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

moved by the simple story, “one of your predictions came true.”
    â€œThey all come true.”
    â€œWe’ll see. How about my second reading?”
    â€œYes, sir.” Two Moons held out his right hand. “That will be ten dollars, in advance.”
    â€œVery well.” I parted with a brown BWI ten-dollar bill. “Bring on your French-pecking rooster.”
    The rigmarole was unchanged from the day before. Two Moons Wainscoting changed from ragged blue denim shorts into his homemade costume and turban, tethered the gamecock, and drew the circle and block-letter alphabet as carefully as he had done for my first reading. He signaled with the pointed stick, and the idiotic rooster pecked M, O, R, T and stopped. After crowing half-heartedly, the bird leaned against the stake and hung his head down, bill touching the ground. I was unable to understand how the mere pecking up of four lousy grains of corn could make the chicken so tired.
    â€œLet’s wait a bit, Two Moons.” I cleared my dry throat. “Maybe he’ll continue.”
    â€œAs you wish, Mr. Waxman.”
    The minutes ticked away. The sun was hot. The back of my neck stung with prickly heat. Mango flies and tiny gnats buzzed and feinted about my perspiring face, but I waited. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and the stupid rooster still remained immobilized in the center of the circle.
    â€œ Mort comes to us all, in time,” Two Moons said pityingly.
    â€œA truth that can’t be denied,” I agreed, getting to my feet and stretching. “Well, thanks for the prediction, Mr. Wainscoting. But it’s a hot day and I’m going for a swim.” I started down the trail, my hands balled into fists inside the pockets of my khaki shorts.
    â€œWatch out for barracuda!” Two Moons shouted after me. “And dangerous crosscurrents.”
    â€œThanks!” I called back drily.
    I didn’t go swimming. I didn’t do anything. I brooded, sitting in the tiny living room of my screenless cottage, staring out the window at the bright blue, cheerful waters of the bay. The first mort wasn’t so bad, but when it came to two morts I was forced to do a little quiet thinking. Like all Americans, I laugh at superstition. Ha, ha! The pinch of salt, tossed carelessly over the left shoulder. A needless precaution, but I did it all the time. Did I ever place a hat upon a bed? Never. Why not? Well, just because, that’s why. Did I ever walk under a ladder? No, of course not. A can of paint might cover one from above; that was prudence, not superstition. I wasn’t really superstitious. Not really. But that gamecock had been so positive …!
    Three days later I fired my maid. The woman refused to taste my food, claiming falsely that she didn’t like canned pork-and-beans. I issued an ultimatum, and when she still flatly refused to eat a bite, and prevent me from being poisoned, I gave her the sack and tossed the beans into the bay.
    My life became more complicated without anyone else around, but I preferred to be alone. I now had to make up the list of foodstuffs to send to St. Vincent, and I had to meet the MV Madinina when it steamed into the harbor on Friday to get them. But I didn’t mind the activity. I wasn’t hungry either, and the little I did eat was better prepared by myself. I worried, however. A bad tin of corned beef, a can of sour condensed milk, and pouf! Mort . I drank a lot of Mount Gay rum and a little water.
    Three weeks following my second reading, I paid my third visit to Two Moons Wainscoting. I was unable to stand the fear and suspense any longer. I hadn’t shaved for several days. Suppose I had cut myself with a rusty razor blade? Where could I get a tetanus shot on Bequia? My sleep was no longer fitful; I couldn’t sleep at all. Three full inches had disappeared from my waistline.
    â€œTwo Moons,” I said anxiously, as soon as I entered his