Alfred Hitchcock Presents : 12 Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV

by Alfred Hitchcock

  "No. Not until I came into this room. It welcomed me here."

  "Welcomed you! In what way?"

  "Simply by being here, by making me feel that it is here, as I might feel that a man was if I came into the room when it was dark."

  He spoke quietly, with perfect composure in his usual dry manner.

  "Very well," the Father said, "I shall not try to contend against your sensation, or to explain it away. Naturally, I am in amazement."

  "So am I. Never has anything in my life surprised me so much. Murchison, of course I cannot expect you to believe more than that I honestly suppose - imagine, if you like - that there is some intruder here, of which kind I am totally unaware. I cannot expect you to believe that there really is anything. If you were in my place, I in yours, I should certainly consider you the victim of some nervous delusion. I could not do otherwise. But - wait. Don't condemn me for a hysteria patient, or as a madman, for two or three days. I feel convinced that - unless I am indeed unwell, a mental invalid, which I don't think is possible - I shall be able very shortly to give you some proof that there is a newcomer in my house."

  "You don't tell me what kind of proof?"

  "Not yet. Things must go a little farther first. But, perhaps even to-morrow I may be able to explain myself more fully. In the meanwhile, I'll say this, that if, eventually, I can't bring any kind of proof that I'm not dreaming, I'll let you take me to any doctor you like, and I'll resolutely try to adopt your present view - that I'm suffering from an absurd delusion. That is your view, of course?"

  Father Murchison was silent for a moment. Then he said, rather doubtfully:

  "It ought to be."

  "But isn't it?" asked Guildea, surprised.

  "Well, you know, your manner is enormously convincing. Still, of course, I doubt. How can I do otherwise? The whole thing must be fancy."

  The Father spoke as if he were trying to recoil from a mental position he was being forced to take up.

  "It must be fancy," he repeated.

  "I'll convince you by more than my manner, or I'll not try to convince you at all," said Guildea.

  When they parted that evening, he said:

  "I'll write to you in a day or two probably. I think the proof I am going to give you has been accumulating during my absence. But I shall soon know."

  Father Murchison was extremely puzzled as he sat on the top of the omnibus going homeward.

  4

  In two days' time he received a note from Guildea asking him to call, if possible, the same evening. This he was unable to do as he had an engagement to fulfil at some East End gathering. The following day was Sunday. He wrote saying he would come on the Monday, and got a wire shortly afterwards: "Yes, Monday come to dinner seven-thirty Guildea." At half-past seven he stood on the doorstep of number 100.

  Pitting let him in.

  "Is the Professor quite well, Pitting?" the Father enquired as he took off his cloak.

  "I believe so, sir. He has not made any complaint," the butler formally replied. "Will you come upstairs, sir?"

  Guildea met them at the door of the library. He was very pale and sombre, and shook hands carelessly with his friend.

  "Give us dinner," he said to Pitting.

  As the butler retired, Guildea shut the door rather cautiously. Father Murchison had never before seen him look so disturbed.

  "You're worried, Guildea," the Father said. "Seriously worried."

  "Yes, I am. This business is beginning to tell on me a good deal."

  "Your belief in the presence of something here continues then?"

  "Oh, dear, yes. There's no sort of doubt about the matter. The night I went across the road into the Park something got into the house, though what the devil it is I can't yet find out. But now, before we go down to dinner, I'll just tell you something about that proof I promised you. You remember?"

  "Naturally."

  "Can't you imagine what it might be?"

  Father Murchison moved his head to express a negative reply.

  "Look about the room," said Guildea. "What do you see?"

  The Father glanced round the room, slowly and carefully.

  "Nothing unusual. You do not mean to tell me there is any appearance of -"

  "Oh, no, no, there's no conventional, white-robed, cloud-like figure. Bless my soul, no! I haven't fallen so low as that."

  He spoke with considerable irritation.

  "Look again."

  Father Murchison looked at him, turned in the direction of his fixed eyes and saw the grey parrot clambering in its cage, slowly and persistently.

  "What?" he said, quickly. "Will the proof come from there?"

  The Professor nodded.

  "I believe so," he said. "Now let's go down to dinner. I want some food badly."

