Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (10 page)

“No, 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.”

“At any rate,” I said, moved by the simple story, “one of your predictions came true.”

“They all come true.”

“We'll see. How about my second reading?”

“Yes, sir.” Two Moons held out his right hand. “That will be ten dollars, in advance.”

“Very 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.

“Let's wait a bit, Two Moons.” I cleared my dry throat. “Maybe he'll continue.”

“As 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.

“
Mort
comes to us all, in time,” Two Moons said pityingly.

“A 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.

“Watch out for barracuda!” Two Moons shouted after me. “And dangerous crosscurrents.”

“Thanks!” 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.

“Two Moons,” I said anxiously, as soon as I entered his clearing, “I've got to have another reading.”

“I've been expecting you, Mr. Waxman,” Two Moons said soothingly. “That is, I've been expecting word concerning you, but I must turn down your request for a third reading. This is not an arbitrary decision. The life of an alectryomancer on Bequia isn't an easy one, and I would welcome another ten-dollar bill, but I am not totally lacking in compassion, so I must refuse.”

“I'll give you twenty dollars—”

Two Moons held up a hand to silence me. “Please, Mr. Waxman. This isn't a question of money! Let me summarize: you have had now two flat predictions, both of them identical.
Mort!
An ugly word, whether in French or English, but
mort
all the same. Suppose, on a third prediction, my gamecock were to peck out W.E.D.S. or a simple F.R.I.? Do you see the implication? You're a writer, Mr. Waxman, and do not lack imagination. A gamecock is incapable of telling a falsehood, and if my rooster pecked an F.R.I.—which he could do in all innocence—this is the abbreviation for Friday. Today is Tuesday. How would you feel tomorrow, on Wednesday? And then Thursday? The next day would be Friday, and Friday would be the day for what?
Mort!
” He pointed his finger at my chest and shook his head.

I shuddered as the pit of my stomach chilled. “But—”

“Please, Mr. Waxman. I cannot risk another reading. An alectryomancer has a conscience, just like everyone else, and I would suffer along with you. I must refuse your request for a third reading. I cannot; I will not do it!”

“I'm a young man,” I croaked hoarsely, “and I'm not ready to die. I won't even be forty until my next birthday.”

“There's an alternative.” Two Moons pursed his lips and peered at me intently. “But I hesitate to mention it to a man with so little faith.”

“Mention it,” I said sharply. “By all means, mention it.”

“You are cognizant of the West Indian
obeah?
”

“I think so. It's a spell or charm of some kind, isn't it?”

“In a way, yes. There are all kinds of
obeahs;
they can be made for good or evil, in the same manner African ju-jus are made for good or evil. Unfortunately, many West Indians have a vindictive character and often cast about for a means of vengeance for a very small grievance. This deplorable character trait, I am happy to state, is not a universal West Indian—”

“I'm not interested in the character traits of the average West Indian. I have problems of my own.”

“To be sure. To shorten the rather interesting story, I possess an
obeah
that will ward off
mort
for an indefinite period.”

“Let me take a look at it.”

“Not so fast. Like every spell or charm or ju-ju, an
obeah
has a condition attached.”

“What are the conditions?”

“Condition.” He held up a long forefinger. “Singular, Mr. Waxman. A simple condition, but a condition nevertheless. Belief. Blind, unquestioning belief. So long as you believe in the
obeah
you shall have life. Not everlasting life, as promised by your optimistic Christian
obeahs
, but life for a reasonable period. The Grenadian who fashioned this
obeah
lived to be one hundred and ten.”

“That's a long time.”

“A very long time.”

“I believe,” I said desperately. “Give me the
obeah!
”

“You're an impulsive young man, Mr. Waxman. This is a valuable
obeah
, and before I can give it to you, I must test your belief. The
obeah
has a price of seventy-five dollars.”

I passed the test. Happier than I had been in days, I ran lightly down the mountain trail, a small leather sack tied around my neck. The sack was securely fastened with a square knot in the rawhide thong at the back of my neck, and from time to time I fingered the knot to make certain it wouldn't slip.

Night fell. I sat in my tiny living room. The pale light of my kerosene lamp—there isn't any electricity on Bequia—made my shadow dance on the wall like a boxer. The wind was responsible for my flickering shadow, but I felt like a boxer, fighting the deadly logic of the gamecock's prediction. I clutched the sack at my neck, feeling the strange objects inside it through the leather, wondering what in the devil they were. Two Moons had warned me not to look inside—“Never look a gift horse in the mouth”—were his exact words, but I was curious all the same. If I stopped believing in the
obeah, mort
could strike suddenly at any moment. The wisdom of Two Moons Wainscoting, in denying me a third prediction, was the only bright spot in my thinking. But even with the
obeah
in my possession I couldn't live forever …

Not that I had any particular reason to go on living. I wasn't happy, and never had been. I was single, no dependents, no real purpose in life—really, except for writing an occasional novel or short story. But I wanted to hang on, if for no other reason than to see what would happen next. I had lost all desire to write an article on alectryomancy …

I felt the objects inside the
obeah
with my fingers. What were they? I jerked my hand away quickly. What if my fingers recognized one or more of the objects inside the leather sack? How could I go on believing in the efficacy of the
obeah
if I once found out what the sack contained? A nasty situation to be in, all the way around.

