The details “grisly”, the people “lunatic”, the results, “magnetic”.

It Happened in Boston?

 

© 1968 Russell H. Greenan

 

Random House USA/Canada 1968

 

The opening of  It Happened in Boston?

 

Lately I have come to believe that the pigeons are spying on me. What other  explanation can there be?

                 The Public Garden across the way attracts them, which is natural enough since there are trees there and grass and water in the lagoon and, of course, a few fools who insist on scattering birdseed about. But it is hardly natural for them to flock to my window ledge early each morning and to remain there all day long. And it is certainly unnatural for them to peer into the room and scrutinize my newspaper clippings, my books and my private actions.

                 Yesterday, as I sat in the Garden, I examined this apartment house. There are forty-six windows facing Beacon Street but only one—mine—was graced with those evil-looking birds. Forty-five without, one with. Significant.

                 To be sure, I chase them, but they soon return. What draws them there? Why my window?

                 This morning I put some poisoned bread outside the dining-room window. If nothing else, it should lure them away from my ledge, and if the stuff exhibits its customary efficacy, some will perish. I can’t hope to destroy every pigeon in the city, of course, but if I’m lucky enough to get some of the ringleaders, it might serve to discourage the rank and file.

                

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