Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

By the time he arrived, his phone was ringing. It was Celia. "Bad news!" she said breathlessly. "Tish just called. Her brother's been in a terrible accident. He's in Pickax Hospital, and she asked me to go there, because she can't leave Florrie."

"Call me if there's anything I can do, no matter how late," he said. "Call and tell me his condition."

He turned on all the lights in the barn in an effort to dispel the gloom that hung over him. The Siamese felt it, too. They forgot to ask for their bedtime treat and were in no mood for sleep. They followed him when he circled the main floor. After several laps, he considered the twistletwig rocker, wondering if its efficacy included the therapeutic. When he gave it a try, both cats piled into his lap, Koko digging industriously in the crook of his elbow. Qwilleran endured the discomfort, remembering that it was Koko's catfit that had sent him down to the building site - before the accident happened!

Eventually Celia called back. "He's unconscious, and only a relative is allowed to see him. I said I was his grandmother. He looks more dead than alive. The nurse wouldn't tell me anything, except that he's critical... What's that?" she cried, hearing a crash.

"Koko knocked something down," he said calmly.

"The hospital will call me if there's a turn for the worse. Tomorrow morning, after Florrie's nurse reports, Tish will drive to town, and we'll go to the hospital together."

"That's good. She'll need moral support. Keep me informed, but right now you'd better get some rest. Tomorrow could be a hectic day for you." Qwilleran spoke softly and considerately; he returned the receiver to its cradle gently. Then he turned around and yelled, "Bad cat! Look what you've done!"

Koko gave him a defiant stare, while Yum Yum scampered away guiltily. The epithet could refer to either male or female, but it was Koko who had been nosing the pencil box for several days. Now it lay on the clay tile floor in two pieces. The tiny hinges had pulled out of the old wood, and the box had burst open. The drawer with the secret latch held firm, and the paper clips were secure, but pens, pencils, a letter-opener, and whatnot were scattered allover the floor. As Qwilleran gathered them up, he saw Koko walking away, impudently carrying a black-barreled felt-tip in his mouth.

"Bad cat!" he bellowed again. "Bad cat!" It may have vented his anger, but it did nothing to dent the cat's equanimity.

Qwilleran set his alarm clock for six forty-five, an unprecedented hour for a late-riser of his distinction. He wanted to break the news to Polly before she heard it on the radio.

At seven a.m. the WPKX announcer said, "A bulldozer rolled over late last night on the outskirts of Pickax, injuring Edward P. Trevelyan, twenty-four, of Indian Village. He was grading a building site in a secluded area when he was attacked by a large bird, thought to be an owl. He lost control of the tractor, which rolled into a ditch, pinning him underneath. The accident victim was taken to Pickax Hospital by the emergency medical service, after being freed by the volunteer rescue squad. His condition is critical."

Qwilleran called Polly shortly after her wake-up hour of seven-thirty and heard her say sleepily, "So early, Qwill! Is something wrong?"

"I have an early appointment and want to inquire about Bootsie before leaving."

"I phoned the hospital last night," Polly said, "and Bootsie was resting comfortably after the initial treatment. It was nice of you to call."

"One other thing... I'm sorry to report that Eddie Trevelyan is in the hospital."

"How do you know?" she asked anxiously.

"It was on the air this morning. He was in an accident last night."

"Oh, dear! I hope it wasn't drunk driving."

"They called it a tractor rollover. It looks as if he won't be able to supervise his crew for a while."

In the pause that followed, Qwilleran could imagine the questions racing through Polly's mind: How bad is it? How long will he be incapacitated? Can his helpers proceed without him? Will it delay my construction?

"Oh, no!" she cried. "Was he working on my property?"

"I'm afraid so. He was doing a little midnight grading while he had the use of a rented skim-loader."

"I feel terribly guilty about this, Qwill. I've been nagging him about the grading," Polly said in anguish. "It's so discouraging. Everything seems to be happening at once. First Bootsie, and now this!"

"One thing I can assure you, Polly. You have no reason to worry about the house. If any problem arises, it'll be solved. Just leave everything to me."