In the daytime, life wasn't so bad. The bright sunlight chased away the problems of the night. But everything I did, which wasn't much, was done judiciously. I still swam every day, but never ventured more than a few yards from the shore, fearing the riptides and crosscurrents. I continued to take daily hikes, but I walked slowly, like an old man with brittle bones. And I carried a cane. Most of the time I sat quietly on the narrow front porch of my cottage drinking rum-and-water. Sometimes, I wished that
mort
would come to me in the night, in my sleep, so that it would be all over and done with.

After a few lonely evenings I began to go to the hotel at night, picking my way along the beach path, playing my flashlight on every shadow before taking another step. There wasn't any electricity at the hotel either, but the porch was lighted by Coleman lanterns, and they didn't cast shadows …

Just a few short hours ago I was sitting at a table on the hotel verandah, staring glumly into my glass, when Bob Corbett sat down across from me. One quick glance at his red, serious face and orange moustache, and I shook my head.

“No nattering tonight, Bob,” I said firmly. “I'm not up to it.”

Bob Corbett is a British civil servant who makes periodic trips to the various islands, looking for fungus or something, but the government maintains a house for him on Bequia. Like many of the bored civil servants posted to the Windward Islands for three years, Bob has become addicted to the game of nattering. Nattering is a game where two persons hurl insults at each other until one of them gets angry enough to fight. During the early years of my writing career, I had served time as a desk clerk at a New York hotel for almost two years, and as a consequence, I had bested Bob Corbett in every nattering session he started. In the last session we played, Bob had taken a swing at me with an empty Black & White bottle.

“No nattering,” Bob agreed readily, signaling the barmaid to refill our glasses. “I really came over to make amends. I've been standing at the bar for almost an hour without a sign of recognition from you, and if you want an apology you can have it. But I really didn't hit you with that bottle—”

“I'm sorry, Bob. I didn't cut you; I just didn't see you,” I apologized. All at once, I felt an overwhelming desire to confide in Bob Corbett, and I yielded impulsively to the desire. The dark thoughts had been bottled up inside me too long. “Listen, Bob,” I began, “did you ever hear of alectryomancy?” And I unfolded the whole story.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Bob laughed, when I had finished. “You've been had, old man!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Had! Taken! Bilked! And you're a New Yorker, too. That's what makes it so funny!” Another string of bubbling ho-ho-hos followed, and I drummed my fingers on the table impatiently.

“Old Two Moons is a notorious character in the islands,” Bob said at last, wiping his streaming eyes with the back of a freckled hand. “This old faker and his trained rooster have caused I don't know how many complaints to the administrator on St. Vincent from irate tourists. His rooster, you see, is trained to peck out the word ‘
mort
'! And the convincing mumbo-jumbo that Two Moons puts with it has sucked you in.”

“I don't believe it. I'd like to but I can't.”

“I'll prove it to you,” Bob said earnestly, leaning across the table. “After the rooster pecked the four grains of corn, ostensibly spelling ‘mort,' he hung his head down. Right?”

“Right.”

“Following this, didn't Two Moons remove the chicken from the circle and feed him some more corn? And didn't the rooster scratch it up and eat it?”

“Of course. That's what made the reading so effective.”

“No. It proves only that the rooster is trained. Think a bit, man. To train animals of any kind, you must always reward them after they do their trick. And the only reward an animal recognizes is food! A trained rooster isn't any different from a trained bear that's been given a bottle of beer for doing a dance. A bloke I knew in Newfoundland had a bloody wolf chained in his garage, and one—”

I left the table abruptly, not waiting to find out about the bloody wolf in Newfoundland, and flashing my torch before me, ran all the way home along the beach path. As soon as my kerosene lamp was lighted, I untied the thong at the back of my neck and dumped the contents of the leather sack on the dining table. Inventory: one plastic toothpick (red); one small, round obsidian pebble; two withered jackfish eyes; one dried chameleon tail, approximately three inches long; one red checker; three battered and badly bent Coca-Cola caps; one chicken feather (yellow); assorted, unidentifiable small dried bones, and one brass disc entitling the bearer to a ten-cent beer at Freddy Ming's Cafe, Port-of-Spain, Trinidad.