle out of reach, his face turning white. "Fool! Better you should have acid on your head than on this – this – "

His voice died foolishly. His eyes wavered under Mitch's knowing gaze, and he heaved a sigh of surrender. "All right," he said. "Beneath this shamefully tarnished exterior is a good grade of gold."

"Go on."

"It is antique, very old. Truly a work of art. In all my years in the business, I have seen nothing quite so fine."

"It kind of got me too," Mitch confessed, a little wonderingly. "But go on, Doc. The business."

Doc Krug spread his fat hands. "I will tell you the truth, Mitch. An object such as this is above price. It is as valuable as one's sense of beauty is great. I might say it was worth fifteen hundred dollars. Or two thousand. Or even twenty-five hundred. And I would be correct in each case. Do you follow me? If one can wait and look long enough, find exactly the right buyer…"

"I can't," said Mitch. "Make me an offer."

"One thousand dollars."

Mitch concealed a start. It was a much better deal than he had hoped for. Gratified as he was, however, he automatically refused. "Come on, Doc. You can do better than that."

"No, I am not absolutely positive that I can resell it for even a thousand. Because it is a work of great beauty, I am willing to gamble. But a thousand is my limit."

"All right," Mitch said. "I guess I'll keep it then. Try for a deal some place else."

"You are wise to do so," Doc nodded. "Yes, and I would even prefer that you do it. I am not a gambling man. For me to have a thousand dollars tied up indefinitely, perhaps for years – "

"It's a deal for a grand," Mitch said hastily.

Krug have him a thousand dollars, twenty crisp fifties. Mitch turned over his buy-slip on the cup, a receipt turned over by Peggy Turner and transferring title to the cup for "one dollar and other valuable considerations."

"And now," Doc said, "I assume that this will be the end of our association. You will be leaving town."

"The first thing in the morning," Mitch agreed. "All I came here for was a stake. Now that I've got it, I'm lighting out of here, fast."

"It is well. As your best friend at the moment, may I make a suggestion? Get into some very simple occupation – something akin, say, to stealing from blind men or robbing very small newsboys. For anything better, you lack the mentality."

Mitch thanked him politely. Then he made a suggestion, a completely impossible one, involving various parts of Doc's anatomy.

"Scum!" Doc hissed. "Hoodlum! Stupid oaf! So easily I cheated you on the cup. Why, in time, I will resell it for – "

"In time," Mitch nodded, "and maybe. It's starting to stick in your craw already, isn't it? Well, goodbye, you fat, bald-headed old…" He loosed a hair-curling string of epithets at Krug. Then he left.

And Doc Krug looked after him, not angrily but pleased, a wolfish smile on his face.

____________________

*3*

Mitch Allison was as lowdown as they come, but his front was strictly high-class. He was capable of courtly manners and language. He ate, drank, and wore nothing but the best. So, while he was staying at a second-rate hotel – a place where the guests' backgrounds and misdoings were discreetly ignored – he occupied a parlor suite. He was in the parlor now, on the evening of his sale of the cup.

He had eaten elegantly, as the plates on the linen-covered table testified. In a bucket at the side of his chair there was a large bottle of imported champagne, and in his hand a crystal goblet of the sparkling liquid. He studied it fondly, marveling at the suddenness with which his luck had turned from god-awful to grand.

A week ago he had nothing, as next to nothing as a hustler can have and keep going. Now he had a thousand bucks, or call it nine hundred after he squared with the hotel. Almost two hundred dollars for each day he'd put in with Doc Krug.

Not bad, he mused comfortably. Not bad for a guy with no education, no family, nothing but a head on his shoulders and the guts to kick back twice as hard as he got kicked!

He could take a stateroom all the way to New York, and still arrive there with a very tidy sum. It wouldn't be as much as he'd like to have, enough to really live it up while he was trying to latch onto something. But –

Mitch Allison frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps he should make another last whirl at Los Angeles. It had seemed wise, a week ago, to get out and stay out of L.A. With three people threatening to kill him – his wife, Bette, among them – it had seemed very wise. But his nerves had been a little bad at the time, so maybe he'd considered too hastily.

After all, people had been threatening to kill him for years, without, obviously, carrying through. And the sucker you'd trimmed was always the best sucker to trim again. He'd been waiting to get even with you. He'd think that he was wise to all your tricks, and that he would take you this time.

So? Los Angeles or New York? Or, rather, Los Angeles then New York, instead of New York period.

Mitch turned the matter over in his mind… There was a soft knock on his bedroom door. He didn't answer it, naturally. He knew no one in San Diego but Doc, and Doc most certainly would not be paying him a call.

Picking up the phone, he spoke softly to the room clerk. The clerk's reply was similarly soft. "None of the employees, Mr. Allison. Someone must have slipped past me. Want the house dick?"

"No, I'll handle it," Mitch frowned, hesitating, and then he grinned. Entering the bathroom, he turned the shower on full blast. He let out a brief, muted bellow, as of a man singing in his bath; then cautiously, noiselessly, he unlocked the bedroom door and returned to the parlor.

If things worked out as he expected them to…

They did work out that way, after a few more knocks. The bedroom door opened slowly. It closed again softly. And there in his room, looking frightened but angry and determined, stood the redheaded girl, Peggy Turner.

Mitch scowled. Only Doc knew his address. Had Doc sicked her on him, told her she'd been cheated, just to make trouble for him?

Well, he'd have to do something nice for Doc, too. Yes, he'd do something very nice for him. Meanwhile, first things first.

Mitch took a roll of adhesive from his pocket; a very handy item, he'd found, and nothing that the cops could kick about in case you were searched. He ripped off a piece of it, laid it flat in his palm, and moved back softly into the bedroom.

The girl was at the baggage rack, rummaging through his suitcase. As she straightened, Mitch's hand swooped in front of her face, slapping the tape across her mouth.

She gasped and kicked backward, Mitch bumped her head against the wall, jerked and whirled her and sent her sprawling on the bed. Before she could rise, he was on it with her. Holding her against him, his arms locked around hers.

