Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952

The Gold Cup by Frank Gruber{Copyright, 1940, by Weird Tales}

It was Winston Churchill who once said, about an entirely different matter: “It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

At the proper point in the story which follows, your Editors will stop to ask you: “How do you account for the strange happenings in Frank Gruber’s tale of an ancient gold cup?” And perhaps you will pause in your reading and consider the implications of Mr. Gruber’s strange story...

The cup was made of gold, no question about that. It was about four inches tall and weighed close to a pound. I didn’t know of any other metal that would have made the cup weigh as much, even though the thing didn’t look like gold. But I guess that was because it was so old.

It looked as if it had been buried in the ground for a long time, and was pretty battered and dented. It wasn’t a big haul. We’d be lucky to get three hundred for it from Opdyke. He’d make maybe two hundred profit on it, by melting it down and selling it to the government as old gold.

We’d turned in pretty late the night before and it was almost noon before we got up. I dug the cup out from under the bed and was looking it over and thinking what a fool I was for taking such chances for a measly hundred and fifty — my share.

Benny, on the other hand, was pretty chipper. He wasn’t used to big money and all he’d done to earn his share was keep a lookout outside the place, while I did the dirty work.

“Not bad, Jim,” he cackled. “It couldda been more, but this ain’t bad at all.”

I looked around the room I was sharing with Benny. It was about eight feet by ten and contained a bed with springs that sagged almost to the floor, two chairs, a cheap dresser, and a row of nails in the wall that served as a clothes closet. Benny paid four dollars a week for the room. The one I’d had up the river — with bars on the door and window — had been just as cheerful.

I said to Benny: “We’ll get some clothes and some good food and have a couple of parties. We’ll be broke in a week. Then what?”

“Then we’ll crack another safe,” he replied promptly.

That was when the knock came on the door. I never saw a man change color as quickly as Benny did. One minute he’d been cocky as a Jungle Shawl fighting rooster, the next his face looked like sour dough.

I took a couple of quick steps toward Benny. “Thought you said no one knew where you lived?”

Benny’s teeth chattered as he shook his head. “They... they don’t! You s’pose it’s — the cops?”

The knock on the door was repeated, two quick knocks, then three spaced apart.

Benny called out: “Who is it?”

A quiet sort of voice answered. A man’s voice. “Open up, I want to talk to you.”

Benny wasn’t shivering now; he was shaking like a young sapling in a Kansas twister. For my own part I took a quick look out the window. I saw that it opened on a dead-air shaft. There was no retreat that way, and I cursed Benny for being such a fool as to rent a room without a hole by which we could escape.

Well, there was nothing to do but open the door. I slipped back the bolt and jerked open the door. I expected a cop. Maybe he was a cop. But he didn’t look like one.

He was tall, about six feet, well-built, but still looked kind of lean. He was in his early thirties and rather dark complexioned.

I hardly took in his features though, because of his eyes. They were large and dark and there was an expression in them that I can’t describe exactly — except that when I looked into them I was — well, scared.

He was smiling.

“May I come in?”

I moved back into the room and shot a quick look toward the bed. Benny had had sense enough to throw a blanket over the gold cup. But when I looked back at the stranger his eyes were on the bed. He’d closed the door behind him.

He said: “You’ll have to take it back.”

He couldn’t see the gold cup; for that matter he couldn’t have known that Benny and me were the ones who stole it.

I began edging around him, so that he was partly between Benny and myself. I said: “What’re you talking about? Take what back?”

He shook his head and smiled. “The object you got last night. You’ll have to take it back to Alfred Halleck.”

Benny chirped up, then. He said: “Sure,” and went to the bed. He stooped over, put his hand under a pillow, and came up with an automatic. I blinked. I hadn’t known that Benny had a rod.

He pointed it at the stranger and snapped: “Up with ’em, copper!”

I was looking at the stranger. He didn’t seem worried. He was still smiling, only... the smile was a kind of sad one.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger said, “you’ll have to take it back.”

Benny sneered. “There’s some rope in the top drawer, Jim. Tie his hands. My room rent’s up today, anyway. We’ll just leave him here.”

I got the rope, but I wasn’t feeling so good. The gun in Benny’s hand — I’ve done a lot of things in my time; I’ve been up the river, but I never carried a gun. I don’t believe in guns. Sure, I’m a safe-cracker — a burglar. But I take my chances. I try not to get caught, but if I am — that’s my hard luck. I take the rap. But I don’t ever want a murder rap. All the fellows I ever knew who carried guns wound up with murder raps.

