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An attractive lady is seen swishing about as she demurely makes her way to and then inside, the deserted garden that is hidden from the olde stone manor by an ever-growing strip of woods and olde hedges.

She had heard tell of these gardens while conversing with a group of fellow guests that were gathered around the cheese and wine tables inside the manor’s reception hall with its glass ceilings.

Interest piqued, she had stolen off to sneak a peak around.

After all, as she had been snidely telling the same group, it was quite boring being here alone attending this function, without any escort! Her husband, Sir so and so was a very important man of course! And being so very vital to his business was currently away on one of his overseas business junkets.

She was wearing one of her usual thin, slinking gowns that said husband enjoyed having her wear.

This particular one was made of shimmery silk, dyed the deep blue of a sunny Bahamas ocean. As she moved, it almost resembled ocean waves as the pretty fabric whipped and swirled along her rather petite figure.

Her jewels, as could be expected, were sapphires. Quite the collection of overly expensive gems which royally sparkled like the same ocean that had inspired the matching colour of her evening gown! The Lady’s baubles, though shining with a royal radiance, were no match for those on display at the Tower of London, but could be considered a close cousin to them!

Which begs a question, should someone be flaunting jewels like that under every one's nose then be also telling tales about her husband being away? Can almost hear the thieves smiling wickedly, as well as feel the insurance agents’ shudder, can’t one?

But, totally believing she was out exploring alone, the pretty lady made her way along the cobblestones that made up the pathways amongst the roses, fountains, and ivy-covered statues that were displayed with an almost reverence aire in the interior of the hidden gardens.

As she wandered about, finding herself increasingly bewitched by the tranquillity of the magic garden terrace she had found, she remained blissfully unaware of the two pairs of eyes that had been, with piercing interest, following her every move since she had made her entrance!

From a hidden vantage point that extended out and above the high hedges that surrounded the garden proper, one set of those eyes was watching! They belonged to a large sassy magpie, perched with expectantly fluttering wings in the gnarled branches of an old wytch elm.

The bird penetratingly observes the young female human, especially eyeing the enticing glitters from her jewels. Most noticeably the pricy bracelet that from one wrist is rippling blazing pinpricks of blue and white fire as she moves about.

Enticingly those sparkles are, erupting from around her wrist as she lifts up a rose up to smell its sweet fragrance. Then again, the show is repeated, as she flicks, one by one rose petals into what had been the still water of a fountain.

Spying a bench, she swishes over, adjusting her gown before slipping upon the coolness of the mossy stone bench. Appearing to become immersed in the surroundings as she closed her eyes and leaned back in delight, her long hair spilling out behind her, exposing her longish, glittering earrings dripping down like identical twin blue waterfalls from her earlobes.

The magpie flies in for a closer look, alighting silently upon the sculpted head of a bow drawing cupid statue. The bird instinctively remains mute lest he is noticed.

He then suddenly cocks his head, as he observes a second figure, a human male, and he flies securely away to an even higher perch, letting out a soft caw at the intruder.

The dreaming beauty opens her eyes and catches movement as she spies the gentleman approaching.

Opening her eyes to their fullest she turns and smiles. He had been one of the groups inside, and had also coincidently, been the one to bring up the story of the secret gardens.

She turns to face him, eyes smiling impishly, for a truth to be admitted, she was not lying about being bit lonely, and a brief rendezvous with a charming mystery man may prove quite a pleasing interlude to spend an hour or so!

He comes up, and with a bow, gestures his permission to join. She nods smiling, granting consent, and he slips down upon the bench, keeping a discreet distance between them. He begins to speak, his deep Welsh accent again charming the London born and bred high society lass.

And as it turned out for them both, the rest of their afternoon encounter had indeed produced a quite pleasing interlude, within the isolated secret garden and its’ magic terraces. The whole area they ended up having all to themselves.

The gardens’ charm grew upon the couple, to the point of a dance being offered and accepted. They danced for a long time, with the melody of twittering jays, long tailed tits, and other gremlins like darting bird denizens of the secret garden being used to keep the dancing humans in rhythm.

After that magical afternoon, they made their way back and parted with a hug before going their separate ways. The warm feelings that had intertwined, intrigued and fulfilled the young female beauty, staying with her for quite some time afterward.

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After the pair of humans leave, all is quiet for a few long, waiting minutes, before the wilder denizens deem it finally safe again to prowl about.

One of them being the inquisitively sassy magpie. He flutters down from his perch and lands upon the outer rim of a fountain by a bench. Curiously he pecks at the rose petals floating about in the fountain’s cool waters. The petals still carry a whiff of fragrance from the lilac perfume of the lady who had thrown the petals there.

Then the Magpie’s darting black eyes keenly pick up something else of interest. With a soft inquisitive caw, he leaves the fountain perch and darts down to the base of moss rose bush for a closer examination of the glittering object that lay amongst the roots.

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The girl wearing the swishy blue gown and magnificent sapphires was now indeed very happy.

The yearning pangs for her absent husband had been sated for now by her most excellent experiences encountered during her unplanned tryst in the gardens earlier. This happy, warm feeling lasted well into the late afternoon while she remained at the reception. Lasting right up until she realized, with a chilling cold dawning, that her quite expensively jewelled bracelet, the one that had been dangling from around her gloved wrist, was now gone, rudely vanishing without even giving any proper notice!

She had, at the time, been chatting with a white collar wearing priest who had approached her and began to inquisitively barrage her with questions. She put it down to him being bored because he was there alone, out of his normal realms, and did not really know anyone there. He had asked her a question concerning the unintentional cross-shaped decoration on her cocktail ring, and it was as she held it up for him to see that she made the dreadful discovery that her wrist was bare.

The bloody thing must have snagged on a rose bush and fallen off while she was out in the gardens!

She reasoned this, as she took polite leave of the overly friendly priest without really explaining her reasons why. Happy to be away from him, she anxiously made her way back to retrace her steps in the now moonlit garden.

None of the same eyes watched this time as she fruitlessly searched, alone in the now disenchanted secret garden for her missing jewels!

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The scene fades away.

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Well hello again!

Quite glad to see you have kept up with us for the continuation of our story.

It had now been 10 years since our group’s successful trial run in Monaco at that year’s Bal de l'Eté.

Since that time our team of three had worked hard at perfecting our craft with its employ of our rather unique team and work strategies. The team, whom you’ve met in the first story, still consisted of:

My wife, the charming Irish beauty and undoubtedly the brains behind the scenes. She is also the natural actress of the operation. Her smiling ways having more than once saved the game from being lost.

Myself, the Welsh born frontman, whose light fingers were used more than for lifting up a frothy pint. Though I am a male of course, and so do make my share of mistakes. But with my wife’s loving tutelage, have managed to hold up my own part of the venture.

Then, of course, there is Sammy, the runner of the group. His unmatched skills allowed us to successfully carry off the sparkling fruits of our operation. Sammy adores my wife, and she is the only one who can ever truly smooth out the ruffled feathers he gets whenever I fail to carry out my end of the played game to his satisfaction.

And the game we played?

Well, let us just say it involved the targeting, lifting and secreting away of certain pricy jewels in such a manner that, like a magician uses misdirection, no one knows for certain how or what exactly had happened to cause the loss! The jewels, always worn, were also always found by us exclusively at the various upper-class end functions we were attending at the time.