"Now, listen," he said, his mouth almost against her face. "You want to play rough, I'll do it, but it's my game, baby, and you won't like the way it turns out. So what do you want to do? Play nice – behave yourself – or go out of here without your front teeth."

Blue eyes blazed at him helplessly. Her throat rippled with the effort to speak.

"You'll behave?" Mitch said. "Just nod for yes."

She hesitated. Then, all her anger went out of her eyes, and tears filled them; she nodded, sobbing.

Mitch took the tape from her mouth. He was all set for a scream or a struggle, but neither came. All the fight had left her, apparently, for she stayed where she was, weeping as helplessly as a baby.

Her body trembled against his as she wept. Trembled in an extremely pleasant way. Mitch gave her a few experimental pats, he stroked her and was met with only token resistance.

"You s-stop that" – but she didn't move away. In fact, she seemed to cuddle a little closer. "First you ch-cheat me, and then y-you – "

"Now, now," Mitch said. "I didn't like it either, baby. It was just business, you know, nothing personal."

"I was sorry for you! I l-lost my job last night and I'm almost broke, but I felt s-sorry for you that – "

Mitch clicked his tongue remorsefully. He murmured that he was most terribly, terribly ashamed of himself, and that he was going to start right now to turn over a new leaf.

"Y-you – you mean," she shifted her red head, stared hopefully into his eyes. "You mean you'll – "

"That's just what I mean, honey. We'll split the take right down the middle. Half for you, half for me."

"Ooooh!" she kissed him wildly. "You darling, darling! You know what I'm going to do for you?"

"Let me guess," said Mitch, and he increased his patting.

Needless to say, he wasn't going to split Doc's grand with her. The only dough she'd get out of him would be her cab fare, and she wouldn't get that until morning.

"You're so sweet to me, I'm going to be sweet to you. I'll give you half of the eight thousand I get from Doctor Krug."

"Fine. Swell. You'll give…" Mitch stared at her.

"Something wrong, darling?"

"N-nothing." Mitch fought to control his voice. "So Doc told you he'd paid me eight grand for the cup?"

"Uh-huh. Well, no, he didn't, either, exactly. He came out to the house to see if I had another cup. A chalice he called it, a Cellini chalice, like the one I gave you. And he said if I did have, he'd give me eight thousand dollars for it."

"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 boyfriend she was with at the time, had bought the first one. They'd been just a teensy-bit tipsy that night and the boyfriend had thought it'd make 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 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 like 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 lien, 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 his shop would be closed at this hour. Doc snickered at the sound of his voice. "You have 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 the 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 whatnot.

It was there, a cup with four figured handles. It wasn't quite so dingy, perhaps, but it was unmistakably the twin of the other chalice. No fake, no imitation. Even from several feet away, Mitch knew that it was genuine. Unerring instinct told him it was, whispered that here was money – _big money_ – as it had when he saw the first cup.

He caught the proprietor's eye, nodded.

"That cup," he said. "My wife likes it. I don't like my wife."

"You got company." The man looked at him solidly. "How much you don't like her?"

"A hundred dollars worth."

"A hundred dollars. And you ain't in no big hurry? You don't want to give me the rush act?"

"I wouldn't think of it," said Mitch.

"Well, all right. People come here thinking I'm gonna jump every time they holler frog…" The grumbling words trailed away, as he turned and reached down the cup. He laid it on the back bar, and began wrapping it in an old newspaper.

Mitch grimaced wryly. It was no wonder the guy was running a dump like this. With his temperament, he was lucky to have any kind of business.

The man turned around again, and set the cup on the counter. Mitch took his wallet from his hip pocket.

It was empty.

____________________

*4*

The proprietor stared at Mitch, a stubborn frown wrinkling his forehead. Mitch went on talking, the words issuing from his mouth in a suave and steady stream. He was very convincing: the ability to be convincing was his stock in trade. Slowly, the proprietor softened up.

"All right," he said, at last, "we'll start all over. You were lying about the dame. You don't like her maybe, but you're really after the cup. And you want it because it's worth heavy sugar to you."

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way exactly."

"Put it this way, then. What do I get out of it, and when do I get it?"

"In twenty-four hours. Just give me twenty-four hours."

"How much in twenty-four hours? And don't give me no stuff about a hundred dollars. The price has gone up."

"Well…" Mitch hesitated.

The girl had the grand she'd nicked him for. Since she didn't trust Doc, the grand was all she could offer this guy. So if he was promised eleven hundred or maybe twelve to clinch things…

But! Would the girl have picked his pocket if she intended to hang around? It didn't seem likely. She'd have to be a lot dumber than she acted to come near this place. She didn't know anything about antiques; she was scared and distrustful. So she'd taken him for his roll, thinking she was getting four grand instead of one, and now…

Still, maybe not. He couldn't be sure, and this was no time to take chances.

"Well?" the proprietor frowned. "What d'ya say, Mac?"

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Mitch said. "Whatever you're offered for the cup I'll give you two hundred more."

"What the hell does that mean? Suppose I ain't offered anything."

"Then," said Mitch smoothly, "you get two hundred dollars. Fair enough?"

The man frowned uncertainly. He scratched his head, a doubtful look coming into his eyes. "Yeah, I guess so," he admitted. "Two hundred bucks on top of anything, from zero on up. Yeah, that sounds okay."

He gave Mitch a look of surly approval. He said he liked a guy that shot square and didn't rush him and that he'd hold the cup for twenty-four hours.

Mitch thanked him warmly, shook hands, and left.

He didn't go back to the hotel, naturally. The redhead wouldn't be there; he had no funds to pay his bill. He entered a pawnshop, emerged minus his topcoat and wristwatch, and caught a cab to the airport. A little more than an hour later he got out of another cab on Los Angeles' Spring Street and started up the steps to his wife's apartment.

It was above a store building in a rundown neighborhood. Bette made good dough as a burlesque stripteaser but she was always a tight gal with a dollar, and marriage to Mitch hadn't loosened her up any.

