The Cat Who Blew the Whistle

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Then Qwilleran remembered, “In my first stage experience, I played the butler and dropped a silver tray with a whole tea service—crash! I felt like cutting my throat with the butter knife.”

  “The worst thing,” Derek said, “is when somebody forgets his lines—freezes—goes blank! For some reason the audience stares at you! And you're standing there with egg on your face.”

  At that moment, Qwilleran, who was keeping an eye on Koko and the cheese, saw the cat approach the pyramid and cautiously step into the so-called electromagnetic field. When he reached the exact center, the hair on his back stood on end! His tail puffed up like a porcupine! Then the lights went out.

  “Don't move,” Qwilleran warned his guests. “Stay where you are till I find the flashlights.” He groped his way to the kitchen, while the others said, “What happened? . . . There's no storm . . . Transformer blew, somewhere in the neighborhood, maybe . . . ”

  Qwilleran announced that everything was out: refrigerator, electric clock, everything. He distributed flashlights and asked Derek to go to the top balcony and check for lights on Main Street. “If we're the only ones affected, I'll call the power company.”

  Soon Derek shouted down to the main floor, “The whole county's without power! It's blacked out in every direction.”

  “We'd better go home,” Fran said.

  Qwilleran accompanied them to their vehicles and collected the flashlights after they had turned on their headlights. On the way to the parking area, Fran grabbed his arm and said in a low voice, “They found the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “Trevelyan's secretary, but not him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My mother got it from Dad when he came off his shift. The girl was in Texas, but not hiding out—just driving around to the mall and the hair-dresser as if nothing had happened.”

  “Did they pick her up?”

  “Not yet. They're checking out her story—that she was fired two weeks before the surprise audit, which she claims to know nothing about.”

  Qwilleran said, “That sounds like a well-rehearsed explanation. She was on the Party Train with her boss on the day of the audit.”

  “Well, according to her story, the management had fired her with two weeks' notice. The train ride was her farewell party. After that, she drove to her home state, alone. One thing she volunteered: Her boss always talked about Alaska and might have gone there.”

  Or Switzerland, Qwilleran thought. Floyd must have known an audit would be inevitable, but how would he know the timing? And then he thought, The person who tipped him off to leave town may have been the one who blew the whistle. It was improbable, but not impossible.

  * * *

  When Qwilleran returned to the barn, he made a cursory search for the Siamese, flashing his battery-operated lantern to left and right. To his surprise, Koko was still in the pyramid, sitting in dead center, looking as large as a raccoon.

  “Koko! Get out of that thing!”

  There was no response.

  He likes it, Qwilleran decided. He's getting a treatment.

  Then he yelled the word that always got results: “Treat!”

  Yum Yum's paws could be heard pelting down the ramp. As for Koko, he stepped calmly out of the pyramid and shook himself until he returned to his normal size and shape. One thing disturbed Qwilleran: the instant that Koko left the center of the pyramid, the lights came on, and the refrigerator started humming. There was a glow above the trees to the west: the lights of Main Street.

  Whether his suspicions were right or wrong, Qwilleran immediately went to work with the screwdriver, disassembling the pyramid. He carried the poles gingerly from the barn and pitched them into the jungly remains of the orchard.

  “Whoo-hoo-hoo . . . hoo-hoo,” flashed a message from Marconi.

  “Same to you!” Qwilleran shouted.

  TEN

  The morning after the blackout, Qwilleran regretted his impulsive dumping of the pyramid poles. Was the power failure a coincidence or not? With some experimentation he might be able to write a column about it, if Koko would cooperate. The cat never liked to do anything unless it was his own idea, and any attempt to deposit him bodily in the cagelike contraption would be thwarted by a whirlwind of squirming, kicking, spitting, and snarling. Then . . . the morning newscast on WPKX affected Qwilleran's decision:

  “Police are investigating last night's homicide at the Trackside Tavern in Sawdust City. James Henry Ducker, twenty-four, of Chipmunk Township, was the victim of a knifing during a power failure, while soccer fans held a post-game celebration. The Moose County Electric Cooperative is unable to explain the power outage that blacked out the entire county between eleven-thirty and eleven forty-five. There was no equipment failure, according to a spokesman for the co-op. No storm conditions or high winds were recorded by the WPKX meteorology department. An inquiry is continuing.”