  They descended to the dining-room. While they ate and Pitting waited upon them, the Professor talked about birds, their habits, their curiosities, their fears and their powers of imitation. He had evidently studied this subject with the thoroughness that was characteristic of him in all that he did.

  "Parrots," he said presently, "are extraordinarily observant. It is a pity that their means of reproducing what they see are so limited. If it were not so, I have little doubt that their echo of gesture would be as remarkable as their echo of voice often is."

  "But hands are missing."

  "Yes. They do many things with their heads, however. I once knew an old woman near Goring on the Thames. She was afflicted with the palsy. She held her head perpetually sideways and it trembled, moving from right to left. Her sailor son brought her home a parrot from one of his voyages. It used to reproduce the old woman's palsied movement of the head exactly. Those grey parrots are always on the watch."

  Guildea said the last sentence slowly and deliberately, glancing sharply over his wine at Father Murchison, and, when he had spoken it, a sudden light of comprehension dawned in the Priest's mind. He opened his lips to make a swift remark. Guildea turned his bright eyes towards Pitting, who at the moment was tenderly bearing a cheese meringue from the lift that connected the dining-room with the lower regions. The Father closed his lips again. But presently, when the butler had placed some apples on the table, had meticulously arranged the decanters, brushed away the crumbs and evaporated, he said, quickly:

  "I begin to understand. You think Napoleon is aware of the intruder?"

  "I know it. He has been watching my visitant ever since the night of that visitant's arrival."

  Another flash of light came to the Priest.

  "That was why you covered him with green baize one evening?"

  "Exactly. An act of cowardice. His behaviour was beginning to grate upon my nerves."

  Guildea pursed up his thin lips and drew his brows down, giving to his face a look of sudden pain.

  "But now I intend to follow his investigations," he added, straightening his features. "The week I wasted at Westgate was not wasted by him in London, I can assure you. Have an apple."

  "No, thank you; no, thank you."

  The Father repeated the words without knowing that he did so. Guildea pushed away his glass.

  "Let us come upstairs, then."

  "No, thank you," reiterated the Father.

  "Eh?"

  "What am I saying?" exclaimed the Father, getting up. "I was thinking over this extraordinary affair."

  "Ah, you're beginning to forget the hysteria theory?"

  They walked out into the passage.

  "Well, you are so very practical about the whole matter."

  "Why not? Here's something very strange and abnormal come into my life. What should I do but investigate it closely and calmly?"

  "What, indeed?"

  The Father began to feel rather bewildered, under a sort of compulsion which seemed laid upon him to give earnest attention to a matter that ought to strike him - so he felt - as entirely absurd. When they came into the library his eyes immediately turned, with profound curiosity, towards the parrot's cage. A sli
ght smile curled the Professor's lips. He recognised the effect he was producing upon his friend. The Father saw the smile.

  "Oh, I'm not won over yet," he said in answer to it.

  "I know. Perhaps you may be before the evening is over. Here comes the coffee. After we have drunk it we'll proceed to our experiment. Leave the coffee, Pitting, and don't disturb us again."

  "No, sir."

  "I won't have it black to-night," said the Father, "plenty of milk, please. I don't want my nerves played upon."

  "Suppose we don't take coffee at all?" said Guildea. "If we do, you may trot out the theory that we are not in a perfectly normal condition. I know you, Murchison, devout Priest and devout sceptic."

  The Father laughed and pushed away his cup.

  "Very well, then. No coffee."

  "One cigarette, and then to business."

  The grey blue smoke curled up.

  "What are we going to do?" said the Father.

  He was sitting bolt upright as if ready for action. Indeed there was no suggestion of repose in the attitudes of either of the men.

  "Hide ourselves, and watch Napoleon. By the way - that reminds me."

  He got up, went to a corner of the room, picked up a piece of green baize and threw it over the cage.

  "I'll pull that off when we are hidden."

  "And tell me first if you have had any manifestation of this supposed presence in the last few days?"

  "Merely an increasingly intense sensation of something here, perpetually watching me, perpetually attending to all my doings."

  "Do you feel that it follows you about?"

  "Not always. It was in this room when you arrived. It is here now - I feel. But, in going down to dinner, we seemed to get away from it. The conclusion is that it remained here. Don't let us talk about it just now."

