The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-10-

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 done 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 Inter- county 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 business- men, 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 work boots 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 the 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.

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. "1 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 excited - 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 I 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.