And admittedly it had been paying off fairly well!

We were careful to live modestly within our means. So we were able to afford the time to carefully select our potential avenues without undue haste and no worries if not one glittering opportunity failed to come within our grasp on those planned evenings out.

So, for 10 rather intriguing years my wife, cohort Sammy, and I were able to satisfy the playful urges whose enticing callings had led us to select this rather unique path to make a livelihood.

And we always had a good time of it, wine, dance and thrill of the hunt…even if we were successful or not! Many adventures over those years led us delving down avenues that created an abundance of daringly bold tales waiting someday to be intriguingly, innocuously told!

For 10 years we had managed to attend some rather glamourous functions, see my pretty wife attired in some rather eye-catching fancy dresses and adorned with the beckoning glittering array of colourful jewels that ever so divinely kept one’s interest! Also at a rather surprising percentage of these events, we had managed to ( with our cohort Sammy ’s unique assistance) guile'ly steal away with a few pieces of select, insured jewels from wealthy ladies who could certainly afford to weather through their loss.

For 10 years we had operated in this manner, throughout the kingdom’s wide realms, staying safely away from our own nesting grounds, as we sagely built up and grew our nest eggs.

And so far, we had apparently not come under any suspicion from any of the local constabularies in the areas where we had operated! Since the jewels had luckily been assumed lost, fallen away like warm pearls will sweat off a lady on a cool evening ( as the olde Victorian saying goes).

But it was to be the autumn of the 10th year when that charmed existence would finally be really put to the test! Although deep down we knew it would all have to come to an end sooner or later. We had always figured, and hoped, that it would be up to us to say when the games we played would be up.

Now, almost two years past that autumn, I have finally begun to write this second chapter, a yearning to tell the tale that has been with me since day one! In that space of time, I now have had quite a bit of freedom to, with a writer’s eye, reflect on those events that led up to and ended in that tenth and final year of our unique team’s operation.

It’s funny how sometimes one can do everything perfectly, not deriving from the pattern they have done hundreds of times before. But by a thin chance someone else with the seeing eyes of a hawk, a bloody nosey hawk at that, happens to put two and two together, and like a house of cards, ones whole life’s plans can start to slightly sway in the wind, precariously threatening to tumble…

Well, quite enough then with the building up of my story’s mystery and intrigue. Let's start the tale properly then, and let the facts speak for themselves, shall we?

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Chalfont St Guiles

It had been an early thaw that year, and several spring birds had already begun to plan parties to celebrate.

Through contact with a mutual friend of the family, we had been invited to their daughter's Debutante Ball.

The fact that we had to secure an invite left this event to be fair game in our books! For it had been our practice that any affair where my wife and I received a personal invitation to attend, were always off limits in our opinion. So, to those, we went with the intent just to enjoy ourselves, not to conduct business. Although a bit of practicing play between ourselves could be expected.

But this private Ball was not covered by that particular umbrella!

This debutant affair also promised to be a late party.

It was being held on the well-lit green that stretched out for a full 2 hectares, starting from the front of the quite large, definitely ugly, olde stone manor, and ending up to the main roadway.

When we arrived, there was a band was playing soft music on a raised stand next to a refreshments table just outside and below the manor’s stone terrace that was being used as the makeshift dance floor.

It was also announced on the invites that it was to be a dry party.

But, of course, was not! For the odd flask or twenty-two, that had naturally been smuggled in must have been fairly large ‘uns judging by the already rather tipsy posh guests that became more and more abundant as the night wore on.

Though I should talk, for my own silver flask of Brandy held enough to keep my wife and me cheerful enough also. Though I had to watch how much I was imbibing. For this venue was going to by no means be an easy walk in the park for us this evening!

We began by splitting up, starting with mingling in and about in order to get a quick lay of the land.

The young debutante, pretty in diamonds and frilly lace, had led her gangly group of sponger friends to hold court in the back gardens. So, in a sense, there were two parties in full swing.

My wife and I did not bother with the finely baubled fillies in the back gardens, concentrating our efforts on the magnificently jewelled thoroughbreds located in the front area.

My wife was the first to get a drift of some of the gossip swirling around, and soon, via a dance, drew me into it also.

It appears that the Elder Daughter (the debutante was her kid sister) had a boyfriend, a rather pointy nosed ner-do-well git from the other side of the tracks (attended Harrow, not Eaton! dontcha know!)

My wife observed that this bloke obviously was eyeing up all the young skirts present, his wandering attentions totally unnoticed by his pie-eyed, doting wealth-blinded girlfriend.

Said girlfriend had also apparently smuggled a flask of her own, probably stuck in her garter belt, hidden by the long swishy skirt of her costly party frock. Judging this by the way she was prancing about and giggling with silly recklessness with her own posse of leeching acquaintances.

This elder daughter was in her mid-twenties, adorably dressed (by one or two maids?) in a sheer silken gown of deep purple. Diamonds beautifully blazed from her gloved wrist, fingers, and necklaces. Two necklaces: one a diamond pendant swinging about on a silvery braided chain, the second one was a blazing collar style necklace of impressive diamonds, that sat just off the high neckline of her gown.

Either one worth the attempt, but the sparkling collar was obviously her mother’s jewels and thus the more intuitively attractive lure of the two.

As the long afternoon threatened to progress into the dusk, I was to be found nursing my drink from the flask, while watching from afar, my wife swishing her way about.

This evening my lady was wearing a newly bought, sleekly enchanting, gown of meadow green satin, embellished with flickering rhinestones. This posh frock had been slickly flowing and ebbing along her fine figure in a most mesmerizing manner all evening She was also wearing her party emeralds, the “good” set, and they sparkled most attractively as she flitted about! So, I found myself, as always, stealing looks upon her whenever the opportunity arose.

I was mulling over this when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I had been so lost in my lubricious thoughts that I had not even noticed her disappearing, nor heard her approach.

“Mon Cher, forget about me will ya, and get to work !” I heard the words softly spoken in my ear..…”Sammy boy is getting twitchy, close to his bewitchin hour ya know…”

I turned and looked into my wife’s smiling (yet stern) eyes.

“Yes commandantee,” I said, with a saluting nod.

Then I admitted sheepishly, “Not to muddle the issue darling, but, ahem, where is she, I sorta lost track?”

“No kidding my love, I don’t think you were on the track of anything but me, and my jewels are not on this evening’s menu, save play for later, but business now please…!”

I felt a brace of ringed fingers discreetly slap me on the tush, and with a flicker of her emerald earrings, my wife nodded her head sideways to where the elder daughter, along with that rippling fire still flaming from her brace of necklaces, was idling in a dark corner of the dance area. She was surprisingly alone, and I should have been the one to notice that!

So, it was to be her, the elder daughter that we decided, with the time remaining would be our victim!

Sammy was more than ready, watching, waiting as he bobbed his head about, which I knew was his habit while holding his lonely vigil. He was stationed high in the shadows of a tree just above a hedge on the west side of the house. There was a narrow cobblestone path meandered its way along the interior of the hedge, and it was pretty much deserted, all the action is behind, and on the opposite side of the stone-built manor that evening.

