Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

On Main Street there was plenty of downtown traffic as well as cafes, gas stations, churches, a storefront library, gun shops, pawn-brokers, apparel shops with racks of clothing on the sidewalk, taverns, and a video store. The Lumbertown Credit Union occupied a new version of an old depot, while the real railway station was a neglected relic on the outskirts of town, surrounded by tracks, boxcars, trucks, and warehouses. The residential neighborhoods were notable for their neat lawns, swarms of schoolchildren on summer vacation, basketball hoops, barbecues, and satellite saucers. In every sense it was a thriving town. Whether it would be material for the "Qwill Pen" was questionable. Qwilleran knew only that Sawdust City stood in sharp contrast to West Middle Hummock, where the Lumbertown president lived. This was the most fashionable of the Hummocks with the largest estates, owned by families like the Lanspeaks, the Wilmots, and - in happier days - the Fitches. When Qwilleran set out to interview Floyd Trevelyan his route lay out Ittibittiwassee Road between stony pastures and dark woods, past abandoned mines and ghostlike shafthouses. After passing the Buckshot Mine, where he had suffered a nasty tumble from his bike, he reached a fork in the road. Ahead was Indian Village, a more or less swanky complex of apartments and condominiums. Hummock Road branched off to the left, forming a triangular meadow where car- poolers left their vehicles. Share-the- ride had been a Moose County custom long before the first energy crisis; it was the neighborly thing to do and an opportunity to keep abreast of rumors. Beyond the meadow the road passed a blighted hamlet or two before emerging in a landscape of knobby hills, bucolic vistas, architect-designed farmhouses, and no utility poles. All cables were underground, and the road curved to avoid cutting down ancient trees.

Then there was a rural mailbox shaped like a locomotive and a sign hanging between railroad ties announcing "The Roundhouse." There was nothing round about the residence that perched on a hill at the end of the drive. It was a long, low contemporary building with wide overhangs and large chimneys - almost brutal in its boldness - and the rough cedar exterior was stained a gloomy brownish-green.

Qwilleran parked at the foot of a terraced walkway and climbed wide steps formed from railroad ties, then rang the doorbell and waited in the usual state of suspense: Would this interview make a great story? Or would it be a waste of his time? The man who came to the door, wearing crumpled shorts and a tank top, was obviously one of the "hairy Welshmen" for whom Sawdust City was famous. Although seriously balding toward the brow, his head was rimmed with hair that was black and bushy, and although his jutting jaw was clean-shaven, his arms and legs were thickly furred. So also was his back, Qwilleran discovered upon following him into the foyer.

His initial greeting had been curt. "You from the paper?"

"Jim Qwilleran. Dwight Somers tells me you have a railroad empire on the premises."

"Downstairs. Want a shot or a beer?"

"Not right now, thanks. Let's have a look at the trains first. I'm completely ignorant about model railroading, so this visit will be an education." Following the collector toward a broad staircase to the lower level, Qwilleran quickly appraised the main floor: architecturally impressive, poorly furnished. On the way downstairs he tossed off a few warm-up questions: How long have you been collecting? How did you get started? Do you still have your first train?

The answers were as vapid as the

queries: "Long time... Dunno... Yep."

The staircase opened into a large light room with glass walls overlooking a paved patio and grassy hillside. The opposite wall formed a background. for a table-height diorama of landscape and cityscape. There were buildings, roadways, rivers, hills, and a complexity of train tracks running through towns, up grades, across bridges, and around curves. A passenger train waited at a depot; a freight train had been shunted to a siding; the nose of a locomotive could be seen in the mouth of a tunnel.

"How many trains do you' have?" Qwilleran asked, producing a pocket tape recorder.

"Six trains. Thousand feet of track." The hobbyist started toying with a bank of controls at the front edge of the layout, and the scene was instantly illuminated: the headlight of the locomotive in the tunnel, the interior of the passenger coaches, and all street lights and railway signals. Then the trains began to move, slowly at first, and gradually picking up speed. One train stopped to let another pass. A locomotive chugged around a curve, with white smoke pouring from its smokestack. It blew its whistle as it approached a grade crossing and stopped at the station with a hiss of steam.

Qwilleran was impressed but said coolly, "Quite realistic!"