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

Moons shook his head, dislodging his dirty turban. “But in alectryomancy we can go only by what the gamecock does write, not by what he does not.”
    â€œLet’s try another reading.”
    â€œAnother time, perhaps. It’s a great strain on my chicken, making predictions, and I only allow him to make one a day.”
    â€œTomorrow, then,” I said, getting to my feet.
    â€œPerhaps tomorrow.” He agreed reluctantly.
    I took my wallet out of my hip pocket. “What do I owe you?”
    â€œNothing.” The alectryomancer spread his arms wide, palms up, and shrugged. “I would appreciate it, however, if you autographed my copy of your pamphlet, Cockfighting in the Zone of Interior .”
    I tapped my shirt pocket. “When I come up tomorrow. I didn’t bring my fountain pen with me today—”
    â€œIf you don’t mind, Mr. Waxman,” Two Moons said reasonably. “In view of the prediction, I would prefer to have the autograph today. If you’ll wait a minute, I have a ballpoint pen inside the house …”
    I SLEPT FITFULLY that night, but I had slept fitfully every night of the three months I had been on Bequia. No one had informed me of the fierceness of the sand flies and mosquitoes on Princess Margaret Beach, and I had neglected to purchase a mosquito bar before departing Trinidad. But between waking and sleeping, the prediction of the Whitehackle cross gave me something to think about. I was far from satisfied with Two Moon’s interpretation of the word “mort.”
    It was too pat. And yet, no other meaning suggested itself to me. Toward two A.M. I was reduced to considering M.O.R.T. as initials standing for something else. During the war I used to get letters from a girl in California with S.W.A.K. written across the back of the envelope. This meant “Sealed With A Kiss.” When this piece of tripe crossed my mind, I cursed myself for a fool, downed three quick tumblers of Mount Gay rum, and slept soundly until dawn.
    By eight-thirty A.M. I was on the mountain trail to Two Moon’s metal residence. Halfway up the mountain I stopped for breath and a slow cigarette, and almost changed my mind about obtaining a second reading. Curiosity got the better of my judgment and I climbed on. When I topped the last rise to the clearing, Two Moons was sitting cross-legged in the sunlight before his shack, humming happily, and plaiting a basket out of green palm leaves. He dropped his lower jaw the moment he saw me, and his yellow eyes popped in their sockets.
    â€œWhy, it’s Mr. Waxman!” He said with genuine astonishment. “I didn’t expect you this morning!”
    â€œYou needn’t act so surprised. I said I’d be back this morning.”
    â€œI apologize for my astonishment. But your case was remarkably similar to a reading I gave a student at Oxford, and I—”
    â€œYou attended Oxford?” It was my turn to be surprised.
    â€œFor a year and a half only,” Two Moons admitted modestly. “I was putting myself through Oxford by practicing alectryomancy in the West End. I had a poor but steady clientele, actors, actresses, producers, and two or three dozen playwrights.”
    â€œI fail to see how an Oxford man could end up on Bequia,” I said, looking at the alectryomancer with new respect.
    â€œAn English Dom did it,” Two Moons said sorrowfully.
    â€œGot mixed up with a woman?”
    â€œNo, sir. Not a woman, a Dom. A truly beautiful gamefowl, the English Dom. Pure white, with a yellow bill and feet. I bought the rooster in Sussex, and before utilizing his services for my clients, I had him make a practice prediction for me. Without hesitating the Dom pecked out BEQUIA . I ate the fowl for supper, packed my belongings, and left on the next ship leaving England for Barbados. I’ve been on Bequia ever since, thirty-two years in October.”
    â€œAt any rate,” I said,