With the elder sisters leeching friends now apparently watching the elephant in the room, namely the Harrow-educated boyfriend’s antics with a toffy, giggling female, I was able to walk up and easily steal away the older daughter for a dance.

She took me up on the offer, especially after I lyingly mentioned that I had attended Harrow and I was suddenly “in like flint!” She chatted away amiably, if not also a bit slurred, as I led her off. Thick as thieves we had now become, as we went to the large stone patio that had been converted for use as a low lighted Ballroom.

I took her warm, decidedly inebriated figure, sanguinely into my arms and we elegantly waltzed around the stone-floored patio ballroom to the music. I kept her on the outer fringes, making small talk.

As I did, I studiously worked open the clasp, and easily lifted off the collar necklace of dazzling diamonds from around her throat in the process.

Leaving the pendant still intact, swinging ever so vexingly free along with her gown as we finished, I thought that the pendant appeared to sparkle a bit more brightly now that its competition around the lady’s throat had been removed from contention.

Edging close to the low wall of the patio, I dropped the purloined necklace over from behind my back. I could swear I heard it plop onto the grass. I twirled my pretty partner around, and from over her shoulder, I watched as my wife moved in from the shadows of the trees close by.

The dance ended and I walked the damsel back towards the refreshment table. Before reaching the tables, I touched my dance partner on the shoulder and she turned, smiling, to face me. I again apologized that I could not offer her a drink, and she giggled.

During our dance, I had mentioned how boring it was without a swig of any spirits in sight. She had giggled then also and then had confided in me of her secret stash.

Follow me she now said gaily and I did.

Together we ducked around the refreshment table and headed off to a far corner on the east side of the house. There she lifted the hem of her flowy gown, and from a garter, pulled out her small, thin, 14k plated gold flask and offered me a drink.

I calmly took a careful swig of what I found to be warm vodka and handed it back.

For what thief in his right mind would casually hang around drinking with his victim after lifting the darling’s jewels? Not many I dare say!

But soon, right on a hoped-for queue, we were joined by her jealous boyfriend, himself two sheets to the wind. I was introduced and spotting my opening, tactfully made my excuses.

So sloshed was this young man, that he failed to yet notice anything amiss with his lady, and I was not going to give him any length of time to do so.

I left the sniggering couple to their devices. A sojourn into the woods I believe was on their agenda. The idea quite possibly suggestively guided into their lovely drunken minds by me!

I re-joined my wife, we then daringly did one last casual turn on the ballroom dance floor.

“Mission accomplished, Luv?” I pointlessly asked for I could see the answer in my pretty wife’s eyes.

“The package was dropped off onto the cobblestone path as prearranged!” she stated cheerfully, hugging me in turn.

“Bye the bye love, remember Benny C?” she asked me, as I raised her hand and twirled her around me in a circle.

I had to think for a minute, then came the dawn.

“Yeah, the snotty whelp a couple of years behind me at the seminary, always had a thing for you, didn’t he now!” I teasingly answered.

“Me and anyone else in a skirt!” she snorted. “Well its 'Father Benny' now, and he is, or was here at the ball. I couldn’t get away without dancing with him, sends his regards of course!” she informed me with a rather wry look in her now fully green eyes.

“I'm sure he does, suppose I should track him down and say hello. I said a bit wearily, not bothering to hide the snideness from my own voice!

“Well, he said he tried to find you, but told me that you were obviously enamoured off somewhere with another pretty young thing! I think he was trying to make me jealous laddie!”

“What do ya suppose he meant by ‘again’ I wonder? Told you that he always was a bothering one! Becoming a priest hasn’t changed him one bit. Wonder how his congregation finds the git?” I thoughtfully said out loud.

“Well let us not try tracking him down, to find out luv! I don’t think I could handle more of his sweaty palms again dontcha know!” my wife said sweetly enough, though irony was dripping off each well-chosen word.

So instead we sought out our hostess, giving our regards and congrats. She was magnificently attired in a taffeta ball gown that must have cost her husband a mint. Her jewels were sparse though. A pair of glittering earrings, a pair of thin diamond bracelets and her wedding rings. I found myself wondering why her throat was barren of jewels?

Taking leave, we casually strolled out the front gate to claim our coupe.

My wife leaned against me and said to me as we drove off into the night,

“Cette jeune peste d'un beu sera que les dames tombent, mark mes mots !”

She sighed then said

“Loved her pendant also, but that sparkling necklace will be a nice final trick before starting our Holiday, now will it not my love?”

I smiled meaningfully as I placed my foot on the accelerator and started the beast of a car out onto the main road.

We arrived back home to find an excitedly pert Sammy Boy eagerly waiting to receive his worthy praise. For the glittering collar of diamonds that he had gathered for us were now laid out in magnificent sparkling splendour at his feet.

So it was that two quiet weeks later, on a pelting rainful blustery Saturday, we were to be found flying out of the country on a fortnight’s holiday, for a visit to our dear friend Tatiana.

Totally unaware that there were dark clouds of a quite different storm gathering and brewing in from a new, but not entirely unexpected, quarter!

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Chiltern CID

(Covering the Chalfont St Guiles area under its umbrella of protection)

A fortnight after the Debutante’s coming out ball held in the Chalfont St Guiles area.

Inside the old brown brick building that houses the police station.

Scene entirely played out in the Chief Inspector's office.

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The Chief Inspector looks up as his summoned detective strides, a bit reluctantly, into his superior's office.

The Detective is wearing a slightly abashed expression on his handsomely chiselled face, for he knows that there are questions to be answered, and he wishes that what thin answers he has to give are going to be enough to shield him from probably being properly chewed out by the Chief!

“Drawn and quartered” was the phrase used at the station for some unfortunate Bobby who came under the Chief’s irate wrath for not properly following procedures! Or in the detective's case, tardiness in producing results in an investigation.

The poor sod did not even have time to shut the door when the question, like a stinging bullet, spit out of his superior's mouth!

“Now, what progress on that diamond collar necklace that took a bender at that Lord’s young daughter’s debutante thing last month in Chalfont, Detective Inspector !? Starting to take some heat from the City Super on a seeming lack of any progress! Has the bloody thing even been found yet!”

“N-N-No sir, it appears to have vanished…” the D.I. stammered, wilting under the harsh grey eyes of the Chief Inspector.

“Vanished eh..well tell me this lad how does a £25,000 (insured) necklace of diamonds simply vanish!?“ the Chief shouted, then continued on without waiting for an answer.

“Well Detective Inspector, it decidedly does not! There has to be a quite logical reason, and that reason must be found!! At least according to the Super, and Her Ladyship, the girl’s mother! She insists her daughter's boyfriend played a part in its disappearance… apparently, she also expects results along those lines!”

The Chief paused to catch a breath after decisively snapping all this out at his poor Detective.

The beleaguered detective answered, rushing his words before the Chief was able to yell some more mainly because he knew his answers would be anything but a satisfactory one!

“Yes sir, well the facts are that her Ladyship’s eldest daughter was wearing her mums necklace without permission. But then the lass, her ladyship’s daughter I mean, appears to be a bit vague about any events what went on that evening, even at what time the necklace was actually missed.”