There was a double lock on the door. Two locks, instead of the customary one, and both of them were new. He went to work on them, picked them almost as readily as he had picked all the others and went inside.

It was only a few minutes after ten. Bette wouldn't be home before midnight. Mitch got busy again, searching every nook and cranny of the apartment, searching all the old hiding places and every possible new one. He wound up empty-handed.

There wasn't a dollar of cash in the joint. He left, not at all dejected, already planning his more subtle return. Meanwhile, there was another prospect on his list, a sucker who, unfriendly as he might be, was also loaded.

The guy's name was Duke English. A pretentious thug with a phony way of talking, he ran a nightclub a few blocks from Bette's apartment.

Mitch strolled into the place. A muscle-bound dancer called The Ape escorted him back to Duke's office. He was very firm about it.

This visit was probably a mistake, Mitch decided. Duke was still as murderously sore at him as he had been a week ago. The Ape kneebooted him into Duke's office. English greeted him warmly, and Mitch's hunch that he had erred became a conviction.

That was Duke's way. The sorer he was the more friendly he acted. "Sweetheart!" he said. "Mitch, darling! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Look, Duke," Mitch stammered. "I'm sorry about that little frammis on the booze, and I've come to make it up to you. I've got a – "

"A surprise?" Duke clapped his hands. "I'll bet it's money, isn't it? You've come to give me some money!"

"No – yes, that's right," Mitch said hastily. "You put in eleven or twelve hundred with me, well, two grand on the outside, and – "

"Money!" Duke interrupted him gaily. "Oh, goody! Ape, lover, our friend is being coy. Will you give him a little assistance?"

The Ape frisked Mitch. He did a very through job of it. Duke pouted over the result, then leered, and fluttered his eyelids modestly. "Will you put your clothes back on, dear? I do blush so easily!"

Mitch re-dressed, keeping a wary eye on him. Despite Duke's talk, his appearance was anything but feminine. He was small, with the same wiry build and hard, big hands of a jockey. Without his shoulder-holster gun, Mitch knew he was a match for practically any tough customer who patronized his place. He could joke while kicking a man's teeth out.

"No money," he said. "Dear, dear. But you spoke about letting me in on something juicy!"

"That's right! Duke, if you could bank me for two grand max, I'll guarantee – "

"It wouldn't involve whiskey, would it? I do hope not!"

"On the level, Duke, I swear it."

"Proceed," Duke said. "And would you mind, darling? I'll decide whether it's on the level."

Mitch gave him the story, holding out enough details to prevent Duke's taking over the deal himself. He finished and Duke frowned thoughtfully and reached for the telephone.

"Long distance," he said. "I'd like to speak to San Diego, the residence of – "

"Wait!" Mitch broke in. "Doc will lie to you, Duke. He'll tell you that – "

"Shaddup!" The Ape said.

Mitch shut up. The Ape had tapped him across the Adam's apple. Duke spoke to Doc, listened, and hung up the receiver. He grinned at Mitch.

"Naughty, naughty! Oh, you naughty boy!"

"Listen!" Mitch begged. "That cup is the McCoy, the real thing! Doc lied to you because – "

"You're excited," Duke said, solicitously. "You need a drink. Ape, darling, will you get a bottle out of the liquor cabinet?"

"The scotch?"

"But of course! Some of that rare old scotch that our dear friend sold me at a bargain rate."

The Ape took a full quart from the cabinet. He opened it, and thrust it into Mitch's nerveless hands. Mitch stared at it horrified, for naturally it did not contain scotch or any other kind of whiskey. What it contained was radiator fluid and tobacco juice.

"Drink up!" Duke beamed. "I'll be terribly offended if you don't."

"Listen, Duke. I – "

"You better drink, dear!"

Mitch took a sip of the stuff. He gasped, chocked, and his stomach did flip-flops.

"Delicious, isn't it?" Duke said. "Have another."

"I c-cuh-can't!" Mitch strangled. "I – I – "

"You don't like it? Oh, dear! Ape, why do you suppose the darling doesn't like our scotch?"

"He's just pretendin'," The Ape said. "He loves it."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh. Kinda bashful, you know. His mama told him he should never take seconds."

"Why, the shy sweet child! Well, if he won't accept our hospitality, we'll simply have to – "

Mitch made a wild lunge from his chair. The Ape collared him, and slammed him down into it again. He put a hamlike hand over the upper part of Mitch's face. His mouth was forced open, and…

It wasn't as bad as he expected. After a couple of swallows, The Ape kicked him out into the alley, the kick prompting Mitch's stomach to expel the stuff. He picked himself up, neither seriously sick nor injured, and went down the alley to the street.

He cleaned up in a restaurant washroom. Then, with three glasses of milk soothing his innards, he returned to his wife's apartment.

Light gleamed under the door. He could hear her stirring about inside. Rapping on the door, he called softly, "It's Mitch, honey."

There was dead silence for a moment. A very long moment. Then there was a click followed shortly by another click as she keyed the two locks.

Mitch gripped the doorknob. He turned it simultaneously throwing his weight against the door.

Bette had been waiting behind it. Now, half-stunned – crushed between the wall and the door – she surrendered the section of lead pipe with which she had meant to slug him. Mitch tossed it into a corner.

He released her, then guided her stumbling to a chair despite her profane protests.

She was a nice armful of woman, this Bette. Small but busty, slender but lusciously curved. Mitch could never look at her – particularly in a nightgown as she was now – without getting steamed up. Unfortunately, he was also unable to look at her for long without playing her for a chump. But that was her own fault, he told himself virtuously. When a dame was so easy to outguess, when she just wouldn't smarten up, what was a hustling man to do?

The dazed look went out of her eyes. She addressed her husband with a kind of surly joy. "Well, go ahead, you lowdown louse. Go on and frisk the joint! Take everything you can find."

"I just came to say good-bye," Mitch said quietly. "I only wish there was some way to make up for all the wrong I've done you."

"Nuts! I know what you came for."

"I don't blame you for feeling that way," Mitch said. "Good-bye, my sweet. I want you to know that I'll never love another woman."

He planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, swiftly, to avoid a punch. Sadly, shoulders sagging, he started for the door. Bette looked at him with a worried puzzlement, wondering what the gimmick was this time.

Wondering if maybe…

He was one hell of a handsome guy. And gosh, he could be a lot of fun.

"Mitch…"

He shook his head, spoke without turning. "No, Bette. I think we'd better leave it at good-bye. You're too good for me. I want you to know that I'd never wrong you again, but – "

Gosh, he must have changed. If not, why hadn't he robbed her again tonight? Of course, he wouldn't have got anything, but he didn't know that. "Mitch!" she wailed. "Don't go, honey!"

Mitch allowed himself to be persuaded. He went back, and Bette sat on his lap.

He softened her up good. Then, to use a con man's expression, he told her the tale. Not about the chalice; that was too involved. This one concerned a certain Mame Dorset, madam of a parlor house.

"No, by gosh! My dough's in the bank, and that's right where it's staying."

"All right." Mitch didn't argue with her. "I only wanted the money for you. I'd just as soon forget it myself."

"I won't touch a penny of that money! All the times you've gypped me – "

"I know. So let's drop the subject. After all, what's fifteen hundred dollars? You can draw that much salary in eight or ten weeks."

"Well" – Bette bit her lip. "It's certainly a nice piece of change. Mitch…"

"I understand," Mitch said, "it's dishonest. It's very bad of me to think about clipping poor Mame."

"N-no. I didn't mind you're clipping other people, Mitch. After all, a man has to do something, and you're very good at it. If you'd just let me handle the dough you make instead of – "

"That's what I was going to do," said Mitch. "But as long as you're not interested…"

He seemed prepared, practically determined, to drop the subject. Bette gnawed her lip some more, trying to peer inside her husband's larcenous mind, seeking for the trap which might be awaiting her.

"Let me get one thing straight, honey. How do you know you can turn Mame's furniture for fifteen hundred?"

"She's been offered that much. She's been considering selling it for that."

"Yes, but that's legit. How do you know that you can – "

Mitch explained. The old-fashioned mahogany furniture was well-known to the underworld. It had been appraised and listed by the thieves' market at fifteen hundred. And the dough was ready and waiting for the guy who could get it away from her.

"Just like that?" Bette frowned. "Mame can't do anything about it?"

"Like screaming to the cops? A madam yelling copper?" Mitch shrugged. "I guess she could sue me if she wanted to."

Bette giggled. "You say the funniest things, honey! Now one other thing, the big thing. I draw the dough out of my bank and give it to you, but I stick with you all the time. You don't get out of my sight for a moment. That's right, isn't it? I mean, I hate to sound suspicious, but – "

"That's the pitch," Mitch nodded firmly. "I deposit the money in another bank, but you'll be waiting right outside the door. And when I come out, I give you my passbook."

"Well…" Bette hesitated briefly. "It certainly sounds all right, honey. I have the passbook. I'll have a check for twenty-five hundred made out in the name of Mame Dorset."

Her voice trailed away. She frowned again, but not with suspicion. She looked at Mitch curiously, somehow seeming to look at herself at the same time.

"Mitch," she said, "what's the matter with us? Why do you do these things, and why do I want you to?"

"Come again?"

"Don't you see, honey? It takes brains to think up a deal like this. I'll bet there's presidents of big companies who couldn't do it. So why, if you're that smart – why be a crook? I mean, you could make it easier and bigger on the legit."

Mitch shrugged. The noncommittal gesture, seemingly no answer, spoke volumes. This was his element; he had been born to it and he had always lived it. And he was incapable of visualizing any other way of making a livelihood.

Why was he a crook? Well, why does a shark live in the water? It was that simple, and complex.

The matter slid in and out of Bette's mind; that's the way Bette's mind worked. Her face cleared, and she kissed him lovingly. "I'll need some identification, won't I, Mitch? Something to show that I'm Mame?"

"Take out another social security card." He returned the kiss. "Yeah, and maybe you better buy a dog license."

"Mmmm…" She wriggled against him luxuriously. "Kinda tired, honey. Mommy's kind of tired…"

____________________

*5*

The following morning he opened a bank account with Bette's money while she waited watchfully outside. He gave her the passbook and a check made out to Mame Dorset, and then they separated. She was to cash the check, closing out the account, at a quarter of three. Which meant, although she hadn't thought of it, that she would not have time to redeposit the money in her own bank.

Of course, she could buy a cashier's check with the dough. But Mitch was sure she wouldn't. The kid was a born chump, and she'd never be anything else.

He called on a "right" furniture dealer, arranging for the purchase and transportation of Mame's stuff. While he was there, he got the name of a "good" dealer in art objects, just in case Doc Krug should get contrary.

He had a couple of drinks and a good lunch. At about one-thirty in the afternoon, he rapped on the door of Mame Dorset's house. It was very quiet; at this time of day, the girls would still be asleep. Mitch was starting to knock again when the door opened a few inches, and Mame's maid peered out at him.

"Mister Mitch!" A frightened gasp. "Go 'way from here! Miss Mame's just naturally going to kill you and me both if – "

"Then we'll have a double funeral," Mitch said easily, and he shoved his way past her. "How about it, Rosie? Like to be buried with me?"

The maid blanched. She made a grab for him as he started for the stairs. "Please, Mister Mitch! Puh-lease go 'way! Miss Mame just waked up, and she's taking a bath an' – "

"And about time, too," Mitch said. "I'll go give her a hand." He shook off Rosie's restraining hands. As she watched in helpless terror, Mitch mounted the stairs and entered Mame's bedroom.

Mame saw him through the open door of the bath. With a wild yell, she grabbed up a scrubbing brush and hurled it at him. Mitch ducked it. Mame lunged up out of the tub, oblivious to its soapy treacherousness. And feet skidding, letting out another wild yell, she went under with a tremendous splash.

