Date: Fri 25-Dec-1998

Publication: Bee

Author: CURT

Quick Words:

Laslo-history-crime-fiction

Full Text:

FROM THE CASE FILES OF DETECTIVE LASLO BRISCOE: Fifteenth Installment

By Andrea Zimmermann

Of late, I have been privileged to observe a fine display of human nature as

exposed through a man's chosen profession; here, I speak in particular of

agriculture and poultry.

Now that Philo T. Platt is the head of the newly-formed state department of

agriculture, Newtown has drawn the notice of W.H. Jardine, secretary of

agriculture of the United States. I made his acquaintance at a dinner last

week on Currituck Hill. The secretary had come to inspect a small plot of

sugar beets being raised experimentally on the hill; his visit reaffirmed his

belief that beet production has possibilities in Connecticut. He was also

impressed by the wonderful pastures in this section and the great corn being

raised here. Commissioner and Mrs Platt, Secretary Jardine and I were

entertained by the Reynolds at Currituck Hill for dinner.

The secretary was a congenial fellow, with a head full of facts specific to

farming. He shared with us these impressive numbers: during the last four

years, the south has turned out approximately 50,000,000 bale of cotton. And a

total of 47 cattle, 29 sheep, and 10 hogs move to market in the United States

every minute.

Although farming is in his blood, he acknowledged my observation that it is

the odd fellow whose life's work is dedicated to raising chickens to sell,

slaughter or from which to coax eggs. It may appear just another business, but

it is the birds, themselves, that make it queer. Who would think a chicken

capable of cannibalism -- pecking to death a weaker of the species -- to make

room when space is tight? Yet it is fact and commonly known among poultrymen.

I must admit, I was introduced to this notion just last week at the Newtown

and Stepney Poultry Club. Roy Jones, the poultry expert at Storrs, gave an

interesting talk. Having accepted the invitation only to see the stereo

opticon pictures that illustrated his talk, the evening provided me with the

unexpected pleasure of making a study of the members of this curious group.

No. 922 -- The Case Of

The Hot Hens Retrieved

One of the worst chicken robberies ever perpetrated in town occurred Thursday

night on Mt Pleasant Road. About 350 of the choicest Rhode Island Red layers

were crated and stolen from the hen houses of Stanley J. Blackman, and sold at

the morning market in Bridgeport.

The robbers were a bold duo, having parked their truck on the side road and

left tracks in the snow leading to Hawleyville and carried the crates down

through the lots. Although a neighbor residing at the top of the hill noticed

a flashlight being used about the chicken houses about 3 o'clock in the

morning, he thought nothing of it as Blackman was an early riser.

The poultry man was made aware of his loss at about 5:30 in the morning when

he went to the houses to attend his chickens. Blackman phoned me and, owing to

his past kindnesses, I telephoned all nearby cities to be on the alert for a

load of poultry. I cannot boast of breaking this ring of chicken thieves, but

commend the member of the Connecticut Humane Society of Bridgeport who made

speedy recovery of 227 of the banded hens (alas, the balance were, by that

time, well on their way to being New Year's stew). The shipment had been sold

to a dealer on Pembroke Street by John Robertson. He is in safe custody,

having been unable to pay the $3,000 bond required of him, and all are

confident his accomplice will soon join him at the Fairfield County jail.

No. 943 -- The Case Of

The Mourned Beer Cases

The porch is the greatest architectural inspiration; from there the world will

unfold if you bide your time. In moments of detached observation, the mundane

can be transformed in the blink of an eye -- or the whistle of a sheriff, I

should say. And this case proves a representative of death may well be a

vehicle for humor.

Sitting about Frank Ruffles porch, he and I were greeted by Deputy Sheriff

Beers. The quiet afternoon saw few automobiles pass, but the sleepy summer day

did not dull the sheriff's quick wit as he happened to notice the lack of

mourners following a heavily laden hearse on The Street. Obeying Beer's

whistle, the driver stopped, threw his hands up, and said, "It's beer,

sheriff." An inspection revealed the lack of a body, in whose place were 36

cases of beer on their way to help quench the thirst of the Danburyites. No

doubt the warm weather has stimulated the trade in beer to such a high degree

as to inspire driver, Salvan Divigarde, to implement such a scheme.

Justice McCarthy fined the guilty party $150 and costs of $64.60 for

transporting.

No. 955 -- The Case Of

A Worthless Night's Work

A stranger gained entry to the A&P and the rectory last night, going to great

lengths and reaping little for his efforts. Unable to force an entrance

through the main door of the A&P in the Atchison block, the burglar went up

the outside stairway, broke open the door and, after removing a register in

the floor, cut a hole in the ceiling plaster and descended by the aid of the

shelves to the floor. An inventory dispelled the manager's fear that anything

of value was missing; the cash register had been empty and the cash drawer

open. The man evidently went out as they entered.

It was Reverend Ekins who discovered the study door to the rectory open, but

there, too, was little missing. The burglar must have been finally

disheartened when he broke into the old barber shop in the basement of the

Atchison block and found a vacant space to thwart his search for loot. Beyond

coincidence, it's generally accepted that this is the work of the same

individual or band of marauders. Most likely one is the stranger seen

loitering about the A&P between 7 and 9 o'clock. At present, no clues of any

value have been gathered.