Beyond This Point Are Monsters by Margaret Millar

your memory?”
    â€œYes, sir. It was my birthday. Usually I get time off to celebrate, maybe go into Boca with a couple of the boys after work. But that day I couldn’t, it was Friday the thir­teenth. I’m not allowed to leave the house on Friday the thirteenth.”
    â€œNot allowed?”
    â€œA quiromántico told me never to because of strange lines in my hands. So I just stayed home like it was no special day and cooked dinner and served it.”
    â€œAt what time?”
    â€œAbout seven-thirty, later than usual on account of Mr. Osborne had been to the city.”
    â€œDid you see Mr. Osborne after dinner?”
    â€œYes, sir. He came out to the kitchen while I was clean­ing up. He said he forgot to buy my birthday present, like Mrs. Osborne asked him to, and would I accept money, and I said I sure would.”
    â€œWas Mr. Osborne wearing his spectacles when he came out to the kitchen?”
    â€œNo, sir. But he could see okay, so I guess he was wear­ing those little pieces of glass over his eyeballs.”
    â€œContact lenses.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat did he give you for your birthday, Miss Gon­zales?”
    â€œA twenty-dollar bill.”
    â€œDid he take the bill from his wallet in your presence?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDid you notice anything of interest about the wallet?”
    â€œIt was full of money. I never saw Mr. Osborne’s wallet before and I was surprised and kind of worried too. The boys don’t get much pay.”
    â€œBoys?”
    â€œThe workers that come and go.”
    â€œThe migrants?”
    â€œYes. It would of been a real temptation to them if they found out how much money Mr. Osborne was carrying.”
    â€œThank you, Miss Gonzales. You may—”
    â€œI’m not saying any of them did it, killed him for the money. I’m just saying that a lot of money is a big tempta­tion to a poor man.”
    â€œWe understand that, Miss Gonzales. Thank you . . . Will Mr. Lum Wing take the stand, please?”
    Lum Wing, encouraged by his sunny hour in the park, gave his name in a high clear voice with a trace of southern accent.
    â€œWhere do you live, Mr. Wing?”
    â€œSometimes here, sometimes there. Where the work is.”
    â€œYou have a permanent address, don’t you?”
    â€œWhen there’s nothing better to do I stay at my daugh­ter’s house in Boca de Rio. She’s got six kids, I share a room with two of my grandsons. I keep away from there as much as possible.”
    â€œWhat is your profession, Mr. Wing?”
    â€œI used to be cook with a circus. What my daughter tells the neighbors, I retired. What happened, the circus went bust.”
    â€œYou come out of retirement and take a job now and then?”
    â€œYes, sir, to get out of the house.”
    â€œYour work has brought you to the Osborne ranch at various times?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re working there now, in fact?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnd you were there a year ago, on October thirteen?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere do you stay when you’re working at the ranch?”
    Lum Wing described his living arrangements in the curtained-off corner of the former barn that served as a mess hall. In the late afternoon of October 13 he had cooked supper as usual. After the men departed for their payday fling in Boca de Rio he’d drawn his curtain, set up a chess game and opened a bottle of wine. The wine made him sleepy, so he lay down on his cot. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he remembered was the sound of voices speaking loud and fast in Spanish on the other side of the curtain. On occasion other basic needs besides eating were satisfied at the mess-hall tables and Lum Wing made it a habit to ignore what went on. Moving quietly in the darkness he checked his case of knives, his pocket watch and chess set, the rest of the bottle of wine, and