  The murder changed Qwilleran's thinking entirely. If he even hinted at his conjecture in print, the national media—always hungry for bizarre news from the boondocks—would pounce on it. TV crews and news teams from Down Below would descend on Moose County, and the family of James Henry Ducker would sue Koko for three billion. Forget it! he told himself.

  As for the victim, residents of Chipmunk were subject to mayhem, and post-game soccer celebrations were notoriously violent, especially in Mudville, which was known for its roister-doister taverns. Qwilleran could imagine the yelling, table banging, brawling, and bottle smashing prompted by the total darkness. In the resulting bedlam someone could empty a semiautomatic without being heard.

  Bedlam was the order of the day as he prepared breakfast for the Siamese. “Feeding time at the zoo!” he shouted above the cacophany of yowls and shrieks. “Let's hear it for Alaska smoked salmon!” he exhorted in his Carnegie Hall voice. “Smoked over alderwood fires! Age-old process!” He was reading from the can, and the louder he projected, the louder they howled. All three of them enjoyed exercising their lungs. On such a day, when the atmosphere was clear and the windows were open, the din could be heard as far as the theatre parking lot.

  For his own breakfast Qwilleran walked downtown to Lois's Luncheonette and stopped at the library on the way back, to visit with Polly in her fishbowl of an office on the mezzanine.

  “Where were you and Bootsie when the lights went out?” he inquired.

  “We both retired early and missed it completely,” she said with a weariness unusual so early in the morning. “I felt some discomfort after dining with the Hasselriches. It was rather stressful, and my digestion is below par these days.”

  “I've reiterated, Polly, that you're worrying too much about your house.”

  “I suppose so, but it's such a tremendous responsibility. I'm working on my color schemes now. One has to bear in mind the exposure of each room, the choice of advancing or receding hues, tints that are flattering to complexions, and so forth.”

  “Fran Brodie could do that for you, one-two-three.”

  “But I want to do it myself, Qwill! I've told you that!” she said curtly. “If I make mistakes, I'm prepared to live with them.” Then, with a slight inquiring lift of eyebrows, she asked, “How did Mrs. Robinson enjoy dinner at Tipsy's?”

  Ah! The women have been talking, Qwilleran thought: Robinson to Alstock to Duncan. He replied, “She seemed favorably impressed. It would have been more enjoyable if you were there. What did your literary ladies have for dinner? Was it chicken pot pie again?”

  “Turkey chow mein,” Polly said stiffly.

  The mention of food was his cue to invite her to dinner. Instead, he asked where he would find dog books. He said he planned to write a column on chows. Dinner dates with Polly were becoming more of an obligation than a pleasure.

  On the way out, Qwilleran stopped to check on Homer Tibbitt's current project.

  “Railroads!” the old man said. “The SC&L Line was the lifeblood of the county in mining and lumbering days, and it was all d
one with steam. I grew up on a farm outside Little Hope and knew the language of the whistles before I knew the alphabet. When I was five years old, my brothers and I would go into town on Saturdays to watch the trains go by. I remember the station platform: wood boards put together with nailheads as big as dimes. Little Hope was only a flagstop, and most trains went straight through. I could hear them coming, getting louder and louder, until the big wheels went roaring past. It was frightening, I tell you! Seventy-five tons of iron, breathing fire!”

  “Were there many wrecks?”

  “Yes, a lot of blood was spilled, most of it for the sake of being on time. Being on time made money for the SC&L and meant a bonus for the engineer, so he'd go too fast, trying to get his lading to a cargo ship that was ready to sail. . . . One of these days I'll write a book.”

  * * *

  When Qwilleran picked up his mail and daily paper, he usually walked down the trail, but now he drove in order to deliver a cooler of beverages. The morning after the blackout, Eddie's only helper was one of the Herculean young blond men indigenous to Moose County.

