The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Read online

  “After a lifetime of sharing a dinner plate with Koko,” he replied, “Yum Yum suddenly demands separate dishes. I don't know what's going on in that little head.”

  Mildred said, “She's had her catsciousness raised.”

  Qwilleran groaned, Polly shuddered, and Arch said, “There are good puns and bad puns, and that's the worst I've ever heard. . . . Conductor! Throw this lady off the train!”

  Then he asked Polly about her house.

  “They're supposed to pour the concrete this week. Once the trenches are dug for the footings, they don't lose any time because a rainstorm could cause an earthslide. It's all so exciting! I've always lived in small, rented units, but now I'll have a guestroom and family room and two-car garage.”

  “Who's your builder?”

  “The name on the contract is Edward P. Trevelyan. He's a big shaggy fellow with a full beard and a mop of black hair, and his grammar is atrocious! Incidentally, his father owns this train.”

  Finally No. 9 whistled at the grade crossings of Sawdust City, and the historic ride ended with a great hissing of steam. The valets in red jumpsuits ran for the parked cars, and the passengers drove back to Pickax, Mooseville, West Middle Hummock, and Purple Point. Qwilleran drove Polly home to Goodwinter Boulevard, now cluttered with paving equipment, piles of lumber, and other signs of campus renovation.

  Polly said, “This has been a delightful afternoon, dear.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it. You look particularly attractive today.”

  “Thank you. I'm feeling more relaxed now that work on the house has actually started. It bothers me, though, that I can't understand the architect's plans with their abbreviations and arcane symbols. I'd appreciate it if you'd come up and look at the blueprints.”

  * * *

  When Qwilleran finally left Polly's apartment, it was eleven p.m. and time for the nightly news. He tuned in the car radio in time to hear the WPKX announcer say, “. . . paid $500 a ticket to ride behind the historic No. 9 steam locomotive on the SC&L Line, netting the Moose County Community College more than $16,000 for scholarships. Popular-priced excursions on the new Party Train will be announced, according to spokesperson Dwight Somers. . . . In local baseball, Lockmaster walloped Pickax nine to four, with the Safecrackers hitting two homers, one with bases loaded. . . . Next, the weather, after this late bulletin from Sawdust City: A surprise move by the state banking commission has padlocked the Lumbertown Credit Union, pending a state audit. No further details are available at this time.”

  FOUR

  The morning after the train ride and the afterglow at Polly's apartment, nothing disturbed Qwilleran's deep sleep until the telephone rang at nine o'clock. He had slept through the yowling demands coming from the top balcony; he had slept through the rumble of the cement-mixing truck down the lane. He thought it was predawn when he said his sleepy hello into the bedside phone.

  “What's the matter? Aren't you up yet?” Arch Riker shouted at him. “All hell's breaking loose! Didn't you hear the news from Sawdust City?”

  “Only on the radio last night,” Qwilleran replied with a lack of energy or interest. “Any more news?”

  “Only that Floyd Trevelyan can't be reached for clarification. It sounds like a bust! It must be a major case to warrant surprise action like this—on a Sunday, for Pete's sake!”

  Always grouchy before his first cup of coffee, Qwilleran replied with irritable sarcasm, “I can imagine a SWAT team of bookkeepers in business suits and knit ties, armed with portable computers, parachuting down on the Lumbertown office and kicking in the doors.”

  “You're not taking this seriously,” the publisher rebuked him. “Consider the timing! It happened while the evening excursion was in progress. The Capitol gang evidently knew the schedule of the Party Train.”

  “Thanks to Dwight Somers's hype, everyone in three states knew the schedule.”

  “Anyway, we'll soon find out what it's all about. Junior is contacting the state banking commission, and Roger's on his way to Sawdust City, via Trevelyan's home in West Middle Hummock. We'll have a story for the front page, and if my hunches are right, it'll bump the Party Train to page three. . . . Talk to you later.”

