The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot

  THE MYSTERY

  OF

  THE STUTTERING PARROT

  Robert Arthur

  A word from Alfred Hitchcock

  FOR THE second time I find myself introducing the trio of lads who call themselves The Three Investigators. I did not expect to be doing this. Quite frankly, I thought I had managed to put them out of my life for good. However –

  But I would rather not go into the details. Let it suffice that I promised to introduce them, and I am doing so. Those of you who have read the account of their first case, The Secret of Terror Castle, know all about it. You can, in fact, skip every word of this and proceed directly to the main feature, a procedure I recommend heartily.

  But for those of you who came in late, I will do my duty.

  The trio of youths who call themselves The Three Investigators are Bob Andrews, Pete Crenshaw, and Jupiter Jones, all of whom live in the town of Rocky Beach, on the shore of the Pacific Ocean some miles from Hollywood. Bob is rather slight, blond, of a scholarly nature, but with a streak of adventurousness in him. Pete is tall and well-muscled, brown-haired, inclined to nervousness before anything happens but a tower of strength in any kind of trouble. Jupiter Jones is –

  Well, I could write quite a lot about what Jupiter Jones is and my opinions might not agree with those of his friends. Let me just say that he is stocky and sturdily built, and that he has a round face which can mirror complete imbecility, but which in fact has behind it a shrewd and often penetrating mind.

  Whereas Bob Andrews and Pete Crenshaw live with their parents, Jupiter lives with his aunt and uncle, having lost both parents when he was quite young. As it baby he was extremely plump and appeared in a television series about some comical children, under the name of Baby Fatso. To this day he loathes the name and hates to be laughed at. In a contest sponsored by a local auto rental agency, Jupiter won the use of a gold-plated vintage Rolls-Royce sedan complete with chauffeur, for a period of thirty days.

  Having thus acquired transportation, a vital necessity here in California where distances are great, he and his two friends immediately formed the firm of The Three Investigators to solve whatever mysteries, riddles, enigmas or conundrums they could come upon. Their base of operations is The Jones Salvage Yard, a super junk yard run by Titus and Mathilda Jones, Jupiter’s uncle and aunt.

  Their Headquarters is an old thirty-foot home trailer which they have equipped with an office, a photographic darkroom and a tiny laboratory, and hidden from public view behind towering piles of ordinary junk so that it must be entered through certain secret passages which they have constructed.

  Now that I have told you this much, you are on your own. I disclaim all further responsibility. Proceed at your own risk!

  Alfred Hitchcock

  Chapter 1

  A Cry for Help

  “HELP!” The voice that called out was strangely shrill and muffled. “Help! Help!”

  Each time a cry from within the mouldering old house pierced the silence, a new chill crawled down Pete Crenshaw’s spine. Then the cries for help ended in a strange, dying gurgle and that was even worse.

  The tall, brown-haired boy knelt behind the thick trunk of a barrel palm and peered up the winding gravel path at the house. He and his partner, Jupiter Jones, had been approaching it when the first cry had sent them diving into the shrubbery for cover.

  Across the path, Jupiter, stocky and sturdily built, crouched behind a bush, also peering towards the house. They waited for further sounds. But now the old, Spanish-style house, set back in the neglected garden that had grown up like a small tropical jungle, was silent

  “Jupe!” Pete whispered. “Was that a man or a woman?”

  Jupiter shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered back. “Maybe it was neither.”

  “Neither?” Pete gulped. It certainly hadn’t been a child, and if it was neither a man nor a woman, that left only possibilities he didn’t care to think about.

  The two boys waited. The heat of a summer day in Hollywood was heavy and oppressive.

  All around them were palm trees, bushes, and flowers gone wild. Once this had been a lovely garden but years of neglect had turned it into a wilderness. The house beyond it was in disrepair, too.

