Inside, in the center of the long room and against the far wall, an attic bedroom had been constructed, with a hole torn in the roof and, off camera, a giant cage built around a side door, stage right. Margaret and LeGrue stood behind the cage as burly men wearing blue polyester jackets that read BERWICK ANIMAL HANDLERS gently hauled cartons of ravens, doves, and pigeons into its confines. Once the birds were freed from the cartons, they quietly grasped the metal stands and awaited their cues. They shared their cage with three prop men, all of whom wore thick rubber gloves.

“Birds have never looked less exotic to me than they do right now,” Margaret said. “And I live in Manhattan, where we have fifty pigeons per person.”

“Yeah, this looks like an infestation,” LeGrue allowed. “That’s kind of the point. This is Hitchcock, not Audubon.”

The stagehands’ heads turned as a pretty, lean blond woman sporting a beehive hairdo and a lime-green suit walked onto the set rubbing her arms, clearly nervous.

“That’s Tippi,” LeGrue whispered.

“Never heard of her,” whispered Margaret.

“No one has; this is her big break. She already had one mishap on set, with phone-booth glass breaking on her face. She’s going to freak out during this scene. No one wants to work with these birds. Last week we had a dozen crew members in the hospital from bites and scratches. From just one day of shooting! Birds are dangerous. Seagulls deliberately go for your eyes.”

A stagehand helped Hedren up onto the set and she walked behind the faux door to the attic bedroom. Hitchcock waddled in from wherever he’d been, presumably hiding to avoid any of Hedren’s complaints. “There she is,” he boomed with his familiar working-class London drawl. A hush fell over the soundstage; it was quiet except for some minor stirring of the birds. “Too skinny still, but we will continue to get some curves on that road.” Some of the assistant directors and crew members laughed; Hitchcock looked at them, soaking in their approval. “Blondes do make the best victims, do they not?” he asked. “They’re like virgin snow showing off the bloody footprints.” Guffaws erupted from the crew. A slight wrinkle in the middle of Hedren’s forehead was the only indication of her discomfort, though she maintained a placid smile.

“Is everything meeting with your approval, Mr. Ridge?” the director asked a man near the cage.

“All good, sir,” said a man with horn-rimmed glasses.

“That’s the guy with the American Humane Association,” whispered LeGrue. “He looks out for the birds.”

“Who looks out for Tippi?” Margaret whispered back.