  Now that Qwilleran was awake, more or less, he pressed the Start button on the coffeemaker and shuffled up the ramp to release the Siamese from their loft. As soon as he opened their door, they shot out of the room like feline cannonballs and streaked down to the kitchen. Qwilleran followed obediently.

  “Yow-ow-ow!” Koko howled upon arriving at the feeding station and finding the plate empty.

  “N-n-now!” echoed Yum Yum.

  As Qwilleran opened a can of red salmon, crushed the bones with a fork, removed the black skin, and arranged it on two plates, he thought, Cats don't fight for their rights; they take them for granted. They have a right to be fed, watered, stroked on demand, and supplied with a lap and a clean commode . . . and if they don't get their rights, they quietly commit certain acts of civil disobedience. . . . Tyrants!

  The two gobbling heads were so intent on their salmon that even the loud bell of the kitchen phone failed to disturb them.

  This time the call was from Polly. “Qwill, did you hear about the state audit in Sawdust City? What do you think of the timing?”

  “It looks fishy,” he said, having gulped his first cup of coffee and geared up his usual cynicism. “Any crank can call the hotline to the state auditor's office and blow the whistle on a state-regulated institution. One of the universities was investigated for misuse of funds, you remember, and it was a false alarm—the work of an anonymous tipster. In Trevelyan's case, the tip could be a spiteful hoax perpetrated by a customer who was refused a loan.”

  “That's terrible!” she said.

  “In a way,” he said, “it's better to embarrass the management than to barge into the office with a semiautomatic and wipe out innocent depositors.”

  “Oh, Qwill! Things like that don't happen up here.”

  “Times are changing,” he said ominously.

  There was a pause on the line before she said softly, “I slept beautifully last night. It was a wonderfully relaxing day and evening—just what I needed. I've been worrying too much about my house.”

  “No need to worry, Polly. I'll keep an eye on the action at the end of the trail—when I go down to the mailbox—and I'll keep you informed.”

  “Thank you, dear. À bientôt!”

  “À bientôt.”

  Qwilleran poured another mug of the blockbuster brew he called coffee and sat down at the telephone desk to call a number in Indian Village. “Dwight, this is Qwill,” he said soberly.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!” the publicity man wailed. “What the hell's going on? I didn't hear the news until this morning, on the air. I called Floyd's number in West Middle Hummock, but he wasn't home.”

  “Who answered?”

  “His wife. She sounded as if she didn't know anything had happened, and I didn't want to be the messenger bringing bad news.”

  “I didn't meet his wife when I was there.”

  “She usually stays in her room, confined to a wheelchair. I don't know exactly what her problem is, but it's one of those new diseases with a multisyllabic name and no known cure. What a shame! All that money, and she can't enjoy it.”

  “Hmmm,” Qwilleran murmured with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. “So what happened? Could she tell you where he was or when he'd be back?”

  “Well, she's quite frail and speaks in a weak voice that's hard to understand, but I gathered that he came home last night and went out again. Just between you and me, I think it's not unusual for him to stay out all night. Anyway, the nurse took the phone away from Mrs. T and told me not to upset her patient. So I asked to speak to the daughter, but she wasn't home either. The way it works: A nurse comes every morning, a companion every afternoon, and the daughter stays with her mother overnight.”

  “Sad situation,” Qwilleran said. “Do you know anything about
matters in Sawdust City?”

  “No more than you do. You know, Qwill, I worked my tail off, getting that show on the road yesterday—”

  “And you did a brilliant job, Dwight. Everything was perfectly coordinated.”

  “And then this bomb dropped! Talk about suspicious timing! It couldn't be purely coincidental.”

  “Is Floyd mixed up in politics?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Has he made any enemies in the state bureaucracy? Did he support the wrong candidate for the legislature?”

  “Not that I know of. Maybe he distributed a little judicious graft here and there; he had no trouble getting a liquor license for the train, you know. But no. He's bored with politics. If it doesn't have steel wheels and run on steel tracks, he's not interested.”

