The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-15-

The Friday edition of the Moose County Something carne off the presses two hours early, following the episode at Wildcat. The banner headline read:

TRAIN WRECKED IN BLACK CREEK No.9 and Party Train Crash After Whittling Joyride

The fabled engine No.9 roared at top speed through the village of Wildcat Thursday night before plunging down a steep grade and around a treacherous curve. It derailed and crashed into the muddy water of Black Creek. One person was killed. Forty were injured, some seriously.

The ill-fated run, unscheduled and allegedly unauthorized, left the switch- yard at Sawdust City about 9:15, according to witnesses. It raced south with whistle blowing through Kennebeck, Pickax, and Little Hope, narrowly missing a consist of 20 freight cars being shunted at Black Creek Junction.

Residents of Wildcat heard the continuous screaming whistle that signified a runaway train and rushed to the cross-roads in time to see the last car hurtling down the grade. Signals to slow down are clearly posted on the approach to Wildcat. An investigation is under way to determine whether the accident was due to mechanical failure or human error.

In either case the SC&L disclaims responsibility, a spokesman for the railroad said, since the Party Train was privately owned and berthed on a private siding.

At presstime, the reason for the unexpected run had not been ascertained. A spokesman for the Lockmaster County sheriff's department called the ill-fated run "a joyride for railroad nuts who knew how to shovel coal."

The Party Train is known to be the property of Floyd Trevelyan, who is wanted on charges of fraud in connection with the Lumbertown Credit Union. The crew and passengers were all residents of the Railroad Retirement Center in Sawdust City. The only fatality was the engineer, Oswald Penn, 84, retired after 50 years with SC&L. He had an outstanding safety record. He was Trevelyan's father-in-law.

Passengers and other crew members jumped to save their lives before the crash. Eighteen sustained injuries requiring hospitalization; 22 were treated and released. They were being questioned by investigators. Conspiracy has not been ruled out.

A paramedic on the scene said, "All these old fellows are long past retirement age. Looks like they wanted to make one last jump. They didn't know their bones are getting brittle. We've got a lot of fracture cases here."

Emergency medical teams, volunteer rescue squads, and volunteer firefighters from Lockmaster, Black Creek Junction, Flapjack, and Little Hope responded. The sheriffs of two counties were assisted by state police. SC&L wrecking equipment was brought from Flapjack to clear the right- of-way for northbound and southbound freight consists.

The Black Creek trestle bridge itself was not damaged, but tracks and ties are being replaced. A repair foreman on the scene said, "The train was traveling so fast, it tore off the curved tracks and made them straight as a telephone pole. Man, that's real whinlin'."

Twelve hours before the headlines hit the street, Riker and Qwilleran drove away from the wreckage with divided reactions. One was exhilarated; the other was troubled.

Riker conjectured that the train was stolen by depositors defrauded by Trevelyan, who were indulging in a senseless act of revenge. It was ironic, he said, that the embezzler's father-in- law lost his life, trapped in the cab and scalded to death by the steam. Why didn't he jump, like the others? The alleged thieves knew what they were doing; the engine was fueled with plenty of coal and water for a short high-speed run.

Qwilleran, on the other hand, had privileged information that he could not divulge without exposing Operation Whistle. His professional instincts required him to tell Riker what he knew, but it would all be revealed in the end.

Meanwhile, he had to protect his private mission - and Celia's part in it, for that matter. He had no doubt that Ozzie had intended to "go out whittlin' " and never intended to jump. He wondered if the old man had consciously wanted to re-enact the famous 1908 wreck at Wildcat, hoping to go down in railroad history. While Riker had been flashing his press credentials on the embankment, Qwilleran had been talking quietly with the survivors. They balked at talking to the press, but Qwilleran introduced himself as a friend of Ozzie's. There were no secrets at the Retirement Center. They had heard all about this "Mackintosh feller from Chicago," who had interviewed Ozzie for a book he was writing and who had bought him two shots and a burger at the Jump-Off Bar. Now they all related the same story: The idea had come up suddenly, the day before, during a huddle at the bar. Ozzie Penn had said it would be a helluva joke to steal the train and wreck it. He would drive the hog, and he'd need a crew of three to keep up a good head of steam for a fast run. Anyone else could go along for the ride, unless he was too old to jump. Everyone would be expected to jump before the hog hit the curve north of the bridge. They all knew how to jump. Now - waiting on the embankment, fortified by a good dose of painkiller - they had no regrets. It was the most excitement they'd had in years!

They had known instinctively that Ozzie would not jump. He'd keep his hand on the throttle no matter what, and to hell with the reverse bar. He was a brave man. He'd proved it in countless emergencies. He always said he didn't want to die in bed; he wanted to go out whittlin'. It gave Qwilleran a queasy feeling to realize that his own suggestion of a Penn family reunion had resulted in Ozzie's purchase of the train, Florrie's possible cure in Switzerland, the train's destruction, and Ozzie's death. Call it heroic or not, being scalded to death by steam was blood-chilling. Could it have been an old man's penance for abandoning his daughter so cruelly?