He took a quick breath himself before continuing.

"Apparently 'someone' had smuggled in drinks, and the lot attending in her age bracket was pretty much plastered by the party's’ end.

No one at the party recalls seeing it missing from around her throat and several actually could not say what jewels she had been wearing atoll to begin with! The daughter herself supposedly did not discover it had disappeared until her mother asked about it the next morning!”

The Chief Inspector arches an eye, a habit that was not a good omen, to anyone!

“I know those facts, Detective. I need something new to report to the Super, now don’t I? Didn’t this lass notice it missing as she went to undress for bed, sounds like a bit of tosh if not!?”

The detective answered smartly.

“Well there is some confusion also along those lines: she says she passed out, still dressed for the evening, on the bed in her room. Says that there must have been an Hors de orve which she ate didn’t agree with her. But from what I got, she was fair lit with drink and no one of the servants can recall when she had gone up to bed. Apparently, there was some horseplay going on deep in the woods late that evening if you know my drift, sir!”

“Do go on Detective, this is all so very interesting!” the C.I. said smoothly, not trying to hide the dissatisfaction of his ever disapproving mood.

The D.I. went one, choosing his words like one would carefully choose their steps walking blindfolded amongst a yard full of rotting eggs.

“Well I investigated the boyfriend and he is certainly a gigolo from a toff family of foreigners. Any of whom would probably have no problem lifting the family silver! But there has been no record of any jewels disappearing in his vicinity before this accusation, and he is rather educated, Harrow, (the Chief Inspector snorted rudely at that information,) so not just street, so really nothing definite there in his history, er, to implicate the bloke?

The servants also, most have been with the family for ages, doubtful any of ‘em would have lifted jewels the daughter was wearing while passed out, if indeed she had still been actually wearing it at that point!”

“but…”

Questioned the Detective, rather hopefully, as he ended his statement and saw the fire again flaring up in his Chiefs hard grey eyes.

“But what detective!?” He snarled, sounding ever like a short-tempered feral mutt who someone had the audacity to have chained.

“Well sir, my cousin, the priest, was attending a reception up Carmarthenshire way, at the Aberglasney Manor House earlier this year.”

He paused, cagily watching his superior’s eyes before deeming it safe to continue on.

“Well, he mentioned a lady in attendance there, lost her jewelled bracelet, 22,000 worth! It was reported as being lost in the gardens. That is what she believed happened, that it had simply fallen off in the gardens.

But my cousin, Ben is his name, remembers seeing that she was coming out of the gardens with someone he recognized from seminarian university, a fellow student two years ahead.”

The Chief Detective cut callously in!

“Carmarthenshire is not our jurisdiction lad, ‘AND’ just pray to tell! Why are you discussing a case with your cousin!” The chief exploded, taking a step forward, daring the Detective to satisfactorily explain his reasoning.

The Detective bravely weathered the storm of his chiefs words.

“He is a priest, sir, so he can keep a tongue in check. But he is a bit of a snooper, and when him and his mother, my auntie, were over, he happened to see an envelope I had received from her ladyships jeweller. He asked about what it was all on about. And then, when I stayed mum, my Auntie started inquiring for Ben,and one thing led to another, you see, um, that’s how it went ?”

“Ok, not really interested in yer family tree detective am I! So this bloke fancies himself a Father Brown chap, knows someone? What evidence is that of anything I ask you!? The Chief Inspector snorted in ridicule.

“Well, er, no, not evidence, at least not in and of itself ...”

“Explain yourself quickly Detective, I am running out of both patience and time here!”

“But, so you see.” The detective stammered, visibly afraid that he was not going to be able to sell the Chief on his detecting and make him “see”.

“Make me see, please DI, quickly, I do not ‘ave all night here! And I also may need a new patrolman for the graveyard shift!” The chief said with an evil promise.

The Detective bravely sallied on.

“Well my cousin Ben, as it so happens, was also in attendance at this debutante ball affair. Apparently he is performing deacon duties at His lordship’s, the Girls fathers, parish. And that same man was there, at the ball also.

Saw him with the daughter then, well that...”

But the chief was cut off in correction,

“No sir, he did not see that this boke atoll this time actually, but rather ran into his wife, who told him her husband was somewhere about. But it got me thinking to check back over some of my papers.”

“Papers DI, what papers?”

DI: “well I urm, you see, I had been taking the liberty of checking past occasions in the realm where expensive jewels were reported to have become mysteriously missing to insurance companies. Went back 20 years or so I did.”

“Most of em, the missing jewels that are, were eventually written off by the insurance as simply haven fallen away and somehow being lost, so no information gathered was not bothered with to have been kept on file.. so, no information on guests was collected on that angle.”

“But there have been a few reports over the past years that stated that there was believed to have been shenanigans afoot, and robbery was mildly hinted at, and sharp concerns were filed with local police through the insistence of the insurance companies. Those cases were left open, and still on file at some stations.”

“I was able to collect around 30 files of those unsolved case files that had looked into for signs of robbery going back 20 some years. Well, 18 of those files came with complete guest lists.”

The detective was cut off in his report by the impatient Chief!

“Yes, detective, let us finally cut to the chase, shall we now?!”

“Er yes sir, well you see, on 12 of those lists the some of the same names came up multiple times.”

“So I had been checking those names against the Yards police records, but none had been convicted for thievery, though a few had some minor dalliances against the rules. So, I figured it was all a dead end down that alley. But, after talking with my cousin, I double checked that list and... this blokes name popped up on two of the more recent ones as being a guest. The same bloke that was recognized by twice my cousin at the two other posh functions, from both of which jewels had been reported lost!”

The Detective then triumphantly points to a name on the list.

“Let me see that list constable… right, That’s the name then?”

“Well, a nice bit of detecting here,( this was said with reluctance), But this cousin, I see he was charged with breaking the peace, but that was almost 15 years ago, he and a lady were making noise at a pub, getting the locals stirred up over a price increase on the beer! Hardly a thief's mannerism, eh detective!”

“He’s not my cousin sir, rather a bloke my cousin went to seminary with, and that lady is now this Gents wife”

“But he seems to be the only one connected with these jewel thefts, ours and that one up in Carmarthenshire?

The Detective stammered as the chief inspector shoots him a look!

“Point being detective, where does this all get us to then, are you bringing this chap in for questioning?”

“We will sir, the bloke my cousin saw, that may be a bit of a sticky wicket, bringing him in.”

“Sticky wicket! Haven’t heard that one used in a ripe old age Detective, what make this wicket so sticky concerning this chap?”

“Well sir, he is the fourth son of a sitting parliamentary official, a titled vice-lord no less, and his wife, well, er, her father is a high crown court judge.”

The detective said all this quite sadly, knowing what was coming.

“Good lord Detective inspector! You can bloody well pick em! Do you really think we should stir up a hornets nest like that without solid evidence implicating this bloke!!” The chief inspector blew up at his subordinate incredulously!

The Detective quickly spoke, hoping to quell his Chiefs temper before it continued to grow any worse!

“Well not really, above suspicion, this gent.”

“He is the Earl's 4th son, with no title, no support from the father's house. He appeared to have been studying for the RC seminary, but left before his last year.”