The stranger put his hands behind his back. I wound the rope around his wrists, then he stretched out on the bed and I finished up by tying his feet. I did a good job of it. I wanted enough time to take the cup to Opdyke, get my split, and leave. I wanted no more of Benny.

Benny got the cup from under the blanket, wrapped it in a towel, then rolled the whole thing inside an old newspaper and tied a piece of string around it.

We were ready to leave the room when the stranger spoke again. He said: “Take it back. Take it back, Benny Potter and Jim Vedder.”

I didn’t think about that until we were outside of Benny’s rooming house. Then it struck me. Aside from Benny, no one knew my name. I’d only got out two days ago. I’d come straight to Benny’s room and had been out of it only once — the night before when we took the trip_up to Fox Meadow in Scarsdale and cracked the safe.

Benny lived on Christopher Street. We walked east to Sixth Avenue, then turned north. After a block or two Benny said, “Let’s stop in here and get a glass of beer.”

I was willing. My throat was kind of dry. The saloon didn’t look like much, but beer’s beer no matter where you get it. We went in. It was the middle of the morning and the place was deserted except for the bartender and one customer who stood in front of the bar, with his back toward us.

“Two beers,” Benny said.

Then the man at the bar turned around. It was the stranger. The man we’d left in Benny’s room.

He looked right at me and this time he wasn’t smiling. The temperature of the café seemed suddenly to get ten degrees colder.

He said: “You’ll have to take it back.”

I was pretty shocked by the sight of him, but Benny looked as if he was going to faint.

I backed to the door and that broke the spell on Benny. He gave a hoarse yell, whipped out the automatic and rushed backwards, like a prizefighter backing away. He was in such a hurry he missed the door and banged against the wall.

He made it the second time and I was only one jump behind him. Out on Sixth Avenue we rushed to the next corner, which was nth Street, turned right, and didn’t stop until we were almost up to Fifth. We stopped then just because we were out of breath. We both looked back, but the stranger wasn’t in sight.

“Cripes,” panted Benny, “how did he get loose from those ropes and beat us to that saloon?”

“He couldn’t have done it,” I told Benny. “We went there straight from your room, by the shortest way. And, anyway... how did he know we were going to turn into that saloon? We didn’t know it ourselves until we saw the sign.”

Benny’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “That’s right!” he gasped. “He couldn’t have known we’d go in there — unless he guessed!”

I didn’t say a word. I was still feeling cold, despite the long run I’d just had, and I don’t think the short hairs on my hackle had gone down. Up the street a little way was a delicatessen shop, with a newspaper stand in front of it. I plunked down a few pennies and picked up a paper.

It was on page three, a two-column story, with a picture of the cup in one column. The heading over the article was: Historical Relic Stolen. Boiled down, the story was to the effect that burglars had cracked the safe of Alfred D. Halleck, noted archeologist, and stolen a gold cup that Halleck had discovered on one of his excavations some three years ago. The piece also told of Halleck having exhibited the gold cup at the New York World’s Fair.

I handed the newspaper to Benny. He glanced at the article, but didn’t take the trouble to read through it. “That’s the good thing about gold,” he said. “You can melt it down.”

“We’re not melting it down,” I told Benny. “We’re taking it back.”

Benny stared at me. “Are you crazy? After the trouble we went to to get it? Hey, snap out of it. Opdyke lives over here on Fourth Avenue. He’ll haggle around a little, but he’ll to come across with three hundred.”

“The cup goes back to Fox Meadow,” I told Benny. “It’s — an antique. It’s worth a lot more than three hundred.”

“All the more reason then!” Benny cried. “We’ll show this newspaper story to Opdyke — kick the price up on him.”

All of a sudden I got mad. I grabbed Benny’s arm and twisted him around. “You fool, don’t you see? Halleck values this cup. It’s worth a lot to him — a lot more than three hundred. All right, we’ll sell it back to him!”

Benny’s eyes lit up. “Say, that’s an idea. Maybe he’ll go a grand for it. He’s got the dough. That place of his cost a lot. We’ll hold him up for a grand. Come on, we’ll grab a train out to Scarsdale and get it over with. We’ll break in on him and make him come across with the dough, before we turn over the cup. Otherwise he’ll call the cops...”

We took a bus on Fifth Avenue and rode up to Forty-second, then walked across to Grand Central. Inside we bought two one-way tickets to Scarsdale and looked up the train schedule. One was listed to leave in twelve minutes. I didn’t like the idea of waiting around in the waiting room, so I gave Benny the high-sign and headed for the washroom, on the lower level.