She came up again, spewing soapsuds, her peroxided hair a moplike mess. Mitch handed her a towel, gravely remarking that she seemed upset. "You act like you're sore at me, Mame. What's it all about?"

_"What's it all about!"_ Miss Dorset shrieked. "You dirty son of a – You plant a cop on me, and then you've got the nerve to ask me what it's all about!"

"Cop! I planted a cop on you!" Mitch appeared horror-struck. "Surely that lovely creature I brought here wasn't a cop!"

"You're damned right she was, and don't tell me you didn't know it!"

"Now, Mame. Why in the world would I – "

"You think I don't know? To rob me, that's why! You were going to come in after the raid and strip the joint. And the only reason you didn't was because Duke English was gunning for you!"

"Why, Mame, dear!" Mitch shook his head sadly. "You can't believe I'd do a thing like that! Why, what kind of a man would I be to – "

"The kind you are!" Mame shrieked. "Sure you'd do it! There ain't a damned, lousy rotten thing in the world that you wouldn't do! I'm going to kill you, Mitch! I'll kill you, by God, if it's my last act on earth! I trusted you, and you, you stinking, lowdown, slimy, double-crossing…"

Her eyes rolled in her head. There was froth at the corners of her mouth, and her voice rose, grew wilder and wilder. Then, right at the crescendo, she gasped, choked, and burst into tears.

Mitch had been waiting for that. As with many another woman, Mame's tantrums invariably ended this way. Swiftly he went into action, beginning his attack while she was still drained dry emotionally.

Weakly, too breathless to protest, she allowed him to help her out of the tub. He stretched her out on the bed, patted and rubbed her with the towel, talked to her in his smooth, soothing voice.

"You have a beautiful figure, Mame. Lovely. I'd never believe you were a day over thirty-five."

"Oh, y-yeah. Sure. You – you really mean it, Mitch?"

"That girl deceived me, Mame. You know how deceitful these young girls are."

"Well…"

"She got me to feeling sorry for her. She wanted to get into the business, she said, so I told her I'd start her off right at the top. I said, 'Look, sister, this Mame Dorset is class with a capital C. She's a lady herself, and she'll make one out of you. She'll…"

"And I would have, too, Mitch! I'd have done it if I had to kick the stuffing out of her. Why, I've taken girls in here, really tough bimbos, and inside of three months…"

Mitch nodded sympathetically, choking back a laugh. Mame was undoubtedly the toughest, tightest-fisted battle-axe in the trade. Once a bim got in Mame's clutches, she was up the well-known creek. She never got out of debt. She worked for her board and room, and, of course, the exercise. And if she didn't like it, just let her say so. Mame would give her something that she liked even less.

Mitch glanced at the clock; it was two straight up. He swung into the beginning of his patter.

Mame went for the first part, the groundwork. Smooth operator that he was, it was easy to believe that Mitch had made a connection with a movie studio. Why not, anyway? Why shouldn't he have talked himself into a spot where he could tap the till? He'd suckered everyone else, so why not the movies?

"And that's where you come in, Mame. That's how I'm going to put you on the gravy train special. You see, they're doing this story about a parlor house, an old-fashioned one, you know, and…"

He gave her the rest of it. Mame stared at him. She didn't look like she was going to sock him, or even like she wanted to. She just seemed kind of weary and a little sad.

"Aaah, Mitch, why do you do it? Why did you have to do it?"

"Do what?"

"You just get through hitting me with a swiftie. Then, just when I'm pulling out of it, startin' to like you again, you bang me with another one. Dammit to hell, I don't know why I – "

"Look," said Mitch. "Fifteen hundred is a good price for that junk. I'm giving you twenty-five. You call that pouring you a quick one? Now tell me."

"You're damned right!" Mame nodded emphatically. "Whenever you start writing checks, I start running!"

"Call up the bank," Mitch said. "Get the manager on the phone."

"Nuts!"

"Go on," Mitch said. "I'll talk to him and let you listen."

Mame wavered. She snatched up the phone. "You think I won't, huh? Well, I'll just call your bluff, buddy!"

The manager came on the wire. Mitch took it and spoke to him, holding the receiver slightly away from his ear so that Mame could listen.

"Yes," the man said. "Yes, I remember our conversation this morning. The twenty-five hundred is earmarked for Miss Mamie Dorset. It is to be paid to no one else."

Mame looked bewildered. Then, her eyes narrowed knowingly, and she whispered to Mitch. He nodded and spoke to the manager again.

"One other thing, Mr. Bake. You are not to honor any stop payment on the check… Will you repeat that, please? Miss Dorset is with me and I want her to hear you confirm it… Thank you very much, sir."

Mitch hung up the receiver. Mame shook her head incredulously.

"It's on the level," she said, in an awed tone. "You did something that was actually on the level!"

"Yes?" said Mitch with a trace of stiffness. "That's all you have to say to me?"

"Well… I guess I owe you an apology, maybe."

He rode back to the store with the moving van. Pocketing fifteen hundred from the furniture dealer, he returned to Bette's apartment.

She was there waiting for him. She had been worried, fearful that he might have got himself jammed up. And when he walked in grinning, obviously safe and successful, she was almost tearfully happy.

He kissed her, and scooped her up in his arms. Smiling down into her face, he walked toward the bed with her.

"How about you, baby? Any trouble at your end?"

"Not a bit, Mitch. That manager was just as nice as he could be."

"Swell. You put the dough back in your own bank?"

"I couldn't, honey. It was too late."

"Was it?" Mitch shifted her in his arms. "And was it too late to buy money orders or a cashier's check?"

"Well, no, I guess not. But those things cost money, you know, and – "

Mitch dropped her suddenly, and she fell to the bed with a little scream. He flipped her over on her stomach, sat down on her, and took out his roll of tape.

She didn't struggle much. She had learned the futility of struggling with him, if she had learned nothing else. Mitch bound her wrists and ankles, stripped tape across her mouth, and stood up.

She rolled over. Tear-filled eyes glared at him as he stripped the money from her purse. He looked down at her with a kind of smile-frown; irritated, but also apologetic.