“Since then, for the past 15 years, he and his wife show no real income, he has held no steady jobs outside teaching part-time at university, the criminology department no less.”

He sees his superior arch an eye at that. “I know sir, suspicious that, but apparently one of his ancestors help found the ‘Yard’, so he is teaching a history course based on that subject.”

“He also calls himself an investor, but where is his investment capital coming from?”

“The wife?” asked the Chief Inspector, calming down a bit as his mind began to mull things over.

“No, ‘er parents are still alive and spending it! She receives a small bit as a stipend, but not nearly enough to support their lifestyle of attending parties. Nor is it enough to explain the backing for his investments. Plus, She has also never worked atoll after her university studies!”

“ Money has to come from somewhere I would say, but it is not apparent as to exactly where?”

The Chief Inspector looks over the report carefully.

“Are they living above their means? How much went missing on the other two affaires this bloke was at?”

“The jewels? Two pieces, together valued at around £2.”

“Two Thousand detective?”

“No sir, two hundred thousand.”

Whew, the chief whistled, there is your investment money if it was this gent. So, they are living well above their means.

“Not really. They live on a small cottage on 5 acres, kinda pricey, but not overly extravagant. Bought from a sister of the wife’s father, her Auntie. They don’t throw many parties themselves, but obviously, appear to be able to attend a lot.”

Then he looks up at his chief as if to ask to ask for an opinion.

“But, just saying if, if he is involved, how is the gent getting away with it? The chief's voice had now lowered to a thoughtful grumble.

“Well sir, that lot is known for being, well rather snooty and not believing one of their own would be a thief. And they do like to party, like their drink ya’ know. Not really all that concerned bout their valuables. For to them the value is nothing, not to someone who spends a bloody fortune on their toys and vices. And you know how these rich young things are, they lose a bloody toy, just gives them an excuse to buy a newer, better version.”

“Still detective, a crime is a crime, and if one has been committed in my jurisdiction I’ll be damned to let them get away with it, no matter if the victim doesn't show any worries over it’s loss. Not sure we have enough really to go on here?”

“Either it’s this gent or the gigolo boyfriend, have to be suspected if the necklace was stolen.”

“But then, the necklace could actually have been lost, lord knows what that randy couple could have been up to? If he was pawing her rudely enough, it’s a wonder she wouldn’t have lost all her jewels in that manner!”

“We checked the grounds sir”

“Well, I want them rechecked detective , and then recheck the bloody house, tooth and nail, all of it you see!”

“I will tell the super that we are awaiting further developments on our leads. If nothing turns up, and you are sure about that lover's late-night tryst, then it will have to be written off as being lost somewhere in the woods. And I will not, mark my words detective, be happy about reporting that as an outcome!”

“So, keep an eye out. Keep the shadow on that Harrow-educated foreigner boyfriend!”

“And as for this smarmy professional party guest?”

“All to a bit A.J. Raffles’ish for my liking, just keep out an ear. If he’s our bird, perhaps we can get some salt on his tux tails!”

“Find out also, just what other experience he has acquired that gives him a bloody right to teach criminal history... one never knows what that privileged lot can really get up into and away with!”

“Yes sir, smartly said the detective, relieved at finally being dismissed.

He half salutes and heads gratefully out the door hearing his Chief muttering behind his back.

“A Harrow lad? Really !”

Fini

Part 2

End Acte 1

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Fata Morgana - Efteling (Netherlands) by Perry Tak

Fata Morgana 11/02/2022 12h29

The porch of the prison is the sixth scene in Fata Morgana. A band plays while guards watch a dancer; a confused man is after the boat.

When the boat has sailed just under the Falling Gate and the gates swing open, the visitor enters a dark barracks that is attached to a rock wall. To the left is a high window with flickering light behind it. Straight ahead, the visitor looks straight into the eyes of a confused looking and cross-eyed gunman, who stands some ten meters high on the cliff face and starts yelling directly at the boat and firing at it - it's what uncontrollably and the bullets do splash the water on either side of the boat. Beside him, a lantern rocks in the wind.

On the quay to the right is a veiled belly dancer who entertains the seven watching guards with her dancing skills. A three-piece band provides the accompanying music. One guard gets up and screams when he sees the boat passing by.

The sniper nervously shouts his last Arabic texts, but the boat passes him, turning left into Prison.

Fata Morgana

Fata Morgana, the forbidden city, also known as 1001 Arabian Nights (or "1001 nachten" in Dutch) is a dark ride in amusement park Efteling in the Netherlands. It was designed by Ton van de Ven and Jan Verhoeven and opened in 1986.

Fata Morgana is a dark ride/tow boat ride that was opened in 1986. The attraction is based on the 1001 Arabian Nights. The ride is populated by 140 animatronics. Fata Morgana is set inside a large building with turquoise and gold domes on the roof. A large tower serves as the entrance to the ride. There is a large square outside the ride with palm trees, fountains and flames. The ride's gift shop De Bazaar, and a kiosk, Oase, are located nearby to the ride.

The facade of the ride is a huge domed building painted gold and turquoise. Guests enter through a large tower that serves as the entrance to the ride. They then wait on raised platforms above a round canal with a turntable in the middle. Guests are taken down the stairs and onto the turntable, before boarding 16 passenger boats. There is never more than one boat in each scene, except for the first Jungle scene where one can see the back of a boat turning into the Poor District.

The attraction is considered to be the link between the old fairy-tale style of Anton Pieck and the newer, more intensive rides.

The opening was planned for 1984, but in order to give more time for the designing team it was postponed to 1986. The original name Fata Medina was changed to Fata Morgana to avoid confusion with the Islamic holy city, though it is more likely that it was a reference to the first completed part of the ride, the Medina quarter- the poor district and central marketplace.

The decorative art was bought in the Moroccan city of Marrakech and the animatronics were dressed by Belgian designer Jeanine Lambrechts.

Underwater rotating disks regulate the transport system provided by the Swiss manafucturer Intamin. The whole transport system was developed by Intamin (as a Tow boat ride). Total cost, converted from Guilders: €7 million.

The music for Fata Morgana was composed by composer Ruud Bos, who also wrote the musical themes for Dreamflight,Vogelrok and Villa Volta.

Naturally he chose a Harem style as the base theme for the music. More specifically, the beginning of the ride is linked by orchestral music to the dreamy, mideastern music with flutes and violins of the market, the first setting of the attraction. The music gets darker when the ride passes the prison part. A slow melody sets in upon entering the harbor but is extended with instruments like violins, gongs and a percussion. The musical climax comes when the ride ends in the final scene of the throneroom.

