The Three Investigators
in
THE STUTTERING
PARROT
by Robert Arthur
The Stuttering Parrot was first published
in the UK in a single volume in 1967 by
William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. under the title
The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot.
Copyright © 1964 by Random House, Inc.
Introduction
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. How-
ever——
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 nerv-
ousness 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 com-
plete 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 neces-
sity 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
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 Cren-
shaw’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 div-
ing 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 be-
yond it was in disrepair, too.
It was the home of Malcolm Fentriss. a retired Shake-
spearian actor and a good friend of Alfred Hitchcock, the
famous director of suspense and mystery films and tele-
vision 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. “Remem-
ber 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 be-
tween 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 be-
fore 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
lave 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 prize 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 look-
ing 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
9
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. Fen-
triss we are here on legitimate business.”
“I’m not going to run.” Pete whispered back. “My legs
are so wobbly, 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, reveal-
ing 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:
“I’m Jupiter Jones,” Jupiter said. “This is my partner.
Pete Crenshaw.”
“Oh.” The fat man took the card and studied it “In-
vestigators, 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 interroga-
tion mark,” Jupiter said, “stands for things unknown,
questions unanswered, riddles unravelled. Our business is
answering the questions, unravelling the riddles, investi-
gating 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 in 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 to-
gether. “He said to expect you and to give you a little
surprise that would test your mettle. But you have dis-
played 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 some-
thing 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 investi-
gate,” Jupiter said, sounding disappointed. “We’ll be go-
ing, 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 satis-
fied 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 kerb 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.”
“You mean something doesn’t add up and you can’t
figure out what?”
Jupiter nodded, pinching his lower lip, always a sign
that his mental machinery was moving into high gear.
Peter surveyed the whole area of grounds and garden.
He couldn’t see anything wrong, except that it needed a
gardener working day and night for a month to make it
look tidy. There was a driveway with a lot of fallen palm
fronds on it A car had recently gone up the driveway.
smashing many of the palm leaves, but that didn’t mean
anything.
“I don’t see a thing,” he reported. Jupiter didn’t seem
to hear him. His stocky partner was staring out of the rear
window as they drove away, still pinching his lower lip,
thinking furiously.
They had gone almost ten blocks when suddenly Jupi-
ter whirled round.
“Worthington! ” he cried. “We have to go back. Fast!”
“Very good, Master Jones.” The chauffeur deftly
wheeled the big car round. “Go back it shall be.”
“Gleeps, Jupe!” Pete protested. “What bit you? Why
are we going back?”
“Because now I know what was wrong,” Jupiter said,
his round face flushed with excitement. “There are no
telephone wires leading into Mr. Fentriss’s house.”
“No telephone wires?” Pete tried to figure out what his
partner was getting at.
“Light wires, yes, but no telephone wires,” Jupiter said.
“And Mr. Fentriss distinctly stated that Mr. Hitchcock
had telephoned him we were coming. That was a lie. If
that was a lie, probably everything else he told us was a
lie.”
“A lie?” Pete shook his head. “Why would he lie?”
“Because he isn’t Mr. Fentriss!” Jupiter said. “He’s an
imposter. That was Mr. Fentriss we heard calling for
help!”
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