The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-11-

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' shortcuts."

"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 rock-slide. 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!"

Both men were silent for a moment. Qwilleran could hear the gold watch ticking. Finally he asked, "Did they ever find out what caused the wreck?"

"Musta been the brakes went blooey, but the railroad, they laid it on the engineer - said he were drinkin'. Saved the comp'ny money, it did, to lay it on the engineer. Poor feller! Steam boiler exploded, an' he were scalded to death."

"Horrible!" Qwilleran murmured.

'Yep. It were bad, 'cause he weren't a drinkin' man."

"So that's why they changed the name of the town to Wildcat! You're a very lucky man, Ozzie, to have survived so many dangers! If you had your life to live over again, would you be a hoghead?"

"Yep." After the excitement of telling the story, the old man was running out of steam.

Qwilleran said, "Too bad the Trackside is closed. We could get some food and drink."

"There be another place down the street," said Ozzie, reviving somewhat. "Better'n the Trackside."

As the two men walked down Main Street, slowly, Qwilleran asked if any women lived in the Retirement Center.

"Nope."

"I hear women never go into the Trackside. Do you know why?"

"Nope."

"Railroads are hiring women as engineers now," Qwilleran said.

"Not up here! Not the SC&L!"

The old man was breathing hard when they arrived at the bar and grill called The Jump-Off. A middle-aged woman with a bouncer's build and a rollicking personality greeted them heartily. Four young women in baseball jerseys were talking loudly about their recent win. A few elderly men were scattered about the room. The hearty greeter took their order: rye whiskey straight for Ozzie, ginger ale for Qwilleran.

When Ozzie had downed his drink, Qwilleran asked, "How did you feel about driving old No.9 and hauling the Party Train?"

"Purty good" was the answer.

"It hasn't made any more runs since then."

"Nope."

"Too bad the credit union had to close. Sawdusters must be feeling the pinch. Were you affected?"

"Nope. Had m'money in a bank."

Hmm, Qwilleran mused; why not in his son-in-law's corporation? "Can you stand another rye, Ozzie? And a burger?"

"Doc says one won't do no harm, so I figger two'll do some good."

Qwilleran signaled for refills. "Did someone tell me Floyd Trevelyan is your son-in-law?"

"Yep."

"How do you like the model trains at his house?"

"Never see'd 'em," Ozzie said, staring into space.

There was an awkward silence, which Qwilleran filled with questions about the quality of the burgers, the degree of doneness, the availability of condiments, and the kind of fries. The bar served railroad fries: thick, with skins on. Finally he said, "I met your daughter once. Do you have other children?"

Ozzie's reply was bluntly factual: "One son killed on the rails. One killed in Vietnam. One somewheres out west."

"Sorry to hear that. Do you see your daughter often?"

"Nope. Don't get around much."

Qwilleran coughed and took a bold step. "Did you know she's seriously ill? You ought to make an effort to visit her. She may not have long to live."

Ozzie blinked his eyes. Was it emotion or the rheuminess of old age? Suddenly he said angrily, "Ain't see'd 'er since she married that feller! Way back then I said he weren't no good. They wasn't even married in church! Guess she l'arned a lesson." In a voice oozing with sympathy, Qwilleran said, "She tells people she's very proud of you, Ozzie - proud to have a father who's a famous engineer. No matter what happened, you were always her hero."

"Then why di'n't she listen to me? She were a good girl till she met that crook. I knowed he'd turn out bad."

"Yet you agreed to drive No.9 for him."

"That publicity feller wanted me to do it. Paid good money. It were an honor. All those people cheerin' and the band playin'! Nobody knowed No.9 were owned by a crook!"

"Have you never seen your grandchildren?"

"Nope."

"The boy is a house builder, and the girl is an accountant, I believe. Is your wife living?"

"Nope. Been gone nine year."

"How did she feel about being estranged from your daughter?"

"Never talked about it. Wouldn't let her say Florrie's name in the house.... You say the boy's buildin' houses? Like father, like son. Prob'ly turn out to be another crook!"

Qwilleran thought of their physical resemblance; Eddie had the black Trevelyan hairiness. He said, "Ozzie, a reunion with your daughter might prolong her life. It would mean so much to her. You might find it painful, but it could be the finest thing you've ever done. How long since you've seen her?"

"Twenty-five year. She were on'y nineteen when they had that sham weddin' in an engine cab. In over-halls! Not even a white dress! I di'n't go. Wouldn't let m'wife go neither."

Ozzie hung his head and said no more, and Qwilleran thought, He'd be shocked if he saw her!

After a silence during which they munched their burgers, Qwilleran said, "The woman who takes care of Florrie could pick you up some afternoon and bring you back. Her name is Mrs. Robinson."