FACTS & FIGURES

Year of opening: 1986

Manufacturer: Intamin

Designer: Ton van de Ven, Jan Verhoeven

Model: Tow boat ride (14 boats)

Animatronics: 137 in total

Speed: 2 km/h

Capacity: 1800 riders per hour

Duration: 8 minutes

Length: 285 meters

[ Source and more Information: Wikipedia - Fata Morgana (Efteling) ]

Made 66 years ago. KOM Flash Report for week of March 27, 2016 by John Hall

1 1

If the report does not appear here and you wish to see it contact John Hall j03.john@gmail.com

The KOM League

Flash Report

for

Week of

March 22 thru April 2, 2016

Shared due to a doctor’s advice:

A few hours prior to this report being released I had about decided to ditch it and not “crucify” the readership with a verbose tome at this Easter season. However, I had a doctor’s appointment in the early morning hours and he told his nurse that I wrote interesting and historical reports. Furthermore, he suggested that I somehow mention my visit with him in the upcoming release. At that point I told the very good doctor that about all I had to share were some stories about guys who “never-weres (bad grammar) rather than has-beens. I gave him a glimpse of what I had uncovered this week as he glanced out his office door, probably to make sure no one was eavesdropping. This report should probably have stayed in the waste can but I never go against doctor’s orders. So, this report is coming to you because Dr. John DeSpain of Columbia, MO prescribed it. How about that Doc?

_____________________________________________________________________________

Back to the 1947 Ponca City Dodgers

In a recent Flash Report the obituary of Kendell Wherry was shared with a few comments. He was with Ponca City until the 26th of May of 1947 when manager Boyd Bartley and a couple of Brooklyn Dodgers scouts; Bert Wells and Andy High, along with Pepper Martin, determined Wherry was “not a prospect.” However, he was around a lot longer than many guys who showed up with Ponca City in the early days of that city’s first KOM franchise.

There isn’t any way that I have found all the guys who showed up at Ponca City in 1947 only to be eventually shown the “road back home.” Upon seeing those names I knew they represented young men with dreams of a baseball career and for reasons ranging from a lack of talent to not liking the contract offer made to them, they were on their way to the rest of their lives.

I trust a couple of the recipients of this report will read some of it. If you read only one or two of the excerpts on the twelve guys who didn’t make the team I’d suggest you spend the time regarding Herbert Wimberley and Ray Krasovic.

Here is a list of some of those fellows and where they called home.

John Moncravie—Ponca City, Oklahoma Born Arkansas City, KS

Peter Bugni—New Gretna, New Jersey

Gerald Kunkle—Rochester, NY Born Franklin, Pennsylvania

Norman Pietras—Trenton, New Jersey

Ray Merritt—Johnson City, New York

Garnet Ferryman—Moline, Illinois

Herbert Wimberley—Ft. Worth, Texas

Raymond Peter Krasovic—Pueblo, Colorado

John Prozar—Nanticoke, Pennsylvania

William Schneider—New York City

Jim Hayman—Kaw City, Oklahoma

Ken Deakings—Kaw City, Oklahoma

With the foregoing twelve names I assumed I could find enough material on those guys to write a story about those who didn’t make the Ponca City team. As usual, I found traces of most of those guys and wasn’t disappointed by the stories found. Some, however, were tragic.

Each of the dozen guys who didn’t make the 1947 Ponca City club is recognized in the order they were previously listed.

The Introduction

A few weeks ago I did an article on William Amason who was the first person to sign a contract to play for Carthage and it was also the first contract signed by any KOM leaguer. Since Moncravie at least gave it a shot I decided I’d attempt to find out some more about him.

The Ponca City News reported on April 20, 1947 that John Moncravie would be the first hometown boy to try out for the Ponca City Dodgers. He was listed as a 22-year-old right-handed pitcher and was scheduled for close scrutiny by manager Boyd Bartley and scouts Bert Wells and Andy High. The article said Moncravie was developed on Kid league diamonds there and he had recently completed an army tour of duty which took him to Italy with the air forces. Moncravie was born March 3, 1925 in Arkansas City, KS and died October 12, 1990 in Volusia County, Florida. He attained the rank of Tech. Sgt. In the Army Air Corps. He was buried in Broken Arrow, OK. Check it out here: www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=25051965

As it turned out Moncravie didn’t make the team but two local boys did play for Ponca City that year, namely, Clark Taylor and Walt Harris. Harris gained fame as an outstanding artist of Indian images.

***John Barada Moncravie—quoted from a family historical record

John Barada Moncravie's father was a half-blood of another tribe of Indians; however, we, at this time, are not sure which--it could be either Blackfoot or Assiniboine Indian. He would be 1/4 Indian in addition to 3/16 Osage Indian, 1/8 Omaha Indian, and French.

Anna (Fronkier) Moncravie was baptized at St. Francis de Hieronymo Church at what is now St. Paul, Kansas, formerly Osage Mission. She was buried at City Cemetery, Pawhuska, Oklahoma.

The following is from Kansas, by Blackmar, Vol. III, Pt. 2, pp. 1364-1365.

John B. Moncravie of Arkansas City, a successful retired farmer of that city, is, as his name indicates, of French descent and is of the second generation of that family native born to American soil. Mr. Moncravie was born in Richardson County, Nebraska, January 1, 1868, a son of Alexander B. and Elizabeth (Loise) Moncravie. John B. Moncravie, the grandfather of the subject, was a native of France who settled in Montana, where he engaged in stock raising. There, Indian depredations and outrages were so severe, however, that he and his family were compelled to seek a residence elsewhere. The Indians burned his home, drove off his cattle and ruined him financially. The family then removed to Iowa, but subsequently became residents of Nebraska, in which state marauding bands of Sioux Indians made the life of the early pioneer a very hard one, as not only was his property destroyed, but his life and that of his family were in constant danger. John B. Moncravie, the grandfather, engaged in farming and stock raising in Nebraska and died there. His son, Alexander B., the father of the subject, was married in that state to Miss Elizabeth Loise, a daughter of Edward Paul Loise, a native of Nebraska, and she was employed in that state as manager for the American Fur Company. He died in St. Louis. Alexander B. Moncravie was a farmer and stock raiser by occupation. He was a loyal defender of the Union during the Civil War and died in 1875 from the effects of wounds received while in the service. He was a staunch Republican and took an active interest in the success of his Party.

John B. Moncravie, of this review, was but eight years old when his father died. He received his education in the schools of Omaha, Nebraska, except two years' study in the schools at Dakota City, Nebraska. He began farming for his mother, which whom he re3mained until 1889, in which year he moved to the Osage Reservation in Oklahoma. From there he removed to Arkansas City, Kansas, in 1905, in order to secure better educational facilities for his children. He now owns 4,600 acres of valuable farm land in Oklahoma which he rents out for cash rent. He has been an extensive cattle and stock raiser and is a lover of the fine horses, of which he owns a number. By a number of years of energetic business management and well-directed efforts, he has provided a competence which has enabled him to retire from active business cares early in life and gives him leisure to enjoy the outdoor sports of fishing and hunting, of which he is very fond.

Mr. Moncravie has been twice married. His first wife, to whom he was married in 1892, was a Miss Anna Fronkier from Osage, Oklahoma. She died in 1893; and in 1896, Mr. Moncravie wedded Miss Florence Slade, a daughter of Joseph Slade, a native of France. To this union, seven children have been born: Sylvester A., who is attending the Arkansas City high School; John N., Alexander C., Barada J., Vivian L., and Anna A., all students in the grades at Arkansas City; and Harry E., not yet of school age. Fraternally, Mr. Moncravie is a member of the Benevolent and Protective order of Elks, the Modern Woodmen of America, the Improved Order of Red Men, and the Fraternal Order of Eagles, and has served as a trustee of the last named order. In politics, he is a Republican and is an active worker in his party's behalf. He and his family are devout communicants of the Roman Catholic Church and are numbered among the most respected families of Arkansas City.

