The younger man was elated. He had lined up the Moose County Community College as a client and was working on a great project with the K Foundation. “That's the good news,” he said. “On the down side, I'm being hounded by Floyd-boy's creditors. Just because I promoted his party train, they think I'm going to pay his outstanding bills. It's strange they haven't found him, isn't it?”
“Are you in touch with the family?” Qwilleran asked.
“Only with their attorney. He doesn't allow them to talk to anybody, including me.”
“Didn't you tell me that Floyd's secretary had an apartment in your building in Indian Village?”
“Yeah, but I never got an invitation to drop in for a neighborly visit. Perhaps I'm too neat and clean. I've seen some scruffy types knocking on her door, and Floyd himself was a little on the wild side, sartorially.”
It was a one-drink, small-steak, no-dessert dinner, and the publicity man apologized for having to rush away. As they walked to the parking lot, Qwilleran asked, “Do you happen to remember the name of the engineer who drove the locomotive when we took our historic ride?”
“Historic in more ways than one,” Dwight said bitingly. “There'll never be another. The government will be sure to get their hands on Floyd's rolling stock. . . . But to answer your question: Sure, his name is Ozzie Penn. He's Floyd's father-in-law.”
“If he could tell me some good railroad stories, I'd interview him—not for the ‘Qwill Pen.' I want to write a book on the Steam Age of railroading.”
“Well, he's in his eighties, but in good shape and mentally sharp. We got a doctor's okay before letting him drive No. 9. He lives at the Railroad Retirement Center in Mudville,” Dwight said as he stepped into his car. There was a packet on the seat, which he handed to Qwilleran. “Here's the video of our train ride. Run it and see if you think we could sell copies to benefit the college.”
“Thanks. I'll do that,” Qwilleran said, “and . . . uh . . . keep it under your hat, Dwight, about the railroad book. I'll be using a pseudonym, and I haven't told anyone but you.”
The two men went their separate ways.
* * *
At home Qwilleran looked up the phone number of the Railroad Retirement Center; the address was on Main Street. Then he checked the Trackside Tavern. First, out of curiosity, he called the bar.
“Not open!” the man's harried voice shouted into the phone before slamming the receiver.
At the Retirement Center the male switchboard operator paged Ozzie Penn and tracked him down in the TV room.
“Hello? Who is it?” said a reedy voice with the surprise and apprehension of one who never receives a phone call.
“Good evening, Mr. Penn,” Qwilleran said slowly and distinctly. “I was one of the passengers on the Party Train when you drove old No. 9. We all had a good time. That engine's a wonderful piece of machinery.”
“Yep, she be a beaut!”
“My name is James Mackintosh, and I'm writing a book on the old days of railroading. Would you be willing to talk to me? You've had a long and honorable career, and I'm sure you know plenty of stories.”
“That I do,” said the old man. “Plenty!”
“May I visit you at the Center? Is there a quiet place where we can talk? You'll receive payment for your time, of course. I'd like to drive out there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Saturday.”
“What be yer name again?”
“Mackintosh. James Mackintosh. How about one o'clock?”
“I ain't goin' no place.”
As Qwilleran replaced the receiver, he thought, This old man speaks a fascinating kind of substandard English that will fade out in another generation. Eddie Trevelyan's speech was simply the bad grammar common in Moose County. Ozzie Penn spoke Old Moose.
“May I use your TV?” Qwilleran asked the Siamese, who had been watching him talk into the inanimate instrument. The telephone was something even Koko had never understood.
The three of them trooped to the highest balcony, furnished to feline taste with soft carpet, cushioned baskets, empty boxes, a ladder, scratching pads and posts, and a small TV with VCR. There was one chair which the cats commandeered, while Qwilleran sat on the floor to watch the video.
It was a festive collage of important people arriving at the depot and milling about on the platform, with the camera lingering on certain subjects: woman with large hat, man with oversized moustache, woman in expensive-looking pantsuit, man in Scottish tartan. (Koko yowled at certain images for no apparent reason.) The car valets jumped around like red devils. The brass band tootled. Then the great No. 9 came puffing around a curve, blowing its whistle. The elderly engineer leaned from his cab; two firemen posed in the gangway with their shovels. Then the conductor bawled the destinations, and feet mounted the yellow step-stool. When the diners drank a toast in ice water, Qwilleran thought, It was symbolic!