  They spoke of other things till their cigarettes were finished. Then, as they threw away the smouldering ash, Guildea said:

  "Now, Murchison, for the sake of this experiment, I suggest that we should conceal ourselves behind the curtains on either side of the cage, so that the bird's attention may not be drawn towards us and so distracted from that which we want to know more about. I will pull away the green baize when we are hidden. Keep perfectly still, watch the bird's proceedings, and tell me afterwards how you feel about them, how you explain them. Tread softly."

  The Father obeyed, and they stole towards the curtains that fell before the two windows. The Father concealed himself behind those on the left of the cage, the Professor behind those on the right. The latter, as soon as they were hidden, stretched out his arm, drew the baize down from the cage, and let it fall on the floor.

  The parrot, which had evidently fallen asleep in the warm darkness, moved on its perch as the light shone upon it, ruffled the feathers round its throat, and lifted first one foot and then the other. It turned its head round on its supple, and apparently elastic, neck, and, diving its beak into the down upon its back, made some searching investigations with, as it seemed, a satisfactory result, for it soon lifted its head again, glanced around its cage, and began to address itself to a nut which had been fixed between the bars for its refreshment. With its curved beak it felt and tapped the nut, at first gently, then with severity. Finally it plucked the nut from the bars, seized it with its rough, grey toes, and, holding it down firmly on the perch, cracked it and pecked out its contents, scattering some on the floor of the cage and letting the fractured shell fall into the china bath that was fixed against the bars. This accomplished, the bird paused meditatively, extended one leg backwards, and went through an elaborate process of wing-stretching that made it look as if it were lopsided and deformed. With its head reversed, it again applied itself to a subtle and exhaustive search among the feathers of its wing. This time its investigation seemed interminable, and Father Murchison had time to realise the absurdity of the whole position, and to wonder why he had lent himself to it. Yet he did not find his sense of humour laughing at it. On the contrary, he was smitten by a sudden gust of horror. When he was talking to his friend and watching him, the Professor's manner, generally so calm, even so prosaic, vouched for the truth of his story and the well-adjusted balance of his mind. But when he was hidden this was not so. And Father Murchison, standing behind his curtain, with his eyes upon the unconcerned Napoleon, began to whisper to himself the word - madness, with a quickening sensation of pity and of dread.

  The parrot sharply contracted one wing, ruffled the feathers around its throat again, then extended its other leg backwards, and proceeded to the cleaning of its other wing. In the still room the dry sound of the feathers being spread was distinctly audible. Father Murchison saw the blue curtains behind which Guildea stood tremble slightly, as if a breath of wind had come through the window they shrouded. The clock in the far room chimed, and a coal dropped into the grate, making a noise like dead leaves stirring abruptly on hard ground. And again a gust of pity and of dread swept over the Father. It seemed to him that he had behaved very foolishly, if not wrongly, in encouraging what must surely be the strange dementia of his friend. He ought to have declined to lend himself to a proceeding that, ludicrous, even childish in itself, might well be dangerous in the encouragement it gave to a diseased expectation. Napoleon's protruding leg, extended wing and twisted neck, his busy and unconscious devotion to the arrangement of his person, his evident sensation of complete loneliness, most comfortable solitude, brought home with vehemence to the Father the undignified buffoonery of his conduct; the more piteous buffoonery of his friend. He seized the curtains with his hand and was about to thrust them aside and issue forth, when an abrupt movement of the parrot stopped him. The bird, as if sharply attracted by something, paused in its pecking, and, with its head still bent backward and twisted sideways on its neck, seemed to listen intently. Its round eye looked glistening and strained, like the eye of a disturbed pigeon. Contracting its wing, it lifted its head and sat for a moment erect on its perch, shifting its feet mechanically up and down, as if a dawning excitement produced in it an uncontrollable desire of movement. Then it thrust its head forward in the direction of the further room and remained perfectly still. Its attitude so strongly suggested the concentration of its attention on something immediately before it, that Father Murchison instinctively stared about the room, half expecting to see Pitting advance softly, having entered through the hidden door. He did not come, and there was no sound in the chamber. Nevertheless, the parrot was obviously getting excited and increasingly attentive. It bent its head lower and lower, stretching out its neck until, almost falling from the perch, it half extended its wings, raising them slightly from its back, as if about to take flight, and fluttering them rapidly up and down. It continued this fluttering movement for what seemed to the Father an immense time. At length, raising its wings as far as possible, it dropped them slowly and deliberately down to its back, caught hold of the edge of its bath with its beak, hoisted itself on to the floor of the cage, waddled to the bars, thrust its head against them, and stood quite still in the exact attitude it always assumed when its head was being scratched by the Professor. So complete was the suggestion of this delight conveyed by the bird, that Father Murchison felt as if he saw a white finger gently pushed among the soft feathers of its head, and he was seized by a most strong conviction that something, unseen by him but seen and welcomed by Napoleon, stood immediately before the cage.