  It was the home of Malcolm Fentriss, a retired Shakespearian actor and a good friend of Alfred Hitchcock, the famous director of suspense and mystery films and television programmes. In their capacity of investigators, the two boys had come to offer to aid Mr. Fentriss in finding a missing parrot. Mr. Hitchcock had mentioned to them that the actor had lost his parrot and was very anxious to get it back.

  Then had come the unexpected cry for help. Now they were crouched in the shrubbery, awaiting developments.

  “Whiskers, Jupe!” Pete said in a low voice. “We started out to look for a missing parrot. Now before we even get to the house, someone is screaming for help! I hope this isn’t going to be another case like the last one.”

  “On the contrary,” his stocky partner whispered back, “it is starting very promisingly. But all seems quiet now. We’d better approach the house and find out what is happening.”

  “That isn’t a house I want to approach,” Pete told him. “It looks like a house full of locked rooms that shouldn’t be opened.”

  “A very good description,” Jupiter replied. “Remember to tell it to Bob when we get back to Headquarters.”

  Bob Andrews was the third member of the firm. He kept the records of their cases and did necessary research. Jupiter started to slip towards the house, moving between bushes and flowers without stirring a ripple of movement in the vegetation. On the other side of the path, Pete kept abreast of him. They had come within a hundred feet of the house when something grabbed his ankle and he was flung to the ground. As he tried to pull free, the unseen hand gripped more tightly and jerked him back. Flat on his face, he couldn’t see who or what had grabbed him.

  “Jupe!” he gasped. “Something’s got me!”

  For all his stocky build, Jupiter moved swiftly. He darted across the path and was at Pete’s side almost before the other boy finished speaking.

  “What is it?” Pete croaked, rolling his eyes sideways at his partner. “Something’s dragging me away. Is it a boa constrictor? This garden could hide anything.”

  Jupiter’s round, determined features looked unusually grave.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this. Pete,” he said, “but you have been trapped by an unusually vicious specimen of vitis vinifera.”

  “Do something!” Pete gasped. “Don’t let vitis whatever it is get me!”

  “I have my knife.” Jupiter said. “I’ll do my best.”

  He whipped out his prized Swiss knife that had eight blades. Then he grasped Pete’s leg. Pete could feel him slashing fiercely. The grip on his ankle relaxed. Pete immediately rolled away and sprang to his feet.

  Behind him, his partner, with a broad grin, was putting away his knife. A heavy loop of vine that had been cut in the middle was bobbing up and down close to the ground.

  “You put your foot into a twisted grapevine,” Jupiter said. “The harder you pulled to get away, the harder the vine pulled you back. It was a very evenly matched test.

  Neither of you was using any intelligence. The vine doesn’t have any, and you allowed panic to cloud your mental processes.”

  Jupiter usually talked like that. By now Pete was used to it.

  “Okay, okay,” Pete said sheepishly. “I panicked. I was thinking about that call for help, I guess.”

  “Panic is more dangerous than danger itself,” Jupiter said. “Fear robs the individual of the ability to make proper decisions. It destroys – destroys –– Ulp!”

  Looking at Jupiter, Pete had the impression that his partner was displaying all the symptoms of the fear he had just been talking about. He had suddenly turned pale.

  His eyes bulged. His jaw dropped. He seemed to be looking at something just behind Pete’s back.

  “You’re a good actor, Jupe,” Pete said. “That’s the best imitation of fright I’ve ever seen. But now what do you say we – we ––”

  He turned and he saw what Jupiter was looking at. And the words stuck in his throat.

  Jupiter was not acting. The very fat man who stood facing them, with a large old-fashioned pistol in his hand, would have startled anybody.

  The fat man wore glasses that magnified

  his eyes into great round orbs like the eyes

  of some huge fish in an aquarium. The

  sunlight glinted on the glasses and made the

  eyes behind them seem to throw out flashes

  of fire.

  “All right, boys!” the fat man said. He

  gave the pistol a wave. “Into the house with

  you. Then we’ll find out what mischief you

  are up to. Now, march!”