Although the camera occasionally panned picturesque stretches of countryside, the emphasis was on the passengers, who might be induced to buy the video to benefit the college. Qwilleran rewound the tape, thanked the Siamese for the use of their facilities, and went down the ramp to greet Celia Robinson.
Her face was lively with smiles, and her large handbag produced a box of chocolate chip cookies. “We can have a party. They're good with milk. Do you have any milk, Chief?”
“No, only a milk substitute called black coffee,” he apologized, “but I'm a master at its preparation.” With a grand flourish he pressed a button on the computerized coffeemaker, which started the grinding, gurgling, and dripping. The brew that resulted was good, Celia said, but awfully strong.
As they sat down with their coffee and cookies, Qwilleran said to her in an ominous tone of voice, “Celia, you're being tailed by the police.”
“What!” she cried. “What have I done?”
“Only kidding; don't be alarmed. The police chief has seen your red car in the parking lot and knows you're living in the carriage house, and the detectives staking out the Trevelyan property know you've visited The Roundhouse. Next, they'll see you driving through the Black Forest for these meetings.”
“Should I get my car painted?”
“That won't be necessary, but it emphasizes the need to keep Operation Whistle under wraps. Here's what I suggest for your cover: You're planning to start a specialized catering service: hot meals for shut-ins . . . refreshments for kids' birthday parties . . . gourmet delicacies for cats and dogs. We might run an ad in the paper to that effect.”
“Do you mean it?” she asked in astonishment.
“Only to fool the cops. You might take a casserole to Florrie, just in case you're stopped. . . . And now, what happened today? Did you take Wrigley?”
“Oh, he was a big hit! He sat on Florrie's lap, and she stroked him and looked so happy! Tish didn't want to miss the fun, so she fixed lunch for us and gave Wrigley a bit of tuna. After a while I asked the name of the bank that they own, so I could open an account. Tish said it was a credit union especially for railroad workers, and she began to get very fidgety. Pretty soon she said she had to go and buy groceries. Then I thought of a sneaky question to ask Florrie . . . It would be nice if I could tape these conversations, Chief.”
“It would arouse suspicion,” he said.
“I mean, with a hidden tape recorder. My grandson had one that he used in Florida. I could phone him, and he'd send it by overnight mail.”
“It's illegal, Celia, to tape someone's conversation without permission. Thousands of persons do it and get away with it, but if it came to light in this case, you'd be in trouble, and Operation Whistle would be involved. It's a bright idea, but please forget it. You're doing very well with your little notebook. Did you do your homework?”
“Yes, I read all the clippings about the scandal and figured out some ways to get the women to talk. After Tish left, I asked Florrie what time her husband usually came home to supper. She looked at me funny—all bright-eyed and ex
cited—and said, ‘If he comes home, they'll put him in jail, and they'll take all his trains away. He stole a lot of money.' She finished with a wild laugh that frightened Wrigley. I tried to calm her down, but she wanted to go down on the elevator and show me the trains. Have you ever seen them, Chief?”
“I have indeed—a fantastic display! I wrote a column about Floyd's model railroad a couple of months ago, before he absconded.”
“Well! Wait till you hear this! Florrie told me to press the button and start the trains running, but I was afraid of pressing the wrong one and wrecking the whole shebang. So Florrie wheeled herself to the switchboard and started pushing buttons and turning knobs. All the trains started to move at the same time—faster and faster until they crashed into each other and into bridges and buildings! I screamed for her to turn it off, but she was enjoying it and laughing like crazy. Then a fuse blew, I guess, because all the lights went out, but it was too late. The whole thing was wrecked! I was a wreck myself, believe me! When Tish came back from the store, I was still as limp as a rag, and I couldn't find Wrigley.”
“How did she react to the disaster?”
