Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense by Linda Landrigan

reveal to the man that I knew a few things about alectryomancy, “always described the circle on the ground prior to tethering the gamecock in the center.”
    â€œYes,” he agreed. “But that isn’t the way we do it in the West Indies. Every island race has its own peculiarities. Of course, I can see some merit in describing the circle first, but on the other hand, it is possible that a portion of the circle will be rubbed out inadvertently when reentering it to tether the cock. I have tried both methods, and in all probability I shall use the Greek method again some time in the future. But the system employed doesn’t affect the reading, or so I have learned through experience.”
    â€œYou could get into an argument on that statement.”
    â€œYou can have an argument on anything pertaining to alectryomancy,” Two Moons said cheerfully, and he began to draw the letters of the alphabet in a clockwise direction about the outer perimeter of the circle. He apparently took considerable pride in his work, drawing large capital letters with a pointed stick, rubbing them out again when they didn’t come up to his high standards, and doing them over again. He measured the distances between each letter, using his stick as a ruler, and found it necessary to redraw the S and T because they were too close together.
    â€œNow,” he said when he was finished, “the hard part is over. What is your birth date, Mr. Waxman?”
    â€œJanuary 2, 1919.”
    â€œYou’ll have to speak a trifle louder, Mr. Waxman,” Two Moons said apologetically. “My old rooster’s getting deaf, and I don’t believe he heard you.”
    I repeated my birthday loudly, enunciating carefully for the rooster’s benefit.
    Two Moons walked counterclockwise about the circle, dropping a grain of corn in the exact center of each letter, and then sat down beside me. He signaled the gamecock with his pointed stick, and the bird crowed, wheeled about, and pecked up the grain of corn on the letter M. Two Moons wrote M on the ground, and followed it with the O, R, and T as the chicken pecked up each grain. After eating the fourth grain of corn, the rooster returned to the center of the circle, leaned wearily against the stake, and hung his head down to the ground. We waited, but it was evident from the apathy of the chicken that he was through.
    â€œMaybe he isn’t hungry?”
    â€œWe’ll soon find out.” Two Moons Wainscoting untied the cord from the rooster’s left leg and carried him out of the circle. He scattered a few grains of corn, released the cock, and the bird scratched and gobbled down the food as if it were famished.
    â€œHe was hungry, all right, Mr. Waxman. Your reading is complete. M.O.R.T.” Two Moons muttered, savoring each letter with half-closed eyes. “Mort. Is your middle name Mort, by any chance?”
    â€œHarry Waxman, only. I dropped my middle name when I became a writer, but it wasn’t Mort.”
    â€œAny relatives named Mort?”
    â€œNo.” I thought carefully. “No, none at all.”
    â€œThat’s too bad.” Two Moons shook his head. “I had hoped—”
    â€œHoped what?”
    â€œThat Mort didn’t mean what I knew in my heart it meant.” He thumped his breast with a closed fist. “ Mort is a French word meaning death, Mr. Waxman.”
    â€œSo? How does it apply to me? I’m not a Frenchman; I’m an American. If the rooster’s predicting anything for me, he should do so in English.”
    â€œHe doesn’t know any English,” Two Moons explained patiently. “I bought the chicken in Martinique, after my last rooster died. All he knows is French. On difficult readings I often have to consult a French-English dictionary—”
    â€œMaybe he was going to write ‘MORTGAGE’?” I broke in.
    â€œI sympathize with you, Mr. Waxman.” Two