Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

Qwilleran checked the notes he had been taking. "It's not true, you know, that the Lumbertown Credit Union is only for railroad employees. Tish was trying to steer you away from the subject."

"I believe it. She's very cagey about certain things. Just before I left, I said to her, 'Florrie told me something I didn't understand. She said her husband stole some money and might go to jail. Was she out of her head?' When I said that, Tish got terribly flustered, saying there are some complications at his office, and no one knows for sure what it's all about. Then she froze up, so I didn't ask any more questions. We searched for Wrigley and found him crouched in his sandbox, as if it was the only safe place in the house. They want me to take him again on Monday, but... Oh! Look at the parade!" she squealed, pointing to the top of the fireplace cube.

Soberly Qwilleran said, "Left to right, their names are Quack, Whistle, Squawk, Yum Yum, and Koko."

The two cats were in perfect alignment with the decoys, folded into compact bundles that made them look like sitting ducks.

"You can't tell me " he said "that cats don't have a sense of humor!"

Celia's explosive laughter disturbed the masquerade, and the two "live" ducks jumped to the floor. "I'm sorry, kitties," she apologized. "I've always heard that cats don't like to be laughed at.... Well, that's all I have to report. I'd better go home and see if Wrigley is recovering from his scare."

As Qwilleran escorted her to the parking area, he said, "I may devise a new strategy this weekend. Shall we get together for a briefing Sunday evening?"

"Okay with me, Chief," she said blithely.

Back at the barn, another pantomime was in progress. Koko was on the telephone desk, pushing the English pencil box with his nose, pushing it toward the edge of the desk.

"NO!" Qwilleran thundered. Rushing to the spot, he caught the antique treasure before it landed on the clay tile floor. "Bad cat!"

Koko flew up the ramp in a blur of fur.

-11-

For his interview with Ozzie Penn, Qwilleran went equipped with his usual tape recorder plus some snapshots of No.9 making her comeback on Audit Sunday, as the newspaper called it. Before leaving, he trimmed his moustache somewhat and hoped he would look more like James Mackintosh, author, than Jim Qwilleran, columnist.

The Railroad Retirement Center was directly across Main Street from the Trackside Tavern, still closed. Two police vehicles were parked at the curb, one obviously from the forensic lab. The Center, formerly a railroad hotel, was a three-story brick building without such unnecessary details as porches, shutters, or ornamental roof brackets.

When Qwilleran walked into the lobby, it was vacant except for a young male telephone operator at the switchboard. Behind him was a bank of pigeonholes for mail and messages, with a room number on each; all were empty. The lobby was clean, one could say that for it. Brown walls, brown floors, and brown wood furniture gleamed with high-gloss varnish, reminding Qwilleran of a press club Down Below that occupied a former jail. Through double glass doors he could see a television screen, lively with colorful commercials. Several elderly men sat around it, staring or dozing. A few others were playing cards.

"Are you Mr. Mackintosh?" the operator asked. "Ozzie's waiting for you. Room 203. Elevator down the hall; stairs at the back."

Qwilleran trusted his knees more than he trusted the grim-looking elevator with folding metal gate. He chose to walk up the brown varnished stairwell to a brown hallway, where he knocked on the brown door of 203. It opened immediately, and there stood the old engineer he remembered from Audit Sunday - a big, husky man, though slightly stooped. He had changed, however, since the debut of No.9. The ruddy face that had beamed with pride in the window of the engineer's cab was now gray and weary.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Penn. I'm the one who's writing a book on railroading in the Age of Steam. Mackintosh is the name."

"Come in. I been waitin'. Where ye from?"

"Chicago."

"Set ye down. Call me Ozzie." His welcome was cordial, although he seemed too tired to smile. He slapped his denim chest and said, "Wore my over-halls for the pitcher."

"Sorry I didn't bring a camera, Ozzie, but I have some good photos of you in the cab of No.9, and they're yours to keep."

The old man accepted the snapshots gratefully. "By Crikey, she be a purty hog, no mistake."

They sat with a small lamp table between them, and Qwilleran set up his tape recorder. "Mind if I record this? Did you drive No.9 in the old days?"

"Yep. I were a young-un then. Them diesels, they be okay, but ain't nothin' like steam!" The man spoke pure Old Moose.

Qwilleran's practiced eye roved over the shabby furnishings without staring or criticizing. "That's a beautiful oil can," he said, nodding toward a shiny brass receptacle with a thin, elongated spout. "How was it used?"