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

woman’s credit that she knew to whom I referred, because every resident on the island owns a few chickens and at least one rooster. She gave directions I could understand, and even went so far as to draw a crude map with her finger on the sandy beach in front of the cottage.
    Mt. Pleasant isn’t a high mountain, but the path was crooked and steep and the walk of forty minutes had winded me by the time I reached the old man’s shack at the peak. He greeted me warmly and invited me to enjoy the loveliness of his view. Nine miles away, the volcanic, verdant mass of St. Vincent loomed above the sea, and behind us toward the southwest, the smaller islands of the Grenadines glimmered like emeralds.
    â€œYour view is beautiful,” I said, when I was breathing normally again.
    â€œWe like it,” the old native nodded his head.
    â€œWe?”
    â€œMy rooster and me.”
    â€œOh, yes,” I said casually, snapping my fingers. “I’d like to take a look at him.”
    A low whistle from the alectryomancer and the rooster marched sedately out of the shack he shared with his master and joined us in the clearing. He was a large whitish bird of about six pounds, with brown and red feathers splashing his wings and chest. His comb was unclipped, and his dark red wattles dangled almost to his breast. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment, cocking his head alertly to one side, and crowed deep in his throat before turning away to scratch listlessly in the dirt.
    â€œLooks like a Whitehackle cross.”
    â€œCorrect, Mr. Waxman,” the alectryomancer said respectfully. “His mother was a purebred Wild Jungle Fowl.”
    â€œI suspected as much. Only purebred gamecocks can be utilized in alectryomancy, as you must know,” I added pedantically.
    â€œOf course.”
    For a few moments we sat quietly on the ground watching the rooster, and then I cleared my throat. “As long as I’m here, I may as well have a reading.”
    â€œI’ll change my clothes.” The old man smiled, exposing his raw gums for my inspection, before hobbling painfully into his shack. The shack itself was an unusual structure, built of five-gallon oil tins, smashed flat, and topped by a mauve-colored fifty-gallon oil drum, which held, I presumed, rain water. Forming an even square around the clearing were several dozen additional five-gallon tins, each containing a potted arrowroot plant. I don’t suppose an alectryomancer does too much business on a small island, and the arrowroot plants probably supplemented the old man’s income.
    I was unprepared for the change in attire and started slightly when the alectryomancer reappeared. A dirty white cotton turban had been wrapped around his bald head, and he wore a long-sleeved blue work shirt buttoned to the neck. Tiny red felt hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds had been sewn in thick profusion on the shirt, and larger hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds had been sewn on the pair of faded khaki trousers he now wore instead of the ragged blue denim shorts. His feet were still bare, however, which rather spoiled the effect.
    â€œThat’s a unique costume, Mr.—?”
    â€œWainscoting. Two Moons Wainscoting. Thank you, sir.”
    â€œIs Two Moons your given name, Mr. Wainscoting?”
    â€œYou might say that. It was given to me when I was a small boy. My father took me across the channel to St. Vincent when I was eleven years old. When I returned, my friends asked me what I had seen over there. ‘St. Vincent has a moon, too,’ I told them. And I’ve been called Two Moons ever since.”
    â€œIt’s a perfect name for an alectryomancer.”
    â€œI’ve always regarded it highly. And now …” Two Moons tethered the Whitehackle cross to a stake in the clearing with a piece of brown twine, and proceeded to draw a large circle around him with a pointed stick.
    â€œThe ancient Greeks,” I said, to