The Cat Who Blew the Whistle

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “You seem pretty enthusiastic about this guy's trains,” the editor said.

  “The trick is to sound that way whether you are or not,” Qwilleran retorted. “I like to increase the reader's pulse beat. . . . Actually, I was impressed by the train layout but not enthusiastic.”

  “How about putting some of your fake enthusiasm into an extra assignment?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know, of course,” Junior began, “that the club is doing Midsummer Night's Dream. We want to run a short piece on each of the leads—about eight inches with a head shot. It's not supposed to be a blurb for the play or a bio of the actor; it's a miniature think-piece on the actor's perception of both the role and the theme of the play.”

  “All that in eight inches?”

  “Only you can do it, Qwill. Your style is concise and pithy. What's more, your readers devour anything and everything you write, and you'll get a by-line on each piece—also free coffee for life.”

  Junior was wheedling him, and Qwilleran was succumbing to the flattery. “How many pieces would there be?”

  “Nine or ten. Since you live behind the theatre, it'll be easy to drop in during rehearsal and catch the actors on their break. We'll alert them to start thinking about it. Someone like Derek Cuttlebrink does more thinking about his costume than about the essence of his role.”

  “How is he cast?”

  “He's doing Nick Bottom, the weaver.”

  “That's a good one for him. He'll enjoy hee-hawing like a donkey.”

  “He'll be a howl! As soon as he walks on stage he'll bring down the house.”

  Derek, a resident of Wildcat, was a waiter at the Old Stone Mill. With his outgoing personality, engaging candor, and impressive height (six-feet-eight, going on nine) he was a favorite with restaurant diners, theatregoers, and impressionable young women.

  “When do you want to start the series?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Soonest. We're rehearsing five nights a week. . . . And say! Do you keep in touch with that Chicago heiress you brought over from Breakfast Island?”

  “I didn't bring her over; she happened to be on the same boat,” Qwilleran said tartly. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, she's joined the club, and she's helping with costumes. She has some good ideas.”

  That's appropriate, Qwilleran thought. Her own wardrobe was straight out of Arabian Nights.

  “Also,” Junior went on with relish, “she and Derek are hitting it off like Romeo and Juliet. If it's true that she has an annual income of $500,000, Derek's on the right track for once in his life.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Don't place any bets. In my opinion, she's a mighty flighty young woman. . . . See you at rehearsal.”

  “Before you leave the building,” Junior called after him, “our esteemed editor-in-chief wants to see you.”

  Arch Riker had the florid complexion and paunchy figure of a veteran journalist who has been a deskman throughout his career and has attended too many press luncheons. When Qwilleran appeared in the doorway, he was sitting in his high-back executive chair and swiveling in deep thought. “Come in. Come in,” he said, beckoning. “Help yourself to coffee.”

  “Thanks. I haven't had one for the last three minutes. What's up, Arch?”

  “Good news! . . . Sit down . . . After we ran our editorial on the Lumbertown Party Train, all tickets for the kickoff sold out, for both sittings! At $500 a ticket, that's pretty good for a county in the boonies. It was a stroke of genius, of course, to earmark the proceeds for college scholarships.”

  “The charity angle was Dwight Somers's idea, not that of the train owner,” Qwilleran said. “Trevelyan doesn't strike me as a great philanthropist.”

  “Dwight just called and suggested we run a profile on the guy,” Riker said. “What say you?”

  “I've just handed in a column on his personal collection of model trains, and I think that's enough for now.”

  “I agree. We can cover the actual event from the social angle. . . . So you met Floyd-boy! What's he like?”

  “Not your average bank president. He's a rough-hewn, self-made man who started as a carpenter. He's sunk a fortune in his Party Train, and his model collection is incredible! What makes a guy want to own more, bigger, and better than anyone else? I've never understood the urge to collect. You never got bitten by the bug either, did you?”

  “Once!” Riker admitted. “When I was married to an antique collector, I collected antique tin like a madman. It's strange how suddenly I lost interest when wife, house, and cats went down the drain, k-chug!”