(Note by Virginia M. Moncravie: Alexander B. Moncravie died 1876; Sylvester A. was son of first marriage (Anna Fronkier); correct way of writing name "Moncravie." Last name of second wife spelled "Lade." I have coped as appeared in book with misspellings, etc.)

***Peter Bugni

This gentleman is 89-years-old and living in New Gretna, New Jersey where he was born. He lived for a number of years in Florida.

***Norman Pietras

This fellow was a Dodger hopeful from Trenton, New Jersey. You will notice in this list that many of the fellows the Brooklyn Dodgers assigned to Ponca City were from the east coast.

***Gerald Charles Kunkle

On October 3, 1923 this fellow was born in Franklin, PA. He moved to Rochester, NY and was living there when he enlisted in the U. S. Army on January 8, 1943. After the war he was signed by the Dodgers, still making Rochester his home. He lived there until January 23, 1989 when he passed away

***Ray Merritt

All of the vital statistics on this gentleman, along with his photo, can be found at this link:

www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=916204...

***Garnet C. “Mike” Ferryman

My research shows he was born in Moline, Ill. and if you follow the next URL you can see the tale of his interesting and tough childhood which indeed started in Moline.

www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=973730...

***Herbert Livingston Wimberley Jr.

Around the 15th of April, 1947 a young man was sent from Texas, by the Dodgers to Ponca City. Here is the quote from the Ponca City News. “Herbert Wimberly (sp), 20-year-old lad optioned her from Abilene, Texas of West Texas-New Mexico circuit. Arriving in Ponca City with a strained shoulder, Wimberly (sp) was set on the disabled roster—an inactive status not affecting team limits.”

That terse verse is all I knew about Wimberley until reading the following, which is a death certificate showing him dying at the age of 25 years, 11 months and 29 days.

interactive.ancestry.com/2272/40394_b062426-03363?pid=234...

Fort those without Ancestry.com you won’t be able to access the aforementioned URL Thus, I am summarizing the death certificate as follows:

So, six years after trying out for the Ponca City Dodgers, Wimberley was a salesman for the Carnation Milk Company. On the evening of June 12, 1953 he walked into a night club at 603 W. Mag. (abbreviations for streets in that city were checked and I believe it could have Magdalen Ave.) in Ft. Worth, Texas. He was shot in the chest and taken to City/County Hospital where he died near midnight on June 13. The death certificate stated his death was a homicide. He was buried June 15, 1953 at Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Ft. Worth. He was born June 16, 1927 in Ft. Worth. He was buried two days prior to his 26th birthday.

Here is Wimberley’s Find-A-Grave site which you can access without Ancestry.com

www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=111723...

In looking into the matter of Herbert Wimberley I found a reference to what has to have been him in the July 4, 1953 edition of Billboard Magazine. It stated his death in this precise manner. “Herbert Livingston Wimberly (sp) Concessionaire on Diano Bros.’ Circus, June 13 in Ft. Worth of injuries suffered in auto accident. Survived by his parents. Burial in Ft. Worth Cemetery.”

What would be the chances of two Herbert Livingston Wimberley’s dying on the same day, at the same age, in the same town and only being survived by their parents? I think this matter should be turned over to the “cold case” squad to find out who murdered Wimberley. I’m going to take the word of a death certificate over a Billboard Magazine obituary, any day. The Billboard obituary is located at:

www.americanradiohistory.com/Archive-Billboard/50s/1953/B...

If you wish to take a gander at it be prepared for the PDF issue of that publication to download which will take a few minutes. The obituary is toward the bottom of page 63 in the right hand corner.

***Raymond Peter Krasovic

This native of Pueblo, Colorado was born on the 29th day of June in 1926 and had high hopes of being the starting first baseman for the 1947 Ponca City club. When that didn’t work out the Dodgers sent him home promising him another shot at the job in 1948. The trail on Krasovic isn’t difficult to follow. He stayed in Pueblo and was for many years a licensed contractor specializing in brick masonry construction. He is now 90 years of age and a couple of years ago was interviewed about a smelter controversy in Pueblo. Click here if you are interested:

www.koaa.com/story/27611177/new-superfund-site-in-pueblo-...

In attempting to find more on the life of Raymond Peter. Krasovic I found the following URL

krcc.org/post/pueblos-old-bojon-town-celebrates-heritage-... One of the quotes from that article stated. “ Joe Kocman grew up in Old Bojon Town. He says everyone had nicknames: “My dad’s nickname was Moon…My Uncle Albert was Jonesy and Ray Krasovic was Killer and he won’t tell why it’s Killer but that’s been his nickname ever since he can remember…My brother’s nickname was Pudgy.”

Stop the presses.

What has just been stated, about Krasovic, could have been uncovered by anyone with a computer and some old Ponca City newspapers. The foregoing is all I knew about the fellow until mid-morning of March 23, 2016. . After reading two Internet references to him I said to myself “Self, why don’t you call him?” I had every reason not to, like, he might not be the same guy, if he is he might not wish to speak with me and if he happened to want to talk he might not be able to hear me all that well.

Well, to make a long story even more so, I called Krasovic. There was an initial problem in getting through to him since he had a block on the telephone that screens out all robo calls and those from solicitors. I finally got a voice on the other end and explained who I was and the fun began.

Krasovic was the same guy Ponca City cut loose after spring training in 1947. However, they kept their promise and he attended their spring training camp at Santa Barbara, California in 1948. During that camp he attempted to catch a ball with his bare hand and it in the process he lost two fingernails. That was enough to sideline him for a while and during his recuperation period he had time to think things over. He said that by that time he was nearly 22 years old and that even if he stayed in the Dodger organization for a dozen years he’d come out without a job. So, he decided to return home and get an education. When he arrived back in Pueblo he said he got a call from a “Mel Ott” in Oklahoma to play for his Sooner State league club. I interjected that I didn’t wish to correct him but I would imagine the guy’s name was Otto Utt from Duncan, Oklahoma. He paused a couple of seconds said that was the right name. Utt told Krasovic that he wanted him to join his team and would meet him Wichita Falls, Texas. That meant Utt would drive from Duncan, OK and Kravosic would drive from Pueblo. Kravosic agreed to meet Utt but after thinking about it for a while he decided he didn’t care to drive nearly 600 miles for the meeting whereas Utt’s trip was only about a tenth as far. When Kravosic didn’t appear for the meeting Utt was very unhappy.

Utt knew about Kravosic through Frank Golob who pitched for him in the Sooner State league starting in 1947. Golob was a fixture with Duncan and then Shawnee when Utt moved the franchise there. Golob and Krasovic were friends from growing up together in Pueblo.

Having read the URLs about Krasovic, prior to calling him, I had some questions. One reference stated that his nickname was “Killer.” I asked how that came about and all he could come up with was that he always hit line drives. At that point he stopped me and asked how I knew about that nickname. I told him I always did my research before contacting anyone. He was the one who raised the name of Golob and remarked that everyone in his neighborhood had a nickname and Golob’s was “Freena” That bit of trivia is probably only interesting to baseball researchers.