“Quite cool. She disconnected something and said it was all right—no danger. But after we tucked Florrie in for her afternoon nap, Tish put her face in her hands and started to bawl. She really sobbed and wailed! I said, ‘I'm terribly sorry about the trains, but there was nothing I could do.' She shook her head from side to side and said it wasn't the trains she cared about; it was other things. I put my arm around her and said, ‘Have a good cry, dear. It'll do you good. Don't be afraid to tell me your troubles. I'm your friend.' That started another gush of tears.”
Qwilleran said, “You tell this story very well, Celia.”
“Do you think so? I used to tell stories to Clayton when he was little . . . So after a while Tish dabbed her eyes and sniffled and suddenly said in a bitter voice, ‘I despise my . . . mother's husband!' I tried to get her to talk about it and unburden herself.”
Qwilleran nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. If Tish despised her father—for whatever reason—could she have been the one who blew the whistle? Or could her show of hostility be camouflage for her own involvement in the fraud?
“Yow!” came a warning from Koko, who was looking out the kitchen window.
“Someone's coming!” Qwilleran jumped to his feet. “He heard a car coming through the woods!”
“Police? Where shall I go?” Celia asked in alarm, grabbing her handbag.
“Stay where you are.”
It was only Mr. O'Dell, the maintenance man, wanting to pick up his check for services rendered.
“So . . . go on, Celia. Did Tish talk?”
“Yes, she told me about F.T. That's what she calls her father. He terrorized her and her brother Eddie when they were growing up. Today she resents the fact that he made her take business courses in high school and go to work in his office instead of going to college. But mostly she hates the way he ruined Florrie's life—with his neglect, and his stingy way with money, and his girlfriends.”
Qwilleran checked the notes he had been taking. “It's not true, you know, that the Lumbertown Credit Union is only for railroad employees. Tish was trying to steer you away from the subject.”
“I believe it. She's very cagey about certain things. Just before I left, I said to her, ‘Florrie told me something I didn't understand. She said her husband stole some money and might go to jail. Was she out of her head?' When I said that, Tish got terribly flustered, saying there are some complications at his office, and no one knows for sure what it's all about. Then she froze up, so I didn't ask any more questions. We searched for Wrigley and found him crouched in his sandbox, as if it was the only safe place in the house. They want me to take him again on Monday, but . . . Oh! Look at the parade!” she squealed, pointing to the top of the fireplace cube.
Soberly Qwilleran said, “Left to right, their names are Quack, Whistle, Squawk, Yum Yum, and Koko.”
The two cats were in perfect alignment with the decoys, folded into compact bundles that made them look like sitting ducks.
“You can't tell me,” he said, “that cats don't have a sense of humor!”
Celia's explosive laughter disturbed the masquerade, and the two “live” ducks jumped to the floor. “I'm sorry, kitties,” she apologized. “I've always heard that cats don't like to be laughed at. . . . Well, that's all I have to report. I'd better go home and see if Wrigley is recovering from his scare.”
As Qwilleran escorted her to the parking area, he said, “I may devise a new strategy this weekend. Shall we get together for a briefing Sunday evening?”
“Okay with me, Chief,” she said blithely.
Back at the barn, another pantomime was in progress. Koko was on the telephone desk, pushing the English pencil box with his nose, pushing it toward the edge of the desk.
“NO!” Qwilleran thundered. Rushing to the spot, he caught the antique treasure before it landed on the clay tile floor. “Bad cat!”
Koko flew up the ramp in a blur of fur.
ELEVEN
For his interview with Ozzie Penn, Qwilleran went equipped with his usual tape recorder plus some snapshots of No. 9 making her comeback on Audit Sunday, as the newspaper called it. Before leaving, he trimmed his moustache somewhat and hoped he would look more like James Mackintosh, author, than Jim Qwilleran, columnist.
The Railroad Retirement Center was directly across Main Street from the Trackside Tavern, still closed. Two police vehicles were parked at the curb, one obviously from the forensic lab. The Center, formerly a railroad hotel, was a three-story brick building without such unnecessary details as porches, shutters, or ornamental roof brackets.