To kill time we got up on a couple of high seats to get our shoes shined. Benny got his shined first, then the bootblack started on mine. It was timing things pretty close. When he finished with me, it was two minutes to train time. I paid for the shines and headed for the door. It opened before I got to it and the stranger came in.

Benny let go altogether this time. He yelled to high heaven and he got so scared he dropped the cup.

Me, I just stood and stared at the tall man. I guess I’d still be standing there looking at him, if he hadn’t stooped and picked up the package. He held it out, smiled, and said:

“Take it back, Jim Vedder.”

He left me holding it, turned, and walked out. Benny recovered then. “What... what do you make of that?”

I said: “We’re taking it back, Benny. Come on!”

The gateman was just about to close the gate when we got to it. I grabbed another newspaper from a stand next to the door, threw down a nickel, and scooted inside. We caught the last car of the train.

We got seats in the rear and I spread out the newspaper. It was the noon edition of an evening paper. The story was still on the front page. But there were some new angles to it. First of all, Alfred D. Halleck was offering a reward of $1,500 for the safe return of the gold cup — and No Questions Asked.

In an adjoining column was an interview with Halleck, written up by one of the paper’s reporters. Halleck was pretty upset by what had happened. He was offering a reward, he said, but he didn’t really expect to get the gold cup back. That was because he didn’t think that ordinary burglars had blown his safe. He suspected the job had been done, or hired done, by a certain wealthy collector of objets d’art who’d been bothering him for the last three years, trying to make Halleck sell him the gold cup. The collector, Halleck said, had offered him $50,000 for the cup and when he’d still refused to sell it, the collector threatened to steal it.

Halleck wouldn’t tell the reporter the collector’s name, but the reporter was a smart lad. He’d checked up back in the office and had gone to ask a Mr. August Messerschmidt, who lived on Park Avenue in New York, if he had any comment to make. Mr. Messerschmidt was a well-known collector of objets d’art. The reporter didn’t come right out and say that Messerschmidt was the man who’d made the offer and threat to Halleck, but any kid could figure out the answer. Anyway, Messerschmidt had thrown the reporter out on his ear.

Benny was reading over my shoulder. When I put down the paper he took it from me and ripped out the page. He began folding it up.

I said: “What’re you going to do?”

He didn’t answer right away. The conductor had come along, collected our tickets and put a couple of slips in the slot on the back of the seat ahead of us. When he had gone away, Benny said:

“This Messerschmidt’s a crook. He wants that cup any way he can get it. I’ve heard of guys like him. There’s a fella in Philadelphia, collects pictures. He’s got a million dollars’ worth of them and no one ever sees them but himself, because half of them have been swiped. This Messerschmidt’ll go twenty-five g’s. We’ll get off at 125th Street Station.”

I wondered why I’d ever tied up with Benny Potter. With what had happened to us in the last hour... I said to him: “No, we’re going to Scarsdale. The cup goes back to Halleck.”

“Are you crazy?” Benny yelped. “The most he’d give is fifteen hundred and the chances are four in five he won’t give us anything but a houseful of cops. We’re not going anywhere near Fox Meadow. We’re getting off at the first stop and taking this to Park Avenue. That, guy Messerschmidt’s a bigger crook than we are. That’s why he’ll come across... Gimme the cup!”

He reached for it and I shifted it to my left arm, against the window. With my right hand I slapped down his reaching paw.

He gave me a dirty look, then slumped down in his seat. He didn’t say a word until the train pulled into the 125th Street Station. Then he suddenly got up. “All right, Jim, if that’s the way you want it—”

His hand went to his hip and came back with the automatic. I’d forgot all about his having it.

I looked into his eyes and knew that he was going to take the cup from me if he had to shoot to get it. But I knew, too, that I wasn’t going to give it to him.

I shook my head. “You can’t, Benny. You...” I broke off and made a sudden dive for him. Even as I moved, I knew I couldn’t make it. Benny’s finger tightened on that automatic.

It thundered. But I didn’t feel any shock or pain. I landed in the aisle on my hands and knees, twisted around, and looked up at the stranger!

Benny was looking at him, too. And all of a sudden he yelled and headed for the door.

The train was already moving, the door was closed, but Benny tore it open. I climbed to my feet, started back for Benny, and then I heard a scream that I’ll hear to my dying day.

There was a lot of commotion, then. People shouted, the conductor pulled the cord, and the train stopped.

Benny... Benny was dead.

The 125th Street Station is in the heart of Harlem, it’s up in the air like an elevated, and the station platform is about three feet above the tracks. When Benny jumped, the train was already beyond the platform. Benny had landed on the ties, fallen forward onto the next track... just as another train pulled in on that track.

