Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"If he could tell me some good railroad stories, I'd interview him - not for the 'Qwill Pen.' I want to write a book on the Steam Age of railroading."

"Well, he's in his eighties, but in good shape and mentally sharp. We got a doctor's okay before letting him drive No.9. He lives at the Railroad Retirement Center in Mudville," Dwight said as he stepped into his car. There was a packet on the seat, which he handed to Qwilleran. "Here's the video of our train ride. Run it and see if you think we could sell copies to benefit the college."

"Thanks. I'll do that," Qwilleran said, "and... uh... keep it under your hat, Dwight, about the railroad book. I'll be using a pseudonym, and I haven't told anyone but you." The two men went their separate ways.

At home Qwilleran looked up the phone number of the Railroad Retirement Center; the address was on Main Street. Then he checked the Trackside Tavern. First, out of curiosity, he called the bar.

"Not open!" the man's harried voice shouted into the phone before slamming the receiver.

At the Retirement Center the male switchboard operator paged Ozzie Penn and tracked him down in the TV room.

"Hello? Who is it?" said a reedy voice with the surprise and apprehension of one who never receives a phone call.

"Good evening, Mr. Penn," Qwilleran said slowly and distinctly. "1 was one of the passengers on the Party Train when you drove old No. 9. We all had a good time. That engine's a wonderful piece of machinery."

"Yep, she be a beaut!"

"My name is James Mackintosh, and I'm writing a book on the old days of railroading. Would you be willing to talk to me? You've had a long and honorable career, and I'm sure you know plenty of stories."

"That I do," said the old man. "Plenty!"

"May I visit you at the Center? Is there a quiet place where we can talk? You'll receive payment for your time, of course. I'd like to drive out there tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Saturday."

"What be yer name again?"

"Mackintosh. James Mackintosh. How about one o'clock?"

"I ain't goin' no place."

As Qwilleran replaced the receiver, he thought, This old man speaks a fascinating kind of substandard English that will fade out in another generation. Eddie Trevelyan's speech was simply the bad grammar common in Moose County. Ozzie Penn spoke Old Moose.

"May I use your TV?" Qwilleran asked the Siamese, who had been watching him talk into the inanimate instrument. The telephone was something even Koko had never understood.

The three of them trooped to the highest balcony, furnished to feline taste with soft carpet, cushioned baskets, empty boxes, a ladder, scratching pads and posts, and a small TV with VCR. There was one chair which the cats commandeered, while Qwilleran sat on the floor to watch the video.

It was a festive collage of important people arriving at the depot and milling about on the platform, with the camera lingering on certain subjects: woman with large hat, man with oversized moustache, woman in expensive-looking pantsuit, man in Scottish tartan. (Koko yowled at certain images for no apparent reason.) The car valets jumped around like red devils. The brass band tootled. Then the great No.9 came puffing around a curve, blowing its whistle. The elderly engineer leaned from his cab; two firemen posed in the gangway with their shovels. Then the conductor bawled the destinations, and feet mounted the yellow step-stool. When the diners drank a toast in ice water, Qwilleran thought, It was symbolic!

Although the camera occasionally panned picturesque stretches of countryside, the emphasis was on the passengers, who might be induced to buy the video to benefit the college. Qwilleran rewound the tape, thanked the Siamese for the use of their facilities, and went down the ramp to greet Celia Robinson.

Her face was lively with smiles, and her large handbag produced a box of chocolate chip cookies. "We can have a party. They're good with milk. Do you have any milk, Chief?"

"No, only a milk substitute called black coffee," he apologized, "but I'm a master at its preparation." With a grand flourish he pressed a button on the computerized coffeemaker, which started the grinding, gurgling, and dripping. The brew that resulted was good, Celia said, but awfully strong.

As they sat down with their coffee and cookies, Qwilleran said to her in an ominous tone of voice, "Celia, you're being tailed by the police."

"What!" she cried. "What have I done?"

"Only kidding; don't be alarmed. The police chief has seen your red car in the parking lot and knows you're living in the carriage house, and the detectives staking out the Trevelyan property know you've visited The Roundhouse.

Next, they'll see you driving through the Black Forest for these meetings."

"Should I get my car painted?"