“You’re a reporter, my dear. Snoop around and find a story. Look at the handsome bloke over there in the costume of an American Indian. Don’t you think he’s a sight for squaw eyes?”
Herbert, the man tailing Hitchcock and Nancy Adair, parked the black sedan so that it couldn’t be blocked by another vehicle. He had watched Hitchcock and the woman as Hitchcock bought tickets of admission, and then had adjusted his large dark glasses. After a quick look of reassurance in the rearview mirror, he’d pulled his black cap down around his head and then left the car to follow his subjects. From the sparseness of the locals in attendance, Herbert could see Lingate would not be a profitable engagement for the Pechter Circus. Hitchcock and the woman walked slowly toward a tepee that featured a fortune-teller. Nearby a man dressed as an American Indian was hawking souvenirs. Here Hitchcock and the woman separated, Hitchcock entering the tepee and the woman crossing over to the “Indian,” presumably to examine his wares. Herbert positioned himself so that he could watch both the tepee and Nancy Adair.
Inside the tepee, Hitchcock could see it was much more spacious than it looked from outside. There were a table with two chairs and a beaded curtain that partitioned the tepee in two. From behind the curtain he could hear a woman’s sultry voice humming “Falling in Love Again.”
“Hello!” cried Hitchcock.
The curtains parted melodiously and the gypsy woman entered. She was neither old, as Madeleine Lockwood had described her, nor was she a gypsy, suspected Hitchcock, but there was a marvelous look to her, seductive, tempting, her upper lip curling as she examined him with interest. Her head was covered by a bright-red bandanna; around her neck hung a variety of necklaces. Bracelets jangled when she moved her hands, and there were rings for all ten fingers. She wore a multicolored blouse and a red skirt that reached down to her ankles, and her belt appeared to be made from chain mail. She was bizarre and exotic and heavily perfumed, and Hitchcock hoped there was a voice to match.
“I am Madame Lavinia. I see the past, the present, and the future.” With hands on hips, she sauntered toward the table with a slinky movement that offered other promises for the future. The voice was perfect—husky, melodic, low-pitched. “Place your sixpence on the table and sit down.” Hitchcock did as he was told. She sat opposite him and pushed the coin to one side. “Let me see your left hand, please.” He placed his left hand on the table, palm upward. “The left hand is the dreamer. Did you know this?” She took his hand in her right hand and, with her left index finger, began tracing the lines of the palm, the touch of her fingernail sending a tingle up Hitchcock’s spine such as he hadn’t felt since his wedding night.
“I don’t have too much to do with my left hand,” said Hitchcock in a voice he didn’t recognize.
“Oh, yes, you do. You dream a great deal. Look. Here and here and here.” The fingernail hopped from line to line. “Fantasy dominates your life. You must be an artist or a writer. Yes, it’s very plain to me. You are a professional person. Place your right hand next to the left, palm upward.” Again he did as he was told. “Very sweaty.” He rubbed the hand on his trousers and then placed it back in position. She stared hard at his right palm, as though it might be a valuable piece of jewelry. He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she had whipped out a jeweler’s loupe and screwed it into her eye to give the palm a more accurate assessment. “The right hand is reality, it mirrors what you really are.” She squeezed the flesh below the thumb. “Yes, you are very talented. When you have learned to channel your gifts, you will go very far in your profession.”
“And what is my profession?” asked Hitchcock smoothly.
“Have you forgotten so soon?” Her voice and her eyes mocked him.
“Of course not. But you’re the fortune-teller and I’ve paid my sixpence.”
“You expect too much for such a pittance.”
“If the fee is inadequate, you should raise your prices.”
“I should raise my sights, but that’s another story.” She was lighting a Turkish cigarette, having found cigarettes and matches in a large pocket hidden in the voluminous folds of her skirt. She went back to this right hand. “You could have a long life if you are very careful. “
“Meaning?” It was Hitchcock’s turn for mockery.
“Your weight will impair your health. Go on a diet.”
“And other than that?”
“You’re a player in a very dangerous game.”
“You haven’t seen that in my palm.”
“Oh, yes. It’s in your palm. Right here, see?” Hitchcock’s eyes didn’t leave her face.
Yesterday, in Medwin, you predicted the impending death of a friend of mine.”
“Did I?” She leaned back in her seat. “Death is inevitable, so it’s easily predictable. I am always patronized by old ladies and old men. They’re the ones who least wish to die. Most of them want to go on forever, God knows why.”
“This old lady said you sounded very definite. Perhaps you remember her. She wore a very garish red wig.”
“I remember her.” She blew a smoke ring that settled briefly over Hitchcock’s head like an uneasy halo. “She had a companion who looked like a frightened bird. Have you come all the way here to chide me for the indelicacy of my prediction?”
“Not at all. I’m on my way to Harborshire, but when I saw the circus, it brought back pleasant childhood memories, so I decided to stop off and visit. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps.” She shrugged. “Perhaps in another world, another life. In one of my incarnations I was an Egyptian princess.”
“How many incarnations have you had? All that the traffic can bear, I suppose?”
The mocking smile was back. “Perhaps you saw