Due to the short length of time Krasovic was in Ponca City he said the only name he remembered was his manager, Martinez. Again, I told him that I didn’t want to correct him, however, I did. I told him Owen Martinez was the business manager and Boyd Bartley was the field manager. Back in that era the business manager was usually the bearer of bad tidings. In Krasovic’s case it was the news he was being sent home

Krasovic never graduated from high school having to go to work in the steel mill in his junior year due to his father’s health. He attended Central High School, in Pueblo, through his junior year and was a member of the baseball team that played in the state championships in Denver in 1943. The place was crawling with big league scouts looking for talent due to the shortage caused by the war. He recalled that a St. Louis Cardinal scout approached him regarding signing a contract and he told the scout that he would be in the service in a very short time and to forget it.

Within a short time Krasovic was fighting in the Pacific. At the conclusion of the war he was stationed in Guam and played service ball for a year and a half. He said that when he played in that era his nickname was “Radar” for he could catch anything hit in his direction. Following his tryouts in 1947 and 1948, and his rebuffing the offer made by Otto Utt, he played a lot of semi-pro baseball in the Pueblo area until softball became the “sport of choice” and he performed on the softball scene for a number of years.

For the “fact checkers” out there I want to provide this information. Raymond Peter Krasovic and Raymond Louis. Krasovich weren’t the same guy even though both were property of the Brooklyn Dodgers at about the same time. Krasovich pitched in the Wisconsin State league in 1950 and was a big lefty standing over 6’ and 200 pounds. Krasovic told me he was 5’ 11 ¾ inches tall and weighed 160 pounds when he tried out with the Dodgers. He said he went to the doctor recently and the nurse said “You are 5’8”. He said I told her that had to be wrong and she advised me I had shrunk. He retorted, “Mr. Hall I have lost 3 ¾ inches.” But, one thing he hasn’t lost is his ability to remember, speak well and hear much better than Yours truly.”

I did mention his work history, as a contractor, that I had found, on-line, and he replied “That’s right, I laid bricks for 50 years.” As I came to the benediction of our conversation I told him that I had really appreciated his time. He retorted with “I’ve enjoyed this more than you will ever know.” He reinforced what I have long known; a guy didn’t have to play in a professional baseball game to be a part of its history. Krasovic would have played, at least a while, for Ponca City, in 1947, had Bill Boudreau not been on the squad and by being there he made others compete for their positions making the team that much better.

Oh no, another twist to this story

After speaking with Ray Krasovic I wondered where Ray Krasovich, the former Wisconsin State league hurler, may have called home. A quick check showed that he too was born in Pueblo, Colorado on March 8, 1929. One thing from my previous day’s conversation with Ray Krasovic came back to mind. He said that over the years the spelling and pronunciation of the family name had changed. At that point I knew that the other guy with an “h” at the end of his name had to be a relative.

After reading some things about Ray Krasovich I found that he had been an Air Force pilot and had attained the rank of Lt. Col. He had survived the war and lived until 2004 when he passed away in Arvada, Colo. and was buried at Ft. Logan Military Cemetery in Denver.

www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=144547...

With that bit of information I called Ray Krasovic once more to ensure myself they were kin.

When I called Ray Krasovic I learned that all his kin, who moved to the United States from Europe, worked at a steel mill in Pueblo that was owned by John D. Rockefeller. The family was Slovenian and different segments of the family selected their own way of anglicizing their last names. Raymond Peter Krasovic was a second cousin, on his mother’s side, to Raymond Louis Krasovich. They were separated by three years in age and thus were never real close. However, Ray Krasovic recalls his cousin bailing out of his Air Force jet and landing in a tree and didn’t receive a single scratch. This citation of Air Force accidents includes that of Ray Krasovich

www.i-f-s.nl/accidents-incidents-1959/

Upon nearly completing this article I stumbled, in every sense of the word, over this link:

www.chiefads.com/metro/retired-air-force-pilot-dies-at/ar... With the space already taken up by this article I’m a little reluctant to print the whole text but it is too good to ignore. Here it is:

Retired Air Force Lt. Col. Raymond L. Krasovich fell in love with flying as a young boy and often would ride his bicycle to the Pueblo Airport to watch airplanes take off and land. He died last Friday at his Arvada home after a long battle with cancer. He was 75.

Krasovich, a 1947 graduate of Central High School, spent 23 years flying Air Force fighter planes and, later, commercial airliners. Over the years, his friends in Pueblo kept track of his flying career through periodic newspaper stories about Krasovich's close calls as a military pilot.

Perhaps the most amazing incident was in January 1960, when Krasovich was taking off from an air base in Spain in an F-104 Starfighter.

As the jet climbed to about 700 feet, the engine suddenly flamed out. Krasovich had to eject, but his parachute failed to open and simply \"streamed\" behind him. The pilot tumbled through the sky until he was caught in an olive tree, where he sustained only minor bruises and scratches.

"My Dad was always a martini fan after that," joked his son, Steve Krasovich of Denver.

Krasovich went on to fly more than 100 combat missions over North Vietnam and received numerous military decorations including the Distinguished Flying Cross and Bronze Star. He retired from the Air Force in 1974 and became a pilot for Aspen Airways. He flew commercial airliners for 12 years.

Krasovich is survived by his widow, Dottie, and five children.

A memorial service will be at 11 a.m. Wednesday at Saint Joan of Arc Catholic Church, 12735 W. 58th Ave. in Arvada. Burial with military honors will follow at Fort Logan National Cemetery.

I have to stop this now. It could soon become a non-bestselling book.

***John Prozar

Early Ponca City newspaper accounts showed Prozar being a catcher from Nanticoke, PA.

He had played in less than two dozen games the previous season with Niagara Falls, NY in the Middle Atlantic league. Upon arriving in Ponca City he didn’t have a contract and one was never forthcoming that was to his liking. He was reported to have returned home. He is another guy most likely with a truncated last name and there are no further clues regarding him that I could find in my research.

***William Schneider

He was shown as a pitcher from New York City. Nothing more is known about him.

***James Fletcher Hayman

Birth: 13 Feb 1925 Shidler, Oklahoma

Death: Dec 1987 - Newcastle, Weston, Wyoming, USA

Parents: William Fletcher Hayman, Cora Ellen Roberts

***Kenneth Deakins

When Deakins was not signed to a Dodger contract, the business manager, Owen Martinez state he wasn’t a prospect.

www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=839355...

______________________________________________________________________________

Well, I’m done.

If anyone reading this report recognizes more than two or three names I’d be in shock. If this report has bored you and you find all my “hard work” irrelevant, let me know. I do have a pretty good story I could send you in return about the late Joe Garagiola and Yours truly. He and I had similar jobs in Southwest Missouri . He was at Springfield in 1941 and I came along doing the same thing at Carthage in 1951. My story deals with Mickey Owen, Joe Garagiola, Oscar “Pappy” Walterman, a catcher’s mitt and Corky Simpson. If someone requests hearing that story for the first or 100th time I could place it in the next Flash Report. If I don’t hear from a few of you there won’t be a “next” one. Bye!!!

Note: This report was placed on Flickr and it may or may not remain there. Flickr has been doing a lot of flickering lately.

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