"Now, what could you expect, Bette? Honest to God, what else could you expect?"

Bette made no answer, naturally. She closed her eyes, and two great tears squeezed beneath the lids, coursed slowly down her cheeks.

Mitch bit his lip. He turned abruptly and headed for the door. He opened it, took one last look at her as he stood on the threshold. What the hell? He thought. She'd be all right. She wasn't hurt any, she had a good job, she could work herself free in an hour. She was okay, and he was okay. And yet, he felt sort of bad.

"Baby…" He spoke awkwardly, hoarsely. "I guess it's pretty hard to believe, but I do love you. I really do, honey."

"And I," said a voice behind him, "I love you, too, dear."

Mitch jumped, whirled. Duke English beamed at him. Duke was small, but the gun with the silencer on it was awful big. "A little game, eh?" He nodded toward the door, smirking. "Can I play? I'll let you be It!"

"Now, look, Duke," Mitch said hastily. "You paid me off for that whiskey deal. We're all square now."

"Why, lover," Duke pouted. "I'm not twitted with you; truly I'm not. I – but hadn't you better close that door? I'm afraid it's making a draft on the little woman."

Mitch closed it slowly, giving his mind time to catch up with the situation. Duke was calling it quits on the whiskey swindle. It must be, then, that he had changed his mind about bankrolling the chalice deal. In that case…

He turned around, faced Duke again, laughed inwardly, outwardly sober and worried. "Can you make it fast, Duke? I've got lots of hustling to do if I'm going to close on that chalice."

"You're still after it, then!" Duke said. "You're still sure it's a sweet item?"

"Ten thousand sweet items. A ten-G gross."

"And you couldn't promote the little women? You haven't raised any of the necessary elsewhere?"

"Well," Mitch hesitated cautiously, "I have and I haven't. I've kind of made a start, you know, and uh – "

Duke studied him. He beamed, and patted Mitch's cheek. "Well, your troubles are over, dear boy. I shall be your partner, and provide the cash."

"Swell," Mitch said, "that's swell, Duke. Now, I can get a train for San Diego in about twenty minutes."

"Train?" Duke pouted. "Oh, you don't want to ride those nasty old trains, honey. I'll let you drive my car."

"Huh!" Mitch made a fast recovery. "Well, that'll certainly be a lot better, Duke, I can – "

"And would you mind terribly, darling? You won't mind if I ride along with you?"

____________________

*6*

Mitch gasped. Laughing gaily, Duke gave him a push toward the stairs. "Move, honey," he said. "You'd better get moving!" Mitch moved.

Duke's big black Cadillac was parked at the curb. Mitch slid under the wheel, and Duke climbed into the back seat. He murmured approval as Mitch cautiously moved the car out into the stream of afternoon traffic. "That's fine, darling. I do get nervous so easily, and when I get nervous… Even with a silencer, I just simply loathe the sound of a gun."

The warning was unnecessary. Mitch hadn't the slightest notion of pulling anything. After all, he'd gotten a total of four Gs from Mame and Bette, to which add half the profit, at least, from selling the chalice – another four thousand. That was enough for twenty-four hours of hustling. Enough, at least, to prevent his risking a bullet for a few thousand more.

They left the city and hit the highway for San Diego. It passed through some of the most beautiful scenery in America, a semitropical expanse of orange groves and gleaming white-sand beaches. A salt-sweet breeze swept in from the ocean, air that one wanted to gulp down like champagne. And Mitch settled back in the seat, very relaxed and content, feeling that this world he had been born into was indeed a wonderful place to live.

There was no need, he decided, to feel troubled about Bette. Hell, he'd really been pretty nice to her. Taught her a valuable lesson; relieved her of money which she didn't know how to spend properly and would only worry about. Yes, he'd been very fair and decent to Bette. He wasn't like some guys – this character Duke, for example. Now there was one for you. Straight out from under the rug. He'd climb a tree to give you trouble when he could stand on the ground and be friends.

Mitch didn't dig Duke at all. Duke was up to here in chips; he was so loaded that it was making him stoop-shouldered to carry it around. Still, he went right on grabbing for more, and the nastier he could be about it, the better he liked it.

Take that talk of his. That was meant to rub you against the grain. A kind of defense with him. Uneducated, unable to talk good English, so he made the dear-dear stuff. It was a cover-up for him. It helped him to get even for the shortchanging which he felt the world had given him. That was probably the source of a lot of Duke's nastiness; a feeling of inferiority. 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 drifted 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 century.

It is about one hundred 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?"

"I told you," Mitch shrugged.

"Incredible! And how did yon uncouth creature get it into his possession, dear boy?"

"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 whatnot behind the cash register, and his uneasiness 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 not 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 peddled that juke furniture of hers, put the bite on some of her boyfriends, 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 – "

"I know. How much altogether?"

"Six thousand, two hundred dollars."

"Six thou – " Mitch let out a gasp. His eyes narrowed to angry slits. "What the hell are you trying to hand me, buster? That babe couldn't have – "

"What do you mean, what am I trying to hand you?" The proprietor bristled. "You calling me a liar?"

"But… No, of course not – "

The man snatched up the cup and tossed it under the counter. Chin jutting stubbornly, he gestured toward the door.

"Get outta here! No one calls me a liar!"

"I'm sorry," Mitch apologized. "I didn't mean it like it sounded. I was just surprised, you know, I hadn't counted on…"

Dammit, Doc Krug must've got to the babe after all! Only he could have bid the price this high – one so high, he thought, that Mitch couldn't meet it. And even at six grand, he was getting a bargain.

"Well, all right," the proprietor grumbled, "as long as you didn't mean it. Just give me sixty-two hundred and we'll get this over with."

Mitch hesitated, shooting an uneasy glace at Duke. This was going to knock the hell out of his profit, and it was going to look funny to flash four Gs in front of Duke. Still, he'd either do it or there'd be no deal.

"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 [sic?] 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 only 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'd 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 the 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 that."

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 him from its perch on the whatnot 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 its 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 a ominous ker-chung as he hurled himself toward the hall – the sound of Duke's silencer 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.