When Qwilleran walked into the lobby, it was vacant except for a young male telephone operator at the switchboard. Behind him was a bank of pigeonholes for mail and messages, with a room number on each; all were empty. The lobby was clean, one could say that for it. Brown walls, brown floors, and brown wood furniture gleamed with high-gloss varnish, reminding Qwilleran of a press club Down Below that occupied a former jail. Through double glass doors he could see a television screen, lively with colorful commercials. Several elderly men sat around it, staring or dozing. A few others were playing cards.
“Are you Mr. Mackintosh?” the operator asked. “Ozzie's waiting for you. Room 203. Elevator down the hall; stairs at the back.”
Qwilleran trusted his knees more than he trusted the grim-looking elevator with folding metal gate. He chose to walk up the brown varnished stairwell to a brown hallway, where he knocked on the brown door of 203. It opened immediately, and there stood the old engineer he remembered from Audit Sunday—a big, husky man, though slightly stooped. He had changed, however, since the debut of No. 9. The ruddy face that had beamed with pride in the window of the engineer's cab was now gray and weary.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Penn. I'm the one who's writing a book on railroading in the Age of Steam. Mackintosh is the name.”
“Come in. I been waitin'. Where ye from?”
“Chicago.”
“Set ye down. Call me Ozzie.” His welcome was cordial, although he seemed too tired to smile. He slapped his denim chest and said, “Wore my over-halls for the pitcher.”
“Sorry I didn't bring a camera, Ozzie, but I have some good photos of you in the cab of No. 9, and they're yours to keep.”
The old man accepted the snapshots gratefully. “By Crikey, she be a purty hog, no mistake.”
They sat with a small lamp table between them, and Qwilleran set up his tape recorder. “Mind if I record this? Did you drive No. 9 in the old days?”
“Yep. I were a young-un then. Them diesels, they be okay, but ain't nothin' like steam!” The man spoke pure Old Moose.
Qwilleran's practiced eye roved over the shabby furnishings without staring or criticizing. “That's a beautiful oil can,” he said, nodding toward a shiny brass receptacle with a thin, elongated spout. “How was it used?”
>
“That were for oilin' piston rods and drivers. Kep' the wheels on the rails for nigh onto fifty year, it did. They give it me when I retired. Better'n the gold watch, it were.”
“I believe it! You were a master of your craft, I'm told. What does it take to make a good engineer?”
Ozzie had to think before answering. “L'arnin' to start up slow and stop smooth . . . L'arnin' to keep yer head when it be hell on the rails . . . Prayin' to God fer a good fireman . . . And abidin' by Rule G,” he finished with a weak chuckle.
“What's the fireman's job on a steam locomotive?”
“He be the one stokes the firebox an' keeps the boiler steamin'. Takes a good crew to make a good run and come in on time. Spent my whole life comin' in on time. Eleventh commandment, it were called. Now, here I be, an' time don't mean nothin'.”
Qwilleran asked, “Why was it so important to be on time?”
“Made money for the comp'ny. Made wrecks, too . . . takin' chances, takin' short-cuts.”
“Were you in many wrecks?”
“Yep, an' on'y jumped once. I were a young-un, deadheadin' to meet a crew in Flapjack. Highballin' round a curve, we run into a rockslide. Engineer yelled ‘Jump!' an' I jumped. Fireman jumped, too. Engineer were killed.”
“What do you know about the famous wreck at Wildcat, Ozzie?”
“That were afore my time, but I heerd plenty o' tales in the SC&L switchyard. In them days the yard had eighteen tracks and a roundhouse for twenty hogs.” His voice faded away and his eyes glazed as his mind drifted into the past.
Qwilleran persisted with his question.
“It weren't called Wildcat in them days. It were South Fork. Trains from up north slowed down to twenty at South Fork afore goin' down a steep grade to a mighty bad curve and a wood trestle bridge. The rails, they be a hun'erd feet over the water. One day a train come roarin' through South Fork, full steam, whistle screechin'. It were a wildcat—a runaway train—headed for the gorge. At the bottom—crash!—bang! Then hissin' steam. Then dead quiet. Then the screamin' started. Fergit how many killed, but it were the worst ever!”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 14