  “Where's Benno?” Qwilleran asked.

  Eddie walked over to him and started sharpening a pencil. “I dunno. Prob'ly hung over.”

  “Where were you when the lights went out last night?”

  “Over at a friend's place. It di'n't last long.”

  Eddie looked red-eyed and minus pep, and Qwilleran was in no mood to linger. He wanted to go home and read what the Something had to say about the murder.

  The headline read: BLACKOUT SPAWNS KILLING IN BAR.

  When the lights went on again at the Trackside Tavern in Sawdust City, following last night's brief power outage, one customer was found dead, the victim of a knifing. The body of James Henry Ducker, 24, of Chipmunk Township, was slumped in a booth, bleeding profusely from wounds apparently inflicted by a hunting knife or similar weapon. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

  The table in the booth had been swept clean of beer bottles and shot glasses in the scuffle that preceded the assault, according to barkeeper Stan Western.

  “We always have a noisy demonstration when the lights go out,” he said, “but last night was a blinger! Never heard such rowdy carrying-on. Soccer fans, mostly.”

  The rowdy outburst followed an Intercounty League game between Sawdust City and Lockmaster, which the visiting team won by the close score of 5 to 3.

  Police questioned patrons, but no one in the dimly lighted bar had noticed the deceased or his drinking partner in the corner booth.

  Western said Ducker was not a regular customer. Barmaid Shirley Dublay had noticed a ponytail on the man who was later killed, but she was unable to describe the second individual in the booth where the crime was committed. “I was too busy,” she said. “The other barmaid called in sick, and I was working the floor all alone.”

  No arrests have been made. Sawdust City police and state troopers are investigating.

  The reason for the 15-minute blackout remains a mystery, according to a spokesperson for the Moose County Electric Cooperative.

  Also on page one was a sidebar with Roger MacGillivray's by-line, describing the scene of the crime:

  On a normal night the Trackside Tavern on East Main Street in Sawdust City is a quiet neighborhood bar, where folks drop in for a nip, a friendly chat, and maybe a game of pool. When the TV set isn't covering sports, the radio is tuned to country western and the new rock station, but there are no video games.

  Factory workers, downtown businessmen, truckers, railroad personnel, and retirees mingle at the long bar, or in the handful of booths, or at the small scarred tables. It's strictly a male hangout, following an incident ten years ago that made it unpopular with women.

  Otherwise, its hundred-year-old history includes some swashbuckling fights when it was Sully's Saloon before Prohibition, a period as a blind pig, and a series of different owners as the Trackside Tavern.

  The typical old north-country atmosphere of the tavern has remained unchanged, however: Knotty pine walls hung with mounted deer heads, wide pine floorboards rippled with a century of workboots and scraping chairs, and a wood-burning stove that heats the barnlike interior in winter. On the rare summer occasions when air conditioning is needed, the front and back doors are opened to funnel lake breezes through the barroom.

  The mood is easygoing, relaxing— except on Thursday nights if the local soccer team is playing a home game. “Strangers come in and whoop it up,” said barkeeper Stan Western. “They're always welcome. Good crowd, mostly. Never had anything like this happen before. I think that fights between fans that started on the field after the game carried over into the bar.”

  Roger was honing his craft as a newswriter, Qwilleran thought, but he should have explained the incident that kept women away from the Trackside.

  As for the soccer-brawl theory as a motive for murder, Qwilleran had a different idea, and he wanted to run it past his friend at the police station. He phoned first, to be sure Brodie was there, then drove downtown in a hurry. The sergeant waved him into the inner office.

  “Too late for coffee, if you came for a handout,” the chief said.

  “That's all right,” Qwilleran said lightly. “Your constabulary brew leaves something to be desired. Nothing personal, of course.”

  Brodie grunted a constabulary reply.

  “What did you think of the mysterious blackout, Andy?”

  “Hard to figure. A woman called the station this morning and wanted us to investigate. She thought it was done purposely by UFOs. We told her it was only a large fish going over the dam near the hydro plant.”