I didn’t wait. There were half a dozen policemen around and questions were going to be asked — questions I didn’t want to answer. I took a subway train back to Grand Central, bought another ticket for Scarsdale, and took the first train.

In Scarsdale I took a taxi to Alfred Halleck’s house in Fox Meadow.

I didn’t ring the bell. I didn’t have to, because the door opened before I got to it. It was opened by the tall, dark man. I wasn’t surprised. Not by then. In fact, I would have been surprised if it had been anyone else.

He smiled at me, in a pleased sort of way, and said: “I’m glad you brought it back. Will you come in?”

He led the way to a library, opened the door for me, and said: “Mr. Halleck!”

Halleck sitting behind a teakwood desk, looked up at me, said: “Yes?”

I walked across the room and put the package on the desk in front of him. “I brought back the gold cup.”

His eyes popped wide open and he grabbed the package and tore the newspaper from about it. When he stripped off the towel and saw the cup, perspiration came to his forehead. He said: “Thank God!”

Then he looked at me. “Do you mind telling me... I know, I said no questions asked and this is not going to go any further... did you steal it, or are you returning this for someone?”

I told him. “I stole it. I’m sorry. You can call the police.”

He looked at me in a funny sort of a way. “The police?” he repeated. “I’m not going to call them. I’m too glad to get this back. And here...” He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of bills. “Here’s the reward — fifteen hundred dollars.”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t want any reward. Not money. But you can do something. Tell me... who is the man who brought me into this room?”

He blinked. “No one brought you. You came in yourself.”

“But there was a man with me. He — he opened the door and brought me to the room. He called your name.”

“You said my name,” Halleck replied. “And you came in by yourself. There isn’t another man in the house. Besides ourselves there’s only the cook in the kitchen.”

I returned the gold cup six months ago. Alfred Halleck gave me a job. I’m a sort of handyman around his place, and I’m going with Mr. Halleck on his next trip to Asia. He knows all about me.

All except what I did the day after I returned the gold cup. I wanted to get some things off my mind and I took the train back to Grand Central. In the washroom on the lower level I went up to the bootblack. Before I could say anything he grabbed up a couple of brushes and backed away.

“Don’t you bother me, Mister, or I’ll call the police!” he yelled.

I shook my head and put a dollar bill on one of the seats. Then I took three steps away from it. “That dollar’s yours,” I told him, “if you tell me exactly what you saw here yesterday when I had my shoes shined.”

The bootblack looked at the dollar, and then at me. He shook his head, mumbled in his throat, then said: “Well, sir, you and the gent’man with you had a couple drinks too many, I guess. You started for the door, then all of a sudden you bust out like you’d seen a ghost.”

I nodded. “You’re sure there wasn’t another man here at the time?” The bootblack took another step back. “No, sir.”

I went out, took the Fifth. Avenue bus and rode down to the Village, then walked to the café on Sixth Avenue.

The bartender recognized me right away and reached for a bung-starter. “Get out of here! I don’t want no hop-heads in my place.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but would you mind telling me exactly what happened here yesterday?”

His eyes rolled; but he said, “I’ll tell you. You and some other dope came in here, ordered a couple of beers, then started cutting up, pretending there was someone else here too. That partner of yours acted like a wild man...”

“I guess he did. But you’re sure there wasn’t anybody else in here at the time — a tall, dark man?”

“There wasn’t no one else in here.”

I spent the rest of the day and evening at the Public Library...

[Editors’ query: How do you account for the strange happenings in this story? Pause for a few moments, before finishing the story, and consider the unusual implications of Mr. Gruber’s tale of an ancient gold cup...]

As I say, I spent the rest of the day at the Public Library. First, I dug up some old newspapers from the time of the World’s Fair, and before. I read all the arguments about the authenticity of Professor Halleck’s gold cup. There was no question that he had found the cup in Asia Minor, near a place called Antioch, which had been the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire for a hundred years or so. Halleck claimed the cup dated back to the first century, A.D., but other archeologists insisted that the cup was of more recent origin. The issue was debated for many months and took up a lot of newsprint.

Then I came across, in an encyclopedia, several pages of pictures — reproductions of old religious paintings. One of the pictures was supposed to go back to the first century, having been found in the Catacombs near Rome. It showed Christ and his Disciples at the Last Supper, and on the table I clearly saw Christ’s wine cup — the Golden Chalice, the Holy Grail.

They’re still arguing about Professor Halleck’s gold cup, but I’m not. I know. And I’m sure there’s no mistake.

You see, the stranger didn’t have a beard, but with a beard he would have looked very much like the tall, dark-complexioned man in the first-century religious painting...