Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

A new feature on the front page was a column of brief news items of twenty-five words or less, each preceded by a single word in caps: ARRESTED, or HONORED, or LEAVING, or PROMOTED. Other newspapers labeled such a column "Briefs" or "Shorts." Hixie Rice, who had been responsible for naming the paper the Something, wanted to call the new front- page column "Undies." The editorial committee decided, however, on "Bites."

Qwilleran read the third bite:

SHOT: Police are investigating the shooting of a watchdog in West Middle Hummock Sunday night. The animal was penned in a dog-run on Floyd Trevelyan's estate.

"What do you deduce from this?" he asked Junior.

That victims of the embezzlement are finally transferring their hostility from the government to the embezzler. Roger's been hanging out in Mudville coffee shops, and he says the emotions range from gloomy self-pity to vengeful rage. Someone was trying to get back at Floyd by killing his dog."

"Stupid!" Qwilleran murmured.

"And now read the first letter on the ed page,

To the Editor:

I am writing in behalf of the Sawdust City High School Summer Camp Fund, which enables seniors to spend a week in the woods, living with nature, studying ecology, and learning to share. For twenty-four years this has been a tradition at oar school.

This year forty-seven students have spent their junior year selling cookies, washing cars, chopping wood, and cleaning garages to earn money for the camping experience. They deposited their earnings regularly in the Lumbertown Credit Union and watched them earn interest - a worthwhile lesson in thrift and financial management. Next week they were to shoulder their backpacks, hike into the woods, and pitch their tents.

How can we explain to them that there will be no campout for the new senior class? How can we explain that $2,234.43 of their own money is being withheld by order of the government?

Elda Mayfus-Jones Faculty Sponsor SCHSSCF

Qwilleran finished reading and said irritably, "Why doesn't Ms. Mayfus-Jones just tell them their uncle Floyd is a crook, and he spent their $2,234.43 on toy trains to run around his office lobby?"

"You're in a grouchy mood today," Junior said. "I thought the K Foundation could afford to stake these kids to the money until their deposits are released."

"The Foundation could afford to send all forty-seven brats on a round-the- world cruise!" Qwilleran snapped. "All they have to do is apply. It's in the telephone book under K.

That's between J and L." He started to leave without finishing his coffee.

"Hey!" Junior called after him with a grin. "If the kids get their money, you can go camping with them for a week and write a 'Qwill Pen' series!"

Qwilleran stomped from the room. As he passed the publisher's office, Riker beckoned to him. "I've just been talking to Brodie. How come they haven't caught that guy? They nabbed the Florida crooks right away, and they were pros! Floyd is only a small-town conniver. Why haven't they found him?"

"They'll never find him."

"What makes you think so? Do you know something we don't know?"

Qwilleran shrugged. "Just a hunch." If he were to mention Koko's input, it would only lead to an argument. Riker thought he took the cat's abstract messages too seriously. "You seem to be giving the scandal a lot of space, Arch."

"We're trying to keep the public outrage alive, spur the manhunt, and goad the banking commission into action. Our stories are being picked up by major newspapers around the state. We've assigned Roger to the Mudville beat exclusively until something breaks, one way or the other... So!... Where are you going from here, Qwill?"

"Home."

"How's Polly's house progressing?"

"Slowly, and that's what concerns me, Arch. She worries about it too much. She worries unnecessarily. I'm afraid she's headed for a nervous collapse."

His friend nodded sympathetically.

"Polly's so desk-bound that she's not getting any exercise - not even fresh air. She didn't even want to go bird watching yesterday."

"Are you bringing her to the game tonight?" Riker asked.

"Are you kidding? That's the last thing in the world she'd want to do!"

Chatting with his old friend bolstered Qwilleran's flagging spirits somewhat, and walking a few miles helped dispel his gloom. He took the long way home and, in doing so, passed the photo studio of John Bushland. His van was in the parking lot, meaning that the photographer was shooting a subject in the studio or developing film in the darkroom.

Bushy, as the nearly bald young man liked to be called, was a recent transplant from Lockmaster, and it was evident that he was doing well. The van was new. The lobby, it was obvious, had been professionally designed. On the walls were framed photographs from Bushy's prize-winning Scottish series. There was even a receptionist in the lobby, and she was not bad-looking. True, she seemed to be doing invoices and correspondence as well as phones, but she was a pleasant addition to the lobby.