  With dragging footsteps and dry mouths,

  Pete and Jupiter trudged ahead of him up

  the gravel path to the sombre, decaying old

  house.

  “Don’t try to run, boys!” the fat man

  warned. “Or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  “Don’t run, Pete,” Jupiter whispered.

  “That would be the worst thing possible.

  We want to convince Mr. Fentriss we are

  here on legitimate business.”

  “I’m not going to run,” Pete whispered

  back. “My legs are so wobbl
y, I feel as if I

  were just learning to walk.”

  Their feet scrunched on the gravel. Behind them the fat man’s greater weight made the gravel crunch with a sound that gave Pete a very crawly feeling. He was almost glad when they stepped on the tiled patio of the house and paused before the huge front door.

  “Now open the door, boys,” the fat man said. “Step inside. Remember that I have an itchy trigger finger. Turn to your right. Enter the room there, and take seats against the far wall.”

  Jupiter turned the knob. The door swung open, revealing a dark hall.

  Pete braced himself and they both stepped in, turned right, and entered a large room cluttered with books and newspapers and old furniture. Against the opposite wall were several large leather chairs.

  They marched across the room and sat down.

  The fat man stood looking at them with satisfaction. He blew into the barrel of his pistol, as if removing a speck of dust that might get in the way of a bullet.

  “Now,” he said, “you had better explain what mischief you had in mind, slipping so sneakily up to my house through my garden.”

  “We were just coming to call on you, Mr. Fentriss,” Jupiter said. “You see ––”

  But the fat man did not let him finish. He put his finger alongside his nose and looked slyly at them.

  “Just coming to call?” he asked. “Slipping from tree to tree, like Indians? Or thieves? Or cut-throats?”

  “We heard somebody yell for help.” Pete blurted out. “When that happened we ducked behind the trees to see what was happening.”

  “Ah.” The fat man pursed his lips. “You heard that, did you? Someone calling for help?”

  “You see, Mr. Fentriss,” Jupiter explained, “Mr. Alfred Hitchcock sent us here.

  He said you had lost your parrot and the police wouldn’t help you find it. We’re investigators, and we were coming to assist you in the recovery of your missing pet.”

  He reached into his pocket and produced one of their business cards, on which was printed:

  THE THREE INVESTIGATORS

  “We Investigate Anything”

  ? ? ?

  First Investigator — Jupiter Jones

  Second Investigator — Peter Crenshaw

  Records and Research — Bob Andrews

  “I’m Jupiter Jones,” Jupiter said. “This is my partner. Pete Crenshaw.”

  “Oh.” The fat man took the card and studied it. “Investigators, eh? And what are the question marks for? Do you doubt your ability?”

  Pete had been waiting for that question. Practically everybody asked about those question marks. Jupiter had dreamed them up in a burst of inspiration. They were terrific for getting people interested.

  “The question mark, otherwise known as the interrogation mark,” Jupiter said,

  “stands for things unknown, questions unanswered, riddles unravelled. Our business is answering the questions, unravelling the riddles, investigating any mysteries that may come our way. Hence, the question mark is the symbol of The Three Investigators.”

  “I see, I see,” Mr. Fentriss replied, slipping the card into his pocket. “And you were coming to investigate the mystery of my missing parrot. Ah.”

  He smiled at them. For the first time Pete’s spirits rose. And then, at his next words, Pete’s spirits sank deeper than ever.

  “I wish I could believe that. You’re such likeable lads. I’m sure your families are going to miss you,” the fat man said.

  Very deliberately he took a cigar from his pocket and clamped it between his teeth.

  Then he levelled the pistol at them and pulled the trigger.

  There was a loud click. A bright blue flame appeared at the muzzle of the pistol.

  Mr. Fentriss held the flame to his cigar, took a deep puff to light it, then blew out the flame and put the pistol down on a table.

  Gleeps, Pete thought, a cigar lighter! And all of his blood, which for that awful moment seemed to be drained out of him, came back and started to circulate again.