There was no response from Ozzie.

"Mrs. Robinson has a video of you driving No.9 for the Party Train. She'd be glad to show it to you."

"Like t'see that! Fred and Billy, they'd like t'see it, too."

"Who are they?"

"Fred Ooterhans, fireman, and Billy Poole, brakeman. We worked together since I-don't-know-when. We was the best crew on the SC&L. Still together at the Center, playin' cards, shootin' the breeze."

Qwilleran paid the tab and said, "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Ozzie. Thank you for the interview."

"Gonna print it in the book?"

"That's my intention. And don't be surprised if you get a call from Mrs. Robinson."

Shared weekends had always been important to Qwilleran and Polly, ever since he lost his way in a blizzard and stumbled into her country cottage looking like a snowman with a moustache. And yet, weekends were losing their savor, and he blamed it on Polly's house. In an effort to restore some of the magic, however, he proposed Saturday night dinner at the Palomino Paddock in Lockmaster, a five- star, five-thousand-calorie restaurant.

Polly was surprised and pleased. "What is the occasion?"

"You don't know it, but we're exchanging our vows tonight," he said. "You're vowing to stop worrying about your house, and I'm vowing to end the Cold War with Bootsie."

"I'll wear my opals," she said, entering into the spirit of the occasion.

The Paddock was a mix of sophistication and hayseed informality, decorated with bales of straw and photographs of Thoroughbreds. The servers were young equestrians, fresh from a day of riding, eventing, jumping, or hunting. The chef-owner lived on a two-hundred- acre horsefarm.

Seated in a stall, Polly and Qwilleran drank to their new resolve - she with a glass of sherry and he with a glass of Squunk water.

He said, "Don't forget, the play opens Thursday evening, and I have four tickets. We can have dinner with the Rikers."

"Who's playing my namesake?" Polly had been named Hippolyta by a parent who was a Shakespeare scholar.

"Carol Lanspeak. Who else?"

"She's not very Amazonian."

"She doesn't look like a fairy queen, either, but she's doubling as Titania." He pronounced Titania to rhyme with Britannia.

"According to my father, Qwill, Shakespeare took Titania from Ovid and undoubtedly used the Elizabethan pronunciation of the Latin, which would be Tie-tain-ia."

"Try that on Moose County for size," Qwilleran quipped. "Did your father ever explain Hold, or cut bowstrings?"

"He said that etymologists have been debating its source for two centuries. I could look it up for you."

"No thanks. Sometimes it's more fun not to know.... By the way, I've uncovered another Hermia case: a father who forbade his daughter to marry the man of her choice, disowning her when she disobeyed, and forbidding his wife ever to mention their daughter's name."

"Shakespeare at least had a happy ending. Is there more to your story?"

"There may be. Meanwhile, I've been reading the play aloud, and Koko gets excited whenever I mention Hermia. He also knocked Androcles and the Lion off the shelf - not one of Shaw's best, but I enjoyed reading it again. I played the lion when I was in college. It was a good role; no lines to learn."

"What else have you been reading?"

"A mind-boggling book on the engineering of the Panama Canal. Do you realize the Big Ditch took ten years to complete? It's forty miles long, and they dug out 240 million cubic yards of earth!"

She listened in a daze, and Qwilleran knew she was wondering how many cubic yards of earth would be necessary to build a berm on her property.

He rattled on, doubting that she was really listening. "The book was written by Colonel Goethals, the engineer in charge. It was published in 1916. The flyleaf of my copy was inscribed by Euphonia Gage to her father-in-law. It was a Christmas present. He would be Junior Goodwinter's great-grandfather. I'll give the book to Junior when I've finished reading it."

"That will be nice," Polly mused. When it was time to order from the menu, Qwilleran had no problem in making a choice: she - crab soup, an appetizer of mushrooms stuffed with spinach and goat cheese, a Caesar salad, and sea scallops with sun-dried tomatoes, basil, and saffron cream on angel hair pasta. Polly ordered grouper with no soup, no appetizer, and no salad.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked anxiously. She tended to keep her ailments a secret.

"Well, I've been plagued with indigestion lately," she confessed, as if it were a character flaw. "I have an appointment with Dr. Diane this week."

He thought, She's getting ulcers over that damned house!

Polly seemed to enjoy her spartan dinner and seemed to be having a good time. And yet, Qwilleran sensed a curtain between them. She was really thinking about her house, and he, to tell the truth, was really thinking about the briefing of his secret agent.