  Qwilleran said, “I'm sorry about this for your sake, Dwight. Let's hope it's a false alarm.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . . it was a kick in the head for me, after I'd tried so hard to create a favorable image for Floyd and Lumbertown and Sawdust City.”

  “One question: Was Floyd a passenger on the six o'clock train?”

  “No, he had to go home and take care of his wife—he said! I went on both runs, and I've had enough accordion music to last my lifetime!”

  “Arch has the staff digging for facts, so it'll be in the first edition if anything develops. If you hear any rumors, feel free to bounce them off a sympathetic ear. And good luck, whatever the outcome, Dwight.”

  “Thanks for calling, Qwill. How about lunch later in the week when I've finished licking my wounds?”

  * * *

  When the Moose County Something appeared, the front page was not what Qwilleran had been led to expect. The Party Train had the banner headline:

  JOY IN MUDVILLE OLD NO. 9 ROLLS AGAIN!

  The Lumbertown crisis was played down with only a stickful of type in a lower corner of the page: Sawdust C.U. Closed for Audit. Either there was no alarming development, or the editor had chosen not to throw the depositors into panic. That was small-town newspaper policy. Riker, with his background on large metropolitan dailies, preferred the eye-grabbing, heart-stopping, hair-raising headline; Junior Goodwinter, born and bred 400 miles north of everywhere, had other ideas, rooted in local custom. He always said, “Don't try to make bad news worse.”

  Qwilleran was pondering this viewpoint over a ham sandwich at Lois's Luncheonette when Roger MacGillivray blustered into the restaurant and flung himself into the booth where Qwilleran was reading the paper.

  “I suppose you're wondering why we didn't play it up,” the young reporter said.

  “You're right. I did . . . Why?”

  “Because there was nothing to report! Junior was stonewalled when he called the commission, and no one in Mudville would talk to me. Two state vehicles were parked behind the Lumbertown building, and there was a notice plastered on the front door with some legal gobbledy-gook, but the doors were locked front and back, and the dirty dogs completely ignored my knocking. Also they refused to answer when I called from a phone booth. Before I left, I got a shot of the building exterior with some old geezers standing on the sidewalk in a huddle. I also got a close-up of the official notice on the door, and another one of the license plate on a state car. . . . How's that for brilliant photojournalism?” he finished with a bitter laugh.

  “They didn't use any photos,” Qwilleran said, tapping his newspaper.

  “I know, but you have to hand in something, just so they know you've been there.”

  “Could you see through the window?”

  “I could see auditors at work stations, that's all. But then I talked to the old geezers and got some man-on-the-street stuff, which I phoned in, and which they didn't print.”

  “Maybe later,” Qwilleran said encouragingly. “What did the old geezers say?”

  “Well! It was an eye-opener, I thought. First of all, they like Floyd. He's the local boy who was captain of the high school football team, started to work as a carpenter, and made millions! They like the interest he pays. They like the electric trains in the lobby. They think this underhanded action on the part of vipers in the state capitol is unfair and probably in violation of the Constitution. They don't trust government agencies.”

  “Did you try to reach Floyd's secretary?”

  “Yeah, but no luck. When I asked the old geezers about her, they sniggered like schoolkids. Anyway, they told me she lives in Indian Village, so I phoned out there. No answer. I went to Floyd's house. He wasn't there, and no one would talk or even open the door more than an inch. It's been a frustrating day so far, Qwill. On days like this I'd like to be back in the school system, teaching history to kids who couldn't care less.”

  * * *

  After his conversation with Roger, Qwilleran did a few errands before returning home. Whenever he walked about downtown, he was stopped by strangers who read the “Qwill Pen” or recognized him from the photo at the top of his column. They always complimented him on his writing and his moustache, not necessarily in that order. In the beginning he had welcomed reader comments, hoping to learn something of value, but his expectations were crushed by the nature of their remarks:

  “I loved your column yesterday, Mr. Q. I forget what it was about, but it was very good.”

  “How do you think all that stuff up?”

  “My cousin in Delaware writes for a paper. Would you like me to send you some of her clippings?”