Kuh-lunk!_

A baseball bat seemed to crash into Mitch's forehead. His racing feet shot from under him, and his body literally soared into the air. He came down flat on his back, all the wind knocked out of him, paralyzed with shock.

He was conscious but he couldn't move. In the dim moonlight, he looked dazedly upward… The thick branch of a tree. That was what had hit him, or rather what he had hit. At the rate he'd been moving, it was a wonder that it hadn't knocked his head off. Drearily, he almost wished that it had. Anything was better than to be like this. To lie here helplessly, waiting for a guy to kill you.

What was holding Duke up, anyway? Why the hell didn't he get it over with?

The minutes dragged by. Mitch's head began to clear, and a little breath came back into his body. He rolled his eyes, squinted through the foliage toward the house. He stopped breathing for a moment, straining his ears to listen.

There was nothing to hear. No sound. A guy couldn't move in this timber without at least a little racket, but there wasn't so much as a cracking twig. Obviously, Duke hadn't followed him, wasn't looking for him. It didn't make sense…

_Didn't it,_ though!

He'd been conned. Not Duke. Duke had taken him, and blown him off. Given him a hard scare to keep him running. It was the old double-switch, the reverse play. You let the sucker talk you into a deal you'd set up yourself. When it blew up, you made more than him, and he made for the hills.

Mitch choked back a moan. In the darkness, a shamed flush spread over his face. A chump, no less! He, Mitch Allison, the hustler's hustler, the fastest of the fast boys, had been played for a chump! He pushed himself up, rose to a sitting position. Bitterly, his blood seething to a slow boil, he put questions to his mind, angrily prodding it to answer.

How did Duke know when to close in?… Simple, you sap! With his connections, he could tab anyone all over L.A… But how did he know what I was holding?… He didn't have to, dammit! The cup's price is put out of your reach. You shell out your dough first, and Duke makes up the difference.

Mitch asked himself one more question, one of several parts. As the answer spewed back at him, he stared crawling toward the driveway… _Stop being a jerk, you jerk! This is a going concern, not a one-shot. The hustlers go to Doc – a right guy to see. Doc steers them to the girl. From then on, it's the old merry-go-round until Duke blows the chumps off. _

Mitch came out of the trees and onto the driveway. He moved silently toward Duke's car, guessing that the chumps would never talk even if they did wise up. They'd be ashamed to. A deal like this could get them laughed out of their underwear. As for going to the police, that just wasn't done in these circles. You had too much to hide yourself. The law says something about appealing with clean hands, and you – guys like you and Doc and Duke – had to keep your hands in your pockets.

Mitch tested the trunk lid of Duke's car. It was unlocked. He took out a heavy wrench, lowered the lid again, and quietly opened a rear door. He eased it shut, crouched down on the floor, waiting. It would be okay – he'd still have the big difference – even if Duke spotted him there. He had this wrench, and all Duke had was a gun loaded with blanks.

It was some thirty minutes before the door of the house opened. Doc and Duke lingered on the porch for a moment, their laughter, faint snatches of their conversation, drifting out to Mitch.

"… still running, doubtless… A man of long legs, and little brain…"

"… small bonus for Butch, dear? When he returns from his vacation, that is…"

"… agree. And you will give the seven-fifty to Peg…"

"Plus my love, darling. Oodles and loads of my love. Sweet Peggy and I have a date…"

The door closed. Duke came through the trees to the car. He slid into the front seat and Mitch slugged him over the head.

There was plenty of muscle in the blow. It chilled Duke like a well-digger's feet. Mitch slugged him again to keep him that way – and because he felt like it – and dragged him over the seat. He threw Duke's gun into the trees, pocketed the roll he was carrying, and dropped his body to the floor. He was going to do something really big for Duke, he decided. Something he'd never forget. But he didn't know what it would be at the moment, and there were other matters, more pressing.

Mitch got out of the car. He brought his hands down on the horn; then, with the blast echoing through the trees, he raced toward the house.

The door opened. Doc called through the screen. He hesitated, waiting for a reply, and then came out on the porch. "Duke? Is there something the trouble with the -?"

Mitch gave him a medium-heavy tap on the noggin. When Doc came to, he was on the floor in the living room, and Mitch was bent over him with an upraised wrench.

"P-please" – Doc's eyes rolled in terror. "I have money, Mitch! T-take – "

"I took it," Mitch said grimly. "Yours and mine. Where's the chalice?"

"I – I have already sold it! I – "

"Huh-uh. It was in the bar tonight, the genuine Cellini, the only one there is. The one you've shuffled from place to place to suck me in."

"It's in my store! Locked up safe."

"We'll see," Mitch said. "You'll go along with me, and if it isn't there I'll show you what'll happen, Doc. I'll give you a sample."

He started the wrench downward viciously. Doc let out a squeal.

"The girl, Mitch! The redhead! She picked it up at the bar, after – "

Mitch gave him a scalp-splitting blow. He'd found out all that he needed to, and he'd been itching to lay a good one on Doc.

He stood up and looked around thoughtfully, wondering how best to dispose of the fat man. After a moment's pondering, he strolled through the house and out the back door. It was an old place; a considerable distance from its nearest neighbor. It should have a cesspool. It did.

Mitch pried up its iron cover; a nauseating stench rolled up into his face. He struck a match and dropped it into the pit, getting a glimpse of brownish bubbling slime. He found a long pole – and measured the overall depth of the pit, as well as the depth of its contents. Satisfied with his findings, he reentered the house and took Doc by the heels.

Unconscious, and weighing what he did, Doc was a cumbrous load to drag. But Mitch had his heart in the job. He hauled him down the steps and on out to the cesspool. Mitch swung him around, so that his legs dangled into the pit. Then, he got behind him, hoisted mightily, and let go.

Doc sank downward slowly, his body scraping against the cement walls. He went down into the slime, sinking until the stuff was almost up to his neck and his feet touched the bottom. The cold filth revived him, and, eyes rolling with terror, he looked up at Mitch.