  Qwilleran nodded solemnly, remembering his own bitter past, when he himself almost went k-chug!

  His friend was in a talkative mood. “Mildred wants me to start another collection of something, so it'll be easier to buy me Christmas presents. I tell her I don't need Christmas presents. Every day in my life is Christmas since we took the plunge. . . . Qwill, why don't you and Polly—”

  Qwilleran interrupted. “Don't—start—that—again, Archibald!”

  “Okay, okay. At least you two will be within whistling distance when she builds her house. How's it coming?”

  “She's hired the son of Floyd Trevelyan to build it. He's based in Mudville. His father says he's good.”

  “What else do you expect a parent to say?” Riker remarked caustically. “Personally, I'd think twice before hiring a Sawduster to fix a leaky faucet!”

  “Well . . . you know Polly . . . when she makes up her mind!”

  * * *

  About two weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, Qwilleran and Polly drove to Sawdust City and met Arch and Mildred Riker on the railway platform. Well-dressed patrons were arriving from all parts of the county, and curious Sawdusters watched as the strangers' cars were whisked away and parked by young men in red jumpsuits. It was the first valet parking in the history of Mudville. The weather was warm enough for the women to wear sheer summer dresses and cool enough for the men to wear light blazers. The one exception was Whannell MacWhannell of Pickax, sweltering in his pleated all-wool kilt and full Scottish regalia.

  Surprisingly, the Chicago heiress was there with the waiter from the Old Stone Mill, and Riker said, “Derek must have been getting some good tips lately.”

  Qwilleran said, “Last week I saw him buying her a hot dog at Lois's. This must be her turn to treat.”

  Today, as always, she was theatrically dressed—the only woman wearing a hat. The high-crowned straw wound with yards of veiling and accented with a cabbage rose was vintage Edwardian. Furthermore, she was incredibly thin by Moose County standards. Polly, who wore size sixteen, guessed her size to be a four, or even a two.

  Also attracting attention was a young woman in a pantsuit. In Moose County the custom was skirts-on-Sunday, but this eye-catching beauty in a well-cut summer pantsuit made all the women in skirts look dowdy. She was with Floyd Trevelyan. He himself was well groomed and properly dressed for the occasion. Was she his wife? His daughter? They were not mingling with the crowd.

  Newspaper photographers and a video cameraman added excitement, and a brass band was blaring numbers like “Chattanooga Choo Choo” and “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Riker recognized the trombone player, who worked in the circulation department of the Moose County Something.

  Polly said, “I do hope they're not going on the train with us.”

  Commemorative programs had been handed to the passengers waiting on the platform, and Mildred said, “Can you believe this? They brought the crew out of retirement for this historic run. The engineer is eighty-two; the brakeman is seventy-six; the fireman is sixty-nine— all veterans of SC&L.”

  Riker said, “I hope I can shovel coal when I'm sixty-nine.”

  “Dear, you couldn't even shovel snow last winter,” his wife said sweetly.

  “Do you suppose anyone had the foresight to check the engineer's vision and blood pressure? Has the fireman had an EKG recently? Will there be a doctor on
the train?”

  “Where's the hog?” Qwilleran asked, exhibiting his knowledge of railroad slang.

  There had been no sign of the locomotive, except for puffs of steam rising from behind a warehouse. Then abruptly the music stopped, and the brasses sounded a fanfare. As the chatter on the platform faded away, No. 9 came puffing and whistling around a curve. The crowd cheered, and the band struck up “Casey Jones.”

  Old No. 9 was a magnificent piece of machinery, towering above the passengers on the platform. Its noble nose had a giant headlight; the black hulk and brass fittings glistened in the sunlight; the piston rods were marvels of mechanical magic as they stroked the huge driving wheels; even the cowcatcher was impressive. Leaning from the cab and waving at the waiting crowd was an aging engineer with tufts of white hair showing beneath his denim cap. He was beaming with pride.

  Mildred, who had an artist's eye, called the locomotive a masterpiece of sensitive beauty and brute strength. “No wonder they called it the Great Iron Horse!”