Celia arrived at the barn Sunday evening in a flurry of smiles and youthful exuberance. "I had a wonderful weekend!" she cried. "I attended service at the little Stone Church and met the pastor during the coffee hour in the basement. The choir leader said she could use another voice, and everyone was so friendly! Then Virginia took me to Black Creek to meet her folks, and we had a lovely brunch. I know I'm going to like it here, Chief."

"Good!" he said. "Make yourself comfortable while I concoct an exotic drink."

While he opened cans of pineapple juice and grapefruit juice, Celia found the wooden whistle on the coffee table and blew a few toots. "This takes me back!" she said. "When I was little and living on a farm, I could hear train whistles blowing all the time. That was to warn people to get off the tracks. Anybody who didn't have a car or a truck used to walk the rails to get to the next town." She sipped her drink. "My! This is good! What did you put in it?"

"I never reveal my culinary secrets," Qwilleran replied pompously.

"In the newspaper the police say they're investigating the scandal. Aren't they getting anywhere?"

"They do things their way, Celia, and we do things our way. We're searching for answers to questions, not hard evidence, which is what they have to have. That's why any scraps of information you pick up at The Roundhouse will help solve the puzzle."

"Something's bothering me, Chief. I feel guilty because I'm sort of... spying on Tish and Florrie."

"No need to feel that way. You're giving them something they desperately need: friendship, warmth, and sympathy, and at the same time helping to bring a criminal to justice. Just remember not to sound like an interrogator; keep the conversation chatty. Talk about your grandson, and ask Tish about her grandparents. Talk about your brothers, and inquire about hers."

Celia laughed at this. "I'll never go to heaven, Chief, after telling so many lies for you. I only had sisters."

"St. Peter will understand this ignoble means to a noble end. You must also bear in mind, Celia, that Tish may be lying to you; she may be part of the scam."

"Oh, my! That's hard to believe!"

"Nevertheless, keep your wits about you. It would be interesting to know what they're doing for money. Tish is laid off; all credit union deposits are frozen; her father has disappeared; that house must be costly to maintain, to say nothing of the cost of nursing care and medication. Did Floyd provide for the family before decamping? Did he keep a safe in the house? Is that where he kept his ill-gotten gains? Or did he have millions stashed in a suitcase under the bed?"

Celia laughed uproariously. "Now you're really kidding, Chief. How could I find out stuff like that?"

"They're merely questions to keep in the back of your head. How did Tish feel about the secretary who absconded with Floyd? The attorney has instructed them not to talk about the case, but if you can get her to break down, find out what kind of work she did at the Lumbertown office. Did she suspect tampering with the books? If so, did fear of her father prevent her from reporting it? Perhaps... Tish was the one who blew the whistle. This is all long-range probing, of course."

"It's going to be so much fun!" Celia said in great glee.

"Then let's confer again tomorrow evening."

"Do you mind if it's later than usual? Choir practice is Monday nights at seven."

"Not at all. Call me at your convenience," Qwilleran said as he escorted her to the parking area. "How's your little car running?"

"Just fine! It gets good mileage, and I love the color!"

After the red car had driven away, Qwilleran walked the floor to collect his thoughts - through the much-used library area, the seldom-used dining area, the spacious foyer, the comfortable lounge, and back to the library. Twenty-eight laps equalled one mile, Derek Cuttlebrink had computed in one of his goofy moments. Whenever Qwilleran traversed this inside track, both cats would fall into line behind him, marching with tails at twelve o'clock.

Around and around the fireplace cube the three of them traipsed, the man feeling like a Pied Piper without pipes. On the sixth lap he noticed the twistletwig rocker in front of the fireplace cube, its intricately bent willow twigs silhouetted against the white wall. According to Elizabeth Hart, one could sit in the grotesque piece of furniture and expect to think profound thoughts. What Qwilleran needed at the moment was a little profundity, and he undertook to test her theory.

He slid into the rocker's inviting contours gingerly, not quite trusting it to bear his weight. When there was no sign of collapse, he relaxed and began to rock, slowly at first, and then more vigorously. The action attracted Koko, who circled him three times and then leaped lightly into his lap. This was surprising; Koko was not a lap-sitter.

"Well, young man, what's this all about?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yow!" Koko replied as he started to dig in the crook of Qwilleran's elbow. Yum Yum sometimes gave a few casual digs before settling down, but Koko was excavating with zeal. His claws were retracted, but his paws were powerful. Could this be blamed on the twistletwig mystique?

"Who do you think you are?" Qwilleran demanded. "Digger O'Dell? Colonel Goethals? This is not the Panama Canal!"

The cat stopped for a few moments, then resumed his chore with increased energy. The game was not only ridiculous; it verged on the painful.

"Ouch! Enough!" Qwilleran protested. "Hold or cut bowstrings!"