  “Why do you spell your name like that?”

  Now, whenever he was complimented, he would express his thanks without making eye contact; it was eye contact that led to monologues about out-of-state relatives. Instead, he would say a pleased thank-you and turn his head aside as if modestly savoring the compliment. He had become a master at the gracious turnoff. Fifty percent of the time it worked.

  On this day the situation was quite different. While he was waiting in line to cash a check at the Pickax People's Bank, a security guard hailed him. “Hi, Mr. Q.”

  Immediately the young woman ahead of him in the line turned and said, “You're Mr. Qwilleran! Reading your column is like listening to music! Whatever the subject, your style of writing makes me feel good.” There was not a word about his moustache.

  Surprised and pleased, he made eye contact with a plain young woman of serious mien, probably in her early twenties. “Thank you,” he said graciously without turning away. “I write my column for readers like you. Apparently you know something about the craft. Are you a teacher?”

  “No, just a constant reader. I have one of your columns pasted on my mirror. You gave three rules for would-be writers: write, write, and write. I'm a would-be, and I'm following your advice.” There was not a word about sending him a manuscript for evaluation and advice.

  “Have you thought of enrolling at the new college?” he asked. “They're offering some writing courses . . . and there are scholarships available,” he added, with a glance at her plain and well-worn shirt, her lack of makeup, her limp canvas shoulder bag.

  “I'd like to do that, but I'm rather tied down right now.”

  “Then I wish you well, Ms. . . . what is your name?”

  Her hesitant reply was mumbled. It sounded like Letitia Pen.

  “P-e-n-n, as in Pennsylvania?” he asked and added with humorous emphasis, “Is that a pen name?”

  “It's my own name, unfortunately,” she said with a grimace. “I hate ‘Letitia.' ”

  “I know what you mean. My parents named me Merlin, and my best friend was Archibald. As Merlin and Archibald we suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous first-graders.”

  “It's not as terrible as Letitia and Lionella, though. That's the name of my best friend.”

  “At least you could do a nightclub act. Can you sing? Dance? Tell jokes?”

  Letitia giggled. The two of them were the only ones in the bank line who were enjoying the wait. The man behind Qwilleran cleared his throat loudly. The bank teller rapped on the counter to get Let
itia's attention and said, ”Next!”

  Ms. Penn turned and stepped quickly to the window, saying a soft “I'm sorry.”

  Qwilleran advanced a few steps also, shortening the long line behind them; the bank was always rushed on Mondays and Fridays. Ahead of him his constant reader seemed to be withdrawing a substantial sum. He could see over her shoulder. The teller counted the bills twice.

  “Fifty, a hundred, hundred-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty . . . ”

  “I'd like an envelope for that,” said Ms. Penn.

  “There you are,” said the teller. “Have a nice day, Ms. Trevelyan.”

  “Constant reader” stuffed the money into her shoulder bag and left the bank hurriedly.

  That, Qwilleran observed, was a curious development. Why would she choose not to give her right name? Before leaving the bank, he consulted the local telephone directory and found seventy-five Trevelyans but no Letitia. There were no Penns at all—not that it mattered; it was one of the pointless things he did to satisfy his idle curiosity. After that, he walked home with a lighter step, buoyed by the knowledge that his twice-weekly words were not totally forgotten and might even be doing some good. He walked via the back road to pick up his mail and check Polly's building site.

  There were no trucks and no workmen, but concrete had been poured and smoothly troweled. She had decided on a crawl space instead of a basement, and on a poured foundation instead of concrete block—this after extensive reading on the subject. On one of their recent dinner dates she had explained, “A poured foundation gives a stronger wall with less danger of cracks and leaks. Did you know they are supposed to leave a groove in the footings to tie in a poured concrete wall?” And after dinner they had visited the building site to check the grooves.

  Now the walls had been poured, and Qwilleran phoned Polly at the library to report.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” she said. “Now I feel the project is finally under way.”

  “Yes, you have something concrete to show for all your planning,” he said lightly.