Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" the publicity man wailed. "What the hell's going on? I didn't hear the news until this morning, on the air. I called Floyd's number in West Middle Hummock, but he wasn't home."

"Who answered?"

"His wife. She sounded as if she didn't know anything had happened, and I didn't want to be the messenger bringing bad news."

"I didn't meet his wife when I was there."

"She usually stays in her room, confined to a wheelchair. I don't know exactly what her problem is, but it's one of those new diseases with a multisyllabic name and no known cure. What a shame! All that money, and she can't enjoy it."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran murmured with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. "So what happened? Could she tell you where he was or when he'd be back?"

"Well, she's quite frail and speaks in a weak voice that's hard to understand, but I gathered that he came home last night and went out again. Just between you and me, I think it's not unusual for him to stay out all night. Anyway, the nurse took the phone away from Mrs. T and told me not to upset her patient. So I asked to speak to the daughter, but she wasn't home either. The way it works: A nurse comes every morning, a companion every afternoon, and the daughter stays with her mother overnight."

"Sad situation," Qwilleran said. "Do you know anything about matters in Sawdust City?"

"No more than you do. You know, Qwill, I worked my tail off, getting that show on the road yesterday - "

"And you did a brilliant job, Dwight. Everything was perfectly coordinated."

"And then this bomb dropped! Talk about suspicious timing! It couldn't be purely coincidental."

"Is Floyd mixed up in politics?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Has he made any enemies in the state bureaucracy? Did he support the wrong candidate for the legislature?"

"Not that I know of. Maybe he distributed a little judicious graft here and there; he had no trouble getting a liquor license for the train, you know. But no. He's bored with politics. If it doesn't have steel wheels and run on steel tracks, he's not interested."

Qwilleran said, "I'm sorry about this for your sake, Dwight. Let's hope it's a false alarm."

"Yeah... well... it was a kick in the head for me, after I'd tried so hard to create a favorable image for Floyd and Lumbertown and Sawdust City."

"One question: Was Floyd a passenger on the six o'clock train?"

"No, he had to go home and take care of his wife - he said! I went on both runs, and I've had enough accordion music to last my lifetime!"

"Arch has the staff digging for facts, so it'll be in the first edition if anything develops. If you hear any rumors, feel free to bounce them off a sympathetic ear. And good luck, whatever the outcome, Dwight."

"Thanks for calling, Qwill. How about lunch later in the week when I've finished licking my wounds?"

When the Moose County Something appeared, the front page was not what Qwilleran had been led to expect. The Party Train had the banner headline:

JOY IN MUDVILLE OLD No.9 ROLLS AGAIN!

The Lumbertown crisis was played down with only a stickful of type in a lower corner of the page: Sawdust C.V. Closed for Audit. Either there was no alarming development, or the editor had chosen not to throw the depositors into panic. That was small-town newspaper policy. Riker, with his background on large metropolitan dailies, preferred the eye-grabbing, heartstopping, hair-raising headline; Junior Goodwinter, born and bred 400 miles north of everywhere, had other ideas, rooted in local custom. He always said, "Don't try to make bad news worse."

Qwilleran was pondering this viewpoint over a ham sandwich at Lois's Luncheonette when Roger MacGillivray blustered into the restaurant and flung himself into the booth where Qwilleran was reading the paper. "I suppose you're wondering why we didn't play it up," the young reporter said.

"You're right. I did... Why?"

"Because there was nothing to report! Junior was stonewalled when he called the commission, and no one in Mudville would talk to me. Two state vehicles were parked behind the Lumbertown building, and there was a notice plastered on the front door with some legal gobbledy-gook, but the doors were locked front and back, and the dirty dogs completely ignored my knocking. Also they refused to answer when I called from a phone booth. Before I left, I got a shot of the building exterior with some old geezers standing on the sidewalk in a huddle. I also got a close-up of the official notice on the door, and another one of the license plate on a state car.... How's that for brilliant photojournalism?" he finished with a bitter laugh.

"They didn't use any photos," Qwilleran said, tapping his newspaper."

"I know, but you have to hand in something, just so they know you've been there."

"Could you see through the window?"

"I could see auditors at work stations, that's all. But then I talked to the old geezers and got some man-on- the-street stuff, which I phoned in, and which they didn't print."