  When the freshly painted coaches came around the bend, her husband said, “They're still the same old moldy, muddy green.”

  “That's a perfectly acceptable color,” Mildred said. “I can mix it on my palette with chrome oxide green and cadmium red deep, with a little burnt umber to muddy it.”

  Dwight Somers, overhearing the conversation, informed them that the traditional Pullman green was designed to hide mud and soot.

  “What do you know about the engineer?” Polly asked.

  “He was an SC&L hoghead for fifty years. Many times his skill and bravery saved lives, and he only jumped once. He'd tell his fireman to jump, but Ozzie Penn was like the skipper who stays with his ship, braving it out.”

  “That's comforting to know,” Riker said. “I trust they gave him a gold watch when he retired.”

  Then the conductor swung down the steps of the first car and shouted “All abo-o-oard!”

  Qwilleran had reserved a table for four in the center of the dining car, where woodwork gleamed with varnish, tablecloths were blindingly white, and wine glasses sparkled. There was a hubbub of delight as the diners were seated. Then came one of those long, unexplained waits inflicted on train passengers. The wags in the crowd made wild conjectures: “They ran out of coal. . . . The fireman slipped a disc. . . . The chef forgot his knives. . . . They're sending out for more ice cubes.”

  Eventually the bell clanged, the whistle screamed and, as the train started to move, an army of waiters in white coats surged down the aisle with bottles of champagne. Everyone applauded.

  Qwilleran, riding backward, saw Floyd Trevelyan at an end table with his attractive companion, and their body language was not that of a husband and wife or father and daughter. Also in his line of vision were Carol and Larry Lanspeak with a fresh-faced young woman and the bearded doctor who had been Hixie Rice's escort for the last six months. All four seemed inordinately happy, leading Qwilleran to mumble a question to Polly. She replied that the young woman was Dr. Diane, the Lanspeaks' daughter, who had escaped the medical madness Down Below and had returned to Moose County to go into practice with Dr. Herbert.

  Polly said, “I'm transferring my medical records to Dr. Diane. I didn't like the man who replaced Dr. Melinda.”

  The train was rolling along at a comfortable excursion clip through typical Moose County landscape: fields of potatoes and pastures dotted with boulders and sheep.

  The waiters kept pouring champagne, and Qwilleran produced a bag of snacks to accompany the drinks. “I'd like you to taste these,” he said. “A friend of mine made them.”

  “Who?” Polly asked too quickly.

  “A woman I know in Florida.” He was purposely taunting her with incomplete information.

  “They're very good,” Riker said. “I'll have another handful.”

  “They're rather salty,” Polly murmured.

  Mildred, who wrote the food column for the newspaper, said they were actually croutons toasted with parmesan cheese, garlic salt, red pepper, and Worcestershire sauce.

  Qwilleran said, “Koko and Yum Yum think they're the cat's meow.”

  The food expert nodded. “They detect the anchovy in the Worcestershire.”

  In a far corner of the car, out of the path of the bustling waiters, a white-haired accordionist was playing show tunes with the blank demeanor of one who has played the same repertoire at thousands of banquets.

  Polly said, “His lack of passion is refreshing. We attended a Mozart concert in Lockmaster where the string ensemble was so passionate, they almost fell off their chairs.”

  “I watched their antics,” Qwilleran said, “and forgot to listen to the music.”

  “It's the same way in art,” Mildred declared. “The artist is becoming more important than the art. I blame the media.”

  “We get blamed for everything,” Riker said.

  They discussed the curriculum at the Moose County Community College: No music. No art. Plenty of English, accounting, data processing, office systems, and business management. Introductory courses in psychology, economics, history, sociology, etc. No cosmetology. No real estate. No tennis.

  Polly said, “They're making giant strides with the remodeling of the campus. The administration offices are staffed and operating, and I introduced myself to the president. Dr. Prelligate is a very interesting man.”

  “In what way?” Qwilleran asked bluntly.

  “He combines a solid academic background with a most congenial personality. He's from Virginia and has that ingratiating Southern charm.”