"N-no, Mitch! You are not a murderer."

"I'm not," Mitch agreed. "You'll get out, Doc. You can reach the top, almost. All you have to do is – "

"Pl-please! I will die here! I – "

"You can reach the top. Almost," Mitch repeated. "You can jump for it as soon as you thin down your gut. Shouldn't take you more than a day at the outside."

Doc began to curse him. Sliding the iron lid partly over the hole, Mitch walked away laughing. Doc would get out all right, eventually. Guys like him and Duke were too damned ornery to die.

Reaching the car, Mitch found Duke showing signs of reviving. He slugged him again, bound him up with his belt and necktie, and drove away.

The bar owner – the supposed bar owner – now? Mitch hesitated, and shook his head. No telling where that guy was. Anyway, he was strictly small-time, not worth bothering with. To take care of Doc, Duke, and the girl would be enough, Mitch.

He was still wondering what to do with Duke as he turned into the shabby dirt street across from the railroad tracks. Cutting the lights and motor, he glided to a stop in front of the girl's house.

The shades were drawn, but light gleamed around their edges. Mitch turned his head, looked musingly at the railroad right-of-way. Should he dump Duke there in the weeds? Strip off his clothes and dump him? Not good enough. It lacked finesse, and he would be discovered soon. What, then?

There was a throaty whistle in the distance; a muted grinding and chugging. Then, the beam of the headlight sliding across the windshield, as a train steamed slowly out of the San Diego freight yards. Mitch scrambled out of the car. Scooping Duke up in his arms, he trotted toward the right-of-way.

He dumped him down in the weeds, ripped the clothes from his body. As the locomotive steamed past, he picked him up again and moved up to track side. He waited there a moment, eyes straining in the darkness. Suddenly he raised up on his toes, pitched upward and outward. And Duke's body went sailing through the door of an empty boxcar.

It would be morning before he awakened, Mitch surmised, probably in Arizona. If he wanted to get off the train, all he had to do was roll himself out the door.

Mitch went back to the house, mounted the steps silently, and opened the screen. He held it with his foot, and knocked.

"Dukie?" A gay trill came from the girl. "Com-ing!"

There was a scurry of slippered feet. Then a delicious "Duke, hon-ee!" as she flung the door open wide and looked out.

Mitch belted her in the stomach, said "Hon-ee to you, honey," and went in.

The chalice was on the table in an opened overnight case. Mitch examined it fondly, put it back in the case, and snapped the catches on it.

The redhead was staggering around the room, gasping, bent over like a clothespin. Mitch gave her a light tap on the temple, then strolled into the bedroom as she crumpled to the floor.

He frisked the room and all the others. The results were very satisfying. Like Bette, the girl seems to be a frugal type, for she had wads of bills stashed all over the joint. Mitch returned to the living room some three thousand dollars richer than he had been.

He took a roll of tape from his pocket and squatted over the girl. She was dressed for her date with Duke – or pretty well underdressed. Mitch thought this was a very happy coincidence. He had a job in mind for her, and what she was wearing – or wasn't wearing – would do nicely as a uniform.

She waked up as he completed his binding and gagging. She couldn't talk, naturally, but her eyes asked a frightened question.

Mitch gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, babe. You're going for a nice little ride, and then I'm going to drop you off at a friend's house. A very sweet old lady that runs a kind of social club."

For some reason, the girl didn't seem at all reassured. She squirmed wildly, her face reddening as she tried to curse Mitch through her gag.

Mitch shook his head reprovingly. "Why, how ungrateful of you! Just for that you have to go to bed early!"

He gave her a tap on the chin. The girl went promptly to sleep. Mitch slung her over his shoulder and stood up.

It was a little before dawn when he dumped her on Mame Dorset's front porch in Los Angeles. He rang the doorbell, trotted back to the Cad, and drove away.

He rode around for an hour or so, then ate a leisurely breakfast at a drive-in restaurant. Afterwards he headed for the business section, turning in finally at a used-car dealer's.

He had the registration papers on the car. He also had Duke's driver's license and certain other identification. The dealer offered him three grand for the Cad, then went up to thirty-three hundred. Mitch accepted this last bid and took a cab to the "right" dealer in art objects.

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, patting 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 possession."

"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 a while."

"Very shrewd of him," the dealer said gravely. "The cool atmosphere will reduce the swelling. Now as to your price, Mr. Allison – I think ten thousand it a little exorbitant."

"I don't."

"What would you say to the suggestion that you make me a present of it, out of gratitude for my failure to call the police."

"I'd 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 _Super Chief_ is invariably well patronized, despite the somewhat awesome prices on its deluxe accommodations.

Mitch stood a little to the rear of the well-dressed crowd, tired from much rushing around but still very happy. There was a thousand-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, despite his expenditures, he had almost twenty thousand dollars in cash.

He was set, loaded. He could burn it up for the next year, without turning a lick. He could – but he wouldn't. Already his eyes were roving the crowd, searching, seeking, hunting. He did it unconsciously. 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 and he looked in another direction.

Those were his marks – an elderly couple in good but ill-fitting clothes. Probably retired farmers, Mitch guessed. People who'd knocked themselves out all their lives and had saved every penny they'd made. They'd have money, all right. If they didn't, they wouldn't be riding the _Super Chief_.

Mitch looked their way again. His eyes caught theirs, and he smiled. They smiled back at him timidly, then put their heads together and began to whisper.

Mitch grinned to himself. They'd be talking about him, now. Wondering if they'd be able to get themselves acquainted with him. As a matter of fact, the couple was doing exactly that:

"A chump, Papa?"

"The best kind, Mama. A hustler with a load."

"I figure, too. The more they got, the hungrier they look. The retired farmer routine?"

"Uh-huh. Don't trust banks. Never had time to learn none of those hyar-now card games."

"Papa!" The woman snickered softly. "How do we tie into him?"

"We don't. He'll tie into us. Watch!"

A warm smile on his face, Mitch Allison was coming toward them.

____________________

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