The next morning Qwilleran wrote his review of the play in time for the noon deadline and also dashed off the lyrics for a folksong, titled The Wreck of Old No.9. These he took to the Old Stone Mill when he went there for lunch. He asked to be seated in Derek's station.

"Good show last night," he told the tall waiter. "Best role you've ever done."

"Yeah, I was really up," the actor acknowledged.

"Did you hear about the train wreck on the radio this morning?"

"Nah. I slept in, but they're talking about it in the kitchen."

Qwilleran handed him an envelope. "Here's a new folksong to add to your collection. You can sing it to the tune of the Blizzard ballad." "Gee, thanks! Who wrote it?"

"Author unknown," said Qwilleran. He had done his bit to launch Ozzie Penn into the annals of local folk history. He knew Derek would sing it allover the county.

Another news item - one that would never be memorialized in song - appeared in the paper that day:

Edward Penn Trevelyan, 24, son of Floyd and Florence Trevelyan, died yesterday as a result of injuries suffered in a tractor accident. He had been on the critical list in Pickax Hospital since Monday.

Trevelyan was a resident of Indian Village and had recently started his own construction firm. He attended Pickax High School, where he played on the soccer team. He is survived by his parents and a sister, Letitia, at home. Funeral arrangements have not been announced

It was Polly's day off, and Qwilleran phoned her at home. He assumed she would have read the obituary and the account of the train wreck. She had read both, yet she seemed unperturbed by either.

"How's Bootsie?" he asked.

"He's glad to be home."

"You missed a good play last night."

"Perhaps I can go next weekend."

Something's wrong with her, Qwilleran thought; she's in another world. "Would you like to drive up to Mooseville and have dinner on the porch at the Northern Lights?" he asked.

"Thank you, Qwill, but I'm really not hungry."

"But you have to eat something, Polly."

"I'll just warm a bowl of soup."

"Want me to bring you a take-out from Lois's? Her chicken soup is the real thing!"

"I know, but I have plenty of soup in my freezer."

"Polly, aren't you feeling well? You sound rather down. Is it indigestion again? Did you tell Dr. Diane about your condition?"

"Yes, and she gave me a digestant, but she wants me to take some tests, and I dread that!"

"I think I should drive over there to cheer you up. You need some fresh daisies and a friendly shoulder."

"No, I just want to go to bed early. I'll be all right by morning; we have a big day at the library tomorrow. But thanks, dear."

Following that disturbing conversation, Qwilleran stayed in his desk chair, staring into space and wondering what to do, whom to call. Koko was on the desk, rubbing his jaw against Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and he said to him quietly, "That's a paperweight, friend - not a fang scraper."

Koko went on rubbing industriously. One never knew when he was trying to communicate and when he was just being a cat. There was the matter of the felt-tip pens he had been stealing recently - not red ones, not yellow, only black. Was it a coincidence that Polly had hired the black-haired, black-bearded Edward Penn Trevelyan? Penn was Florrie's maiden name. Tish's pen name was Letitia Penn. Koko's attempts to convey information - if that's what they were - failed to get through to Qwilleran. He went for a long bike ride to clear his head. It was good exercise, and he filled his lungs with fresh air, but no questions were answered.

When Celia arrived that evening, she flopped on, the sofa, dropped her shapeless handbag on the floor, and said, "Could you put a little something in the lemonade tonight, Chief? I need it!"

"I mix a tolerable Tom Collins," he said. "I take it you've had a hectic day."

"We've had two deaths in the family on the same day! Both funerals are on Saturday. The women leave for Switzerland on Sunday. Tish is upset! Florrie is hysterical!"

"Drink this and relax awhile," he said, presenting the tray. "Tell me what you thought of the play."

"I liked it! We both did. I had to read it in high school, but I'd never seen it on the stage. The greenies were fun - better than fairies. And I loved that young man who's so tall. Derek Cuttlebrink was the name in the program."

Qwilleran assured her that there was a whole village full of Cuttlebrinks. "They're all character~!" he said.

"That nice Mr. O'Dell was there with his daughter. He talked to us in the lobby. Charming Irish accent!" She looked around the barn. "This would make a good theatre - with people on the balconies and the stage on the main floor."

Qwilleran said, "Everyone wants to convert it into a theatre or a restaurant or a poor man's Guggenheim. You've never seen the view from up above. Let's take a walk. Bring your drink."

They climbed the ramps, and he showed her his studio, the guestroom, the cats' loft apartment, and the exposed beams where the Siamese did their acrobatics.

When they returned to ground level, Celia dug into her handbag for her notebook. "Well! Are you ready for this, Chief? Tish told me some terrible things after Eddie died. Do you think a dying man comes back to life just before his last breath?"

"Sometimes there's a moment of lucidity before death," he said. "Great men utter memorable last words, according to their biographers, and others reveal lifelong secrets."