  “I adore Southern men,” Mildred said girlishly. “Is he married?”

  “I don't believe so.”

  “But you are!” Riker informed his wife.

  Polly had more to report. “Dr. Prelligate's staff has been feeding a dirty orange-and-white stray who looks exactly like Oh Jay. I phoned the Wilmots and learned that Oh Jay disappeared last November, right after they moved from Goodwinter Boulevard.”

  Riker said, “That's called ‘psi trailing.' He's been on the road nine months, panhandling and living off the land! That's a fifteen-mile hike!”

  “Well, the Wilmots said he can stay on campus,” Polly said in conclusion, “and he's going to be the college mascot.”

  “And the school colors,” Qwilleran guessed, “will be orange and dirty white.”

  The soup course was served: jellied beef consommé. It was rather salty, according to Polly. The Chateaubriand was an excellent cut of beef, and everyone agreed that neither the meat nor the chef could have come from Mudville.

  Meanwhile, the cars rolled gently from side to side, the whistle blew at grade crossings, and the conversation in the dining room was animated. Eventually the landscape became craggy, and there were dramatic views never seen from the highway. The tracks ran through the town of Wildcat, then down a steep grade to the Black Creek gorge, and across a high bridge. Now they were in Lockmaster County with its rolling hills and lush woods. By the time the cheesecake and coffee had been served, the train pulled into Flapjack, an early lumbercamp converted into a public recreation park.

  The TV crew from Minneapolis was waiting. They wanted to video the train owner with his handsome companion on the observation platform of the private car, but Trevelyan vetoed that. He preferred to put on a striped railroad cap and lean out of the engineer's cab. In addition, there were sound bites of the Chicago heiress in her soufflé of a hat and Whannell MacWhannell in his kilt, each describing the thrill of riding behind old No. 9.

  Polly told the portly Scot that he cut a magnificent figure in his tartan, and she wished Qwilleran would buy a kilt.

  “Your man has the right build,” Big Mac assured her, “and his mother was a Mackintosh, so he's entitled.”

  Riker explained with the authority of an old friend, “It's the idea of wearing a skirt that bugs Qwill, and you'll never convince him otherwise.”

  Qwilleran was relieved when Dwight Somers put an end to the kilt claptrap by inv
iting them to see the private railcar. “The corporate jet of its day!” he said.

  No one was prepared for its splendor: the richly upholstered wing chairs in the lounge, the dining table inlaid with exotic woods, the bedrooms with brass beds and marble lavatories. All of the woodwork was carved walnut, and the window transoms and light fixtures were Tiffany glass.

  Dwight said, “The Lumbertown Party Train would be great for a wedding. Have the ceremony in the club car and the reception in the diner en route to Flapjack. Then uncouple the private car and leave the newlyweds on a siding for a week, with access to the golf course, riding stables, hiking trails, and so forth. At the end of the week the train returns with the wedding guests whooping it up in the club car, and they all huff-puff-puff back to Moose County and live happily ever after. . . . You should keep it in mind, Qwill,” he added slyly.

  Ignoring the remark, Qwilleran asked with mock innocence, “Is the woman with Floyd his bookkeeping daughter?”

  “No, that's his knee-crossing secretary,” Dwight said with a polite leer. “He met her in Texas while he was shopping for rolling stock.”

  “Was she a cheerleader?”

  “Something like that” was the cryptic reply.

  The brass bell of No. 9 clanged, and the commanding voice of the conductor swept the passengers back on board. As the train chugged north, waiters handed out souvenir whistles—long wooden tubes that duplicated the shrill scream of a steam locomotive. For a while the dining car reverberated with ear-splitting noise. Then the accordionist started playing requests. Mildred asked for “The Second Time Around.” Qwilleran requested “Time After Time” for Polly. She might not know the lyrics, but the melody was unmistakably affectionate.

  By the time the train rumbled through the outskirts of Pickax, the excitement was winding down, and conversation reverted to the usual: “Are you going to the boat races? . . . Have you tried the new restaurant in Mooseville? . . . How are your cats, Qwill?”