Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"Maybe later," Qwilleran said encouragingly. "What did the old geezers say?"

"Well! It was an eye-opener, I thought. First of all, they like Floyd. He's the local boy who was captain of the high school football team, started to work as a carpenter, and made millions! They like the interest he pays. They like the electric trains in the lobby. They think this underhanded action on the part of vipers in the state capitol is unfair and probably in violation of the Constitution. They don't trust government agencies."

"Did you try to reach Floyd's secretary?"

"Yeah, but no luck. When I asked the old geezers about her, they sniggered like schoolkids. Anyway, they told me she lives in Indian Village, so I phoned out there. No answer. I went to Floyd's house. He wasn't there, and no one would talk or even open the door more than an inch. It's been a frustrating day so far, Qwill. On days like this I'd like to be back in the school system, teaching history to kids who couldn't care less."

After his conversation with Roger, Qwilleran did a few errands before returning home. Whenever he walked about downtown, he was stopped by strangers who read the "Qwill Pen" or recognized him from the photo at the top of his column. They always complimented him on his

writing and his moustache, not necessarily in that order. In the beginning he had welcomed reader comments, hoping to learn something of value, but his expectations were crushed by the nature of their remarks:

"I loved your column yesterday, Mr. Q. I forget what it was about, but it was very good."

"How do you think all that stuff up?"

"My cousin in Delaware writes for a paper. Would you like me to send you some of her clippings?"

"Why do you spell your name like that?"

Now, whenever he was complimented, he would express his thanks without making eye contact; it was eye contact that led to monologues about out-of-state relatives. Instead, he would say a pleased thank-you and turn his head aside as if modestly savoring the compliment. He had become a master at the gracious turnoff. Fifty percent of the time it worked.

On this day the situation was quite different. While he was waiting in line to cash a check at the Pickax People's Bank, a security guard hailed him. "Hi, Mr. Q."

Immediately the young woman ahead of him in the line turned and said, "You're Mr. Qwilleran! Reading your column is like listening to music! Whatever the subject, your style of writing makes me feel good." There was not a word about his moustache.

Surprised and pleased, he made eye contact with a plain young woman of serious mien, probably in her early twenties. "Thank you," he said graciously without turning away. "I write my column for readers like you. Apparently you know something about the craft. Are you a teacher?"

"No, just a constant reader. I have one of your columns pasted on my mirror. You gave three rules for would-be writers: write, write, and write. I'm a would-be, and I'm following your advice." There was not a word about sending him a manuscript for evaluation and advice.

"Have you thought of enrolling at the new college?" he asked. "They're offering some writing courses... and there are scholarships available," he added, with a glance at her plain and well-worn shirt, her lack of makeup, her limp canvas shoulder bag.

"I'd like to do that, but I'm rather tied down right now."

"Then I wish you well, Ms.... what is your name?"

Her hesitant reply was mumbled. It sounded like Letitia Pen.

"P-e-n-n, as in Pennsylvania?" he asked and I added with humorous emphasis, "Is that a pen name?"

"It's my own name, unfortunately," she said with a grimace. "I hate 'Letitia.' "

"I know what you mean. My parents named me Merlin, and my best friend was Archibald. As Merlin and Archibald we suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous first-graders."

"It's not as terrible as Letitia and Lionella, though. That's the name of my best friend."

"At least you could do a nightclub act. Can you sing? Dance? Tell jokes?"

Letitia giggled. The two of them were the only ones in the bank line who were enjoying the wait. The man behind Qwilleran cleared his throat loudly. The bank teller rapped on the counter to get Letitia's attention and said, "Next!"

Ms. Penn turned and stepped quickly to the window, saying a soft "I'm sorry."

Qwilleran advanced a few steps also, shortening the long line behind them; the bank was always rushed on Mondays and Fridays. Ahead of him his constant reader seemed to be withdrawing a substantial sum. He could see over her shoulder. The teller counted the bills twice.

"Fifty, a hundred, hundred-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty..."

"I'd like an envelope for that," said Ms. Penn.

"There you are," said the teller. "Have a nice day, Ms. Trevelyan." "Constant reader" stuffed the money into her shoulder bag and left the bank hurriedly.