  The parrot presently withdrew its head, as if the coaxing finger had been lifted from it, and its pronounced air of acute physical enjoyment faded into one of marked attention and alert curiosity. Pulling itself up by the bars it climbed again upon its perch, sidled to the left side of the cage, and began apparently to watch something with profound interest. It bowed its head oddly, paused for a moment, then bowed its head again. Father Murchison found himself conceiving - from this elaborate movement of the head - a distinct idea of a personality. The bird's proceedings suggested extreme sentimentality combined with that sort of weak de
termination which is often the most persistent. Such weak determination is a very common attribute of persons who are partially idiotic. Father Murchison was moved to think of these poor creatures who will often, so strangely and unreasonably, attach themselves with persistence to those who love them least. Like many priests, he had had some experience of them, for the amorous idiot is peculiarly sensitive to the attraction of preachers. This bowing movement of the parrot recalled to his memory a terrible, pale woman who for a time haunted all churches in which he ministered, who was perpetually endeavouring to catch his eye, and who always bent her head with an obsequious and cunningly conscious smile when she did so. The parrot went on bowing, making a short pause between each genuflection, as if it waited for a signal to be given that called into play its imitative faculty.

  "Yes, yes, it's imitating an idiot," Father Murchison caught himself saying as he watched.

  And he looked again about the room, but saw nothing; except the furniture, the dancing fire, and the serried ranks of the books. Presently the parrot ceased from bowing, and assumed the concentrated and stretched attitude of one listening very keenly. He opened his beak, showing his black tongue, shut it, then opened it again. The Father thought he was going to speak, but he remained silent, although it was obvious that he was trying to bring out something. He bowed again two or three times, paused, and then, again opening his beak, made some remark. The Father could not distinguish any words, but the voice was sickly and disagreeable, a cooing and, at the same time, querulous voice, like a woman's, he thought. And he put his ear nearer to the curtain, listening with almost feverish attention. The bowing was resumed, but this time Napoleon added to it a sidling movement, affectionate and affected, like the movement of a silly and eager thing, nestling up to someone, or giving someone a gentle and furtive nudge. Again the Father thought of that terrible, pale woman who had haunted churches. Several times he had come upon her waiting for him after evening services. Once she had hung her head smiling, and lolled out her tongue and pushed against him sideways in the dark. He remembered how his flesh had shrunk from the poor thing, the sick loathing of her that he could not banish by remembering that her mind was all astray. The parrot paused, listened, opened his beak, and again said something in the same dove-like, amorous voice, full of sickly suggestion and yet hard, even dangerous, in its intonation. A loathsome voice, the Father thought it. But this time, although he heard the voice more distinctly than before, he could not make up his mind whether it was like a woman's voice or a man's - or perhaps a child's. It seemed to be a human voice, and yet oddly sexless. In order to resolve his doubt he withdrew into the darkness of the curtains, ceased to watch Napoleon and simply listened with keen attention, striving to forget that he was listening to a bird, and to imagine that he was overhearing a human being in conversation. After two or three minutes' silence the voice spoke again, and at some length, apparently repeating several times an affectionate series of ejaculations with a cooing emphasis that was unutterably mawkish and offensive. The sickliness of the voice, its falling intonations and its strange indelicacy, combined with a die-away softness and meretricious refinement, made the Father's flesh creep. Yet he could not distinguish any words, nor could he decide on the voice's sex or age. One thing alone he was certain of as he stood still in the darkness - that such a sound could only proceed from something peculiarly loathsome, could only express a personality unendurably abominable to him, if not to everybody. The voice presently failed, in a sort of husky gasp, and there was a prolonged silence. It was broken by the Professor, who suddenly pulled away the curtains that hid the Father and said to him: