Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

Without a word Trevelyan went into the train room and returned with a framed photo of No.9. "Four small wheels in front keep the engine on the rails. The six big babies with piston rods are the drivin' wheels; they deliver the power. The two in back hold up the firebox and the engineer's cab. Dwight tells me you signed up for the first run. Tell him to show you through my PV; it's a palace on wheels!... How long did you know Dwight?"

"Ever since he arrived from Down Below. He's a real pro - knows his job - good personality."

"Yeah, nice fella... How come he isn't married?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask him?" Qwilleran replied in a genial tone that masked his annoyance at the prying question. Then he changed the subject. "There's a town south of Pickax called Wildcat, and I often wondered why. Any railroad connection?"

"Sure is! A runaway train was wrecked on the trestle bridge there in 1908 - worst wreck ever! Old railroaders still talk about it."

"Are their recollections being recorded?" Qwilleran asked. "Is there a railroad library in Sawdust City? Are any old engineers still living?" He was feeling an old familiar urge. With a little research and some oral histories from retired railroad personnel, plus stories handed down in their families, he could write a book! It would capture the horror of train wrecks as well as the nostalgia of the Steam Era when trains were the glamorous mode of transportation and locomotive engineers were the folk heroes. Homer Tibbitt, who had grown up on a farm, still remembered the haunting sound of a steam whistle in the middle of the night. He said it had filled him with loneliness and nameless desires. He doubted that it could be equaled today by the honking of a diesel, or the roar of a jet, or the whining tires of an eighteen- wheeler on a freeway.

"Ready for another drink?" the host asked. "I am."

Qwilleran declined, saying he had to meet a newspaper deadline, but on his way out of the house he asked casually, "Do you happen to know a Trevelyan who's a house builder?"

"My son," was the prompt reply. "Just starting out on his own."

"Does he know his stuff? A friend of mine is thinking of hiring him."

"Sure, he's a whizbang! learned the trade from me. I taught him the whole works. I said to both my kids: The trick is to start early and work hard. That's what I did."

"You have another son?"

"A girl. She took bookkeep in' in high school. Works in my office now."

Strange family situation, Qwilleran thought as he drove away from The Roundhouse. There was the unkempt president of a successful family business. Then there was the undistinguished furniture in a pretentious house. And how about the shabbily treated woman in a state-of-the- art wheelchair? Who was she? She seemed too old to be his wife, too young to be his mother. Was she a poor relative or former housekeeper living on his charity? In any case, the man should have made some sort of introduction or at least acknowledged her presence. The financial success that had vaulted him from Sawdust City to West Middle Hummock had hardly polished his rough edges.

On the way home Qwilleran stopped at Toodles' Market for a frozen dinner and six ounces of sliced turkey breast. He was not surprised when Yum Yum met him at the kitchen door, slinking flirtatiously, one dainty forepaw in front of the other.

"There she is! Miss Cat America!" he said. "Where's your sidekick? Where's Koko?"

The other cat came running, and the two of them sang for their supper - a duet of baritone yowls and coloratura trills, the latter more like shrieks. After Qwilleran had diced their favorite treat and arranged it on their favorite plate, Koko made a dive for it, but Yum Yum looked at the plate sourly and veered away with loweredhead.

Qwilleran was alarmed. Was she ill? Had she found a bug and eaten it? Was it a hair ball? Had she swallowed a rubber band? He picked her up gently and asked, "What's wrong with my little sweetheart?" She looked at him with large eyes filled with reproach.

Meanwhile, Koko had polished off two- thirds of the repast, leaving the usual one-third for his partner. Qwilleran, with Yum Yum still in his arms, picked up the plate and placed it on the kitchen counter. Immediately she squirmed from his grasp, landed on the counter, and devoured the turkey.

"Cats!" he muttered. "They drive you crazy!"

-3-

Qwilleran wrote a thousand words about Floyd Trevelyan's model trains and walked downtown to the office of the Moose County Something to file his copy. Junior Goodwinter had a managing editor's ability to read at the rate of fifty words a second, and he scanned the "Qwill Pen" copy in its entirety before Qwilleran could pour himself a cup of coffee.

"You seem pretty enthusiastic about this guy's trains," the editor said.

"The trick is to sound that way whether you are or not," Qwilleran retorted. "I like to increase the reader's pulse beat.... Actually, I was impressed by the train layout but not enthusiastic."