  “Congratulations, boys!” Mr. Fentriss said jovially. “You passed the test with flying colours. In the face of my efforts to intimidate you, you held firm! Let me shake your hands.”

  He strode over and shook their hands. The grip of his pudgy hand was terrific. He chuckled as he helped them to their feet.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said. “Many a grown man would have quailed in the face of my hostility. I shall have to telephone my friend Alfred that you lads are not mere boys playing at being detectives, but are serious about your chosen profession.”

  “You mean” – Jupiter said, and only Pete could tell that he was having a little trouble speaking as calmly as usual – “you mean Mr. Hitchcock telephoned you we were coming and wanted you to test our nerve?”

  “Exactly, exactly!” Mr. Fentriss rubbed his hands together. “He said to expect you and to give you a little surprise that would test your mettle. But you have displayed rare courage. I’m only sorry I have no case for you to investigate.”

  “Then,” Pete said, “your parrot isn’t missing? But Mr. Hitchcock said you were all broken up about it.”

  “Oh, it was missing, it was missing.” Mr. Fentriss said. “And indeed, I was inconsolable. But it came back. Just this morning it flew back in the window I kept open for it. Dear Billy, what a worry he gave me.”

  “Billy?” Jupiter asked. “Is that the parrot’s name?”

  “That’s right. Billy Shakespeare, short for William Shakespeare.”

  “But what about the call for help?” Pete asked. “It came from this house, and—

  well—”

  “You were suspicious. Naturally,” Mr. Fentriss boomed. “But that was Billy. The naughty rascal is something of an actor himself. I taught him to pretend he was in jail

  – behind the bars in his cage, you know – and he amuses himself by calling for help.”

  “Could we see Billy?” Jupiter asked. “He must be a very talented bird.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mr. Fentriss’s face clouded. “Billy was making such a nuisance of himself that just as you arrived I put the cloth over his cage. That quietens him, you know. If I were to take it off now, he would start up again.”

  “Well, in that case I guess there’s nothing to investigate,” Jupiter said, sounding disappointed. “We’ll be going, Mr. Fentriss. Anyway, I’m glad your parrot came back.”

  “Thank you, my boy,” the stout man said. “And I shall keep your card. Any time I do have a mystery that needs investigation, I shall notify The Three Investigators.”

  He showed the two boys to the door. Pete and Jupiter started down the winding path that went through the tangled garden.

  “I must confess to being disappointed.” Jupiter said. “The case began most promisingly. A lonely house, a cry for help, a sinister fat man … I had high hopes.”

  “The opinions expressed are not necessarily those of the Second Investigator,”

  Pete said. “Personally, I’m satisfied just to hunt for a missing parrot. I don’t need any calls for help or sinister fat men. Let’s work up gradually to all that.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Jupiter said, but he didn’t sound as if he really meant it.

  In silence they continued on to the street. It was a winding street in a rather old and run-down section of Hollywood, where big old houses, far apart, were slowly going to seed because the owners could not afford to take care of them.

  At the curb was a Rolls-Royce with gold-plated fittings. As a prize for winning a contest, Jupiter was allowed the use of this handsome car, complete with Worthington, an English chauffeur, for thirty days.

  “I guess we’d better go home, Worthington,” Jupiter said, as he and Pete climbed into the back of the old but luxurious car. “The parrot came back of its own accord.”

  “Very good, Master Jones,” Worthington replied in a crisp British accent.

  He pulled the car forward and manoeuvred it to turn round. As he did so, Jupiter stared out of the window at the garden of Mr. Fentriss’s home – the house itself was hidden from sight behind palm trees and flowering bushes.

  “Pete,” he said abruptly, “please examine the scene carefully. Something is wrong, but I cannot detect what.”

  “What scene?” Pete asked. “You mean the garden?”

  “The garden, the driveway, the entire grounds. I have a distinct sense of wrongness, yet the source of it eludes me.”