  “Did she buy that?”

  “I don't know. The sergeant hung up.”

  “Whatever the cause,” Qwilleran said, “it was a convenient cover-up for murder. Did you like the coverage in the paper?”

  “Not bad. Most of it was accurate. It wasn't a hunting knife, though. That was a reporter's guesswork. It was some other kind, but that's classified. It could affect the investigation.”

  “Are you in on the case, Andy?”

  “We cooperate with the Sawdust PD and the state troopers.”

  “Do you find it strange that none of the customers noticed the person who was with Ducker?”

  Brodie gave him a sharp glance. “Don't believe everything you read in the paper.”

  “Are you implying that you have a description of the suspect?”

  “Are you just here to ask questions?” the chief growled.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I have a theory to bounce off your official skull. As you know, Polly is building a house at the corner of the orchard trail and Trevelyan Road.”

  “How's she comin' with it?”

  “That's a long story, but my point is that one of the carpenters is a young Chipmunk fellow with a ponytail—”

  “A lot of guys have ‘em if they jog or do sweaty work outdoors,” Brodie interrupted.

  “Hear me out, Andy. This guy failed to show up for work today. His peers call him Benno. I have a wild hunch—” Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “I have a hunch that Benno is James Henry Ducker, and that the murder was not soccer-related but drug-related. I know you don't have a big drug problem up here . . . ”

  “But it's starting, and Chipmunk is where it's at.”

  “That being the case, he could have been dealing in bennies.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “Polly's contractor is Eddie Trevelyan, Floyd's son.”

  “Sure, I knew him when he was in high school and I was with the sheriff's department. Eddie got into trouble and would have had a juvenile record, only his father pulled strings to get it off the books. He was good at that! Even so, Eddie was expelled from Pickax High, and—wouldn't you know?—Floyd-boy sued the school board.”

  Qwilleran said, “Eddie seems to be doing all right now. He works hard and does a good job, as far as I can see. Drinks heavily, I suspect, but not during work hours. Smokes a lot—only th
e legal stuff. Keeps a sharp pencil, so he can't be all bad.”

  “Yeah, all he needs is a shave and a haircut.”

  “Eddie told me that Benno had been his buddy since high school.”

  “Then your hunch is right. Benno is James Henry Ducker, and Eddie has lost a carpenter as well as a father who can pull strings.”

  “Any news on the manhunt, Andy?”

  “Nothing for publication.”

  “I wonder what happened to the Lumbertown Party Train.”

  “It's on a siding in Mudville.”

  “One more question, and then I'm leaving,” Qwilleran said. “What happened at the Trackside Tavern ten years ago that scared women away?”

  “Who knows? That's not my beat. Look it up in your newspaper files.”

  “The Something wasn't publishing ten years ago, and the Pickax Picayune was never more than a chicken dinner newspaper. But there's some hushed-up reason why women don't patronize that bar.”

  Brodie waved the subject away, saying impatiently, “Maybe they didn't like the cigars and four-letter words. Maybe the bartender wouldn't mix pink drinks. Who cares? It was ten years ago. Why don't you ask your smart cat? Lieutenant Hames was asking about him the other day. He was up here for a few days.”

  “What was he doing here?” Qwilleran asked. He had known the detective Down Below while working for the Daily Fluxion, and now he wondered why a metropolitan lawman would be involved in an investigation 400 miles north of everywhere, unless—

  “He was up here with his family, doing some camping and fishing. They caught some big ones. I met him at a drug seminar Down Below a while back and gave him a big selling on Moose County. His kids were crazy about it.”

  * * *

  As Qwilleran was leaving the police station, he saw Dwight Somers coming out of city hall. “Dwight, you old buzzard! Where've you been?”

  “Buzzin' around the county, picking up clients,” the publicity man said. “How about an early dinner at the Mill?”

  “Suits me. I'll meet you there after I go home and feed the cats.”

  Dinner at the Old Stone Mill was brief. Dwight had another appointment, and Qwilleran was anticipating another report from Celia.