"Well, here's what happened yesterday morning. It's lucky the nurse was at the house when the hospital called. Tish drove into town in a hurry. Eddie was slipping away, but she talked to him, and all of a sudden his eyes moved, and he struggled to speak - just snatches of this and that."

"Were you there?" Qwilleran asked.

"I was waiting outside the room. Tish told me about it after. We came back to my apartment for a cup of tea, and she began to cry. Eddie had been mixed up in more dreadful things than anyone guessed."

At that moment the telephone rang. "Excuse me," he said and took the call in the library.

A shaking voice said, "Qwill, take me to the hospital. I don't feel well."

"I'll be right there!" he said firmly. "Hang up! Hang up!" As soon as he heard the dial tone, he punched 911. Then he dashed to the back door, calling to Celia, "Emergency! Gotta leave! Let yourself out!"

He drove recklessly to Goodwinter Boulevard and arrived just ahead of the ambulance. Using his own key, he let the EMS team into the apartment and ran up the stairs ahead of them.

Polly was sitting in a straight chair, looking pale and frightened. "Chest pains," she said weakly. "My arms feel heavy."

While the paramedics put a pill under her tongue and attached the oxygen tube with nose clips, Qwilleran made a brief phone call.

She was being strapped onto the stretcher when she turned a pathetic face to him and said. "Bootsie - "

"Don't worry. I've called your sister- in-law. She'll take care of him. I'll follow the ambulance." He squeezed her hand. "Everything will be all right... sweetheart."

She gave him a grateful glance.

He was there at the hospital when Polly was admitted and when Lynette Duncan arrived shortly afterward. The two of them sat in a special waiting room and talked about Polly's recent worries.

"You know," Lynette confided, "before she visited that friend in Oregon and got hooked on the idea of building a house, I wanted her to come and share the old Duncan homestead. I just inherited it from my brother. He'd had it ever since our parents died. Polly was married to my younger brother. He was a volunteer fire- fighter and lost his life in a barn fire. Tragic! They were newlyweds. Maybe she told you. Anyway, now I own this big house, over a hundred years old, with large rooms and high ceilings. Really nice! But too big for me. I think Polly would love it, and Bootsie could run up and down stairs."

It was the kind of nervous, rambling chatter heard in hospital waiting rooms when relatives wait for the doctor's verdict.

Finally a young woman in a white coat appeared. Qwilleran held his breath.

"Mrs. Duncan is doing very well. Would you like to see her? I'm Diane Lanspeak; I happened to be a few blocks away when they brought her in."

Qwilleran said, "I know your parents. We're all glad to have you back in Pickax."

"Thank you. I've heard a lot about you. One question: the cardiologist may recommend a catheterization. It's well to take pictures and determine exactly what the situation is. A mild heart attack is a warning. If Mrs. Duncan needs help in making a decision, who will - ?"

"I'm her nearest relative," Lynette said, "but Mr. Qwilleran is - " She turned to look at him. No more needed to be said.

In the hospital room they found Polly looking peaceful for the first time in weeks, despite the clinical atmosphere and the tubes. They exchanged a few words, Polly speaking only about the capable paramedics, the kind nurses, the wonderful Dr. Diane.

When Qwilleran returned to the barn, Celia had gone, leaving a note: "Hope everything is okay. Call me if I can help."

The Siamese, unnaturally quiet, walked about in bewilderment; they knew when Qwilleran was deeply concerned, but not why. As soon as Qwilleran sat in the twistletwig rocker to calm his anxiety, Yum Yum hopped into his lap and comforted him with small, catly gestures: an extended paw, a sympathetic purr. Koko looked on with fellow-feeling, and when Qwilleran spoke to him, he squeezed his eyes.

The gentle rocking produced some constructive ideas: Polly would recover, move into the Duncan homestead, and forget about building a house. The K Foundation would reimburse Polly for her investment and complete the building as an art center. The Pickax Arts Council had been campaigning to get the carriage house for that purpose before Celia arrived.

As Qwilleran rocked and gazed idly about the lounge area, he caught sight of a small dark object on the light tile floor. His first thought: a dead mouse! Yet it was too geometric for that, more nearly resembling a large domino. Unwilling to leave the comforting embrace of the bent willow twigs, he tried to guess what the foreign object might be, but eventually he succumbed to curiosity.

"You'll have to excuse me for a minute, sweetheart," he said to Yum Yum as he hoisted himself out of the underslung rocker.

The unidentified object was the smallest of tape recorders, and the truth struck Qwilleran with suddenness: Celia's grandson had mailed it from Illinois; the cats had stolen it from her handbag; she had been secretly recording her meetings with Tish, in spite of his admonition. That explained her graphic reports and remarkable memory for details. She had transcribed the taped dialogue into her notebook, which she then consulted so innocently at their briefings. While admiring her initiative, he frowned at her noncompliance.

Nevertheless, he lost no time in playing the tape.