“Well, when we got to the house, Tish ran down the steps and threw her arms around her grandpa. Florrie was in her wheelchair on the porch, wearing a pretty dress. Her old dad stumbled up the steps, crying ‘My little Florrie!' And he dropped down on his knees and hugged her, and they both cried. When she asked, ‘Where's Mom?' I cried, too.”
“A touching scene,” Qwilleran said.
“I took Fred and Billy out to the patio, so the others could have a private talk. The men remembered Florrie when she was a pretty young girl, waving at them as the train went by. They also knew about her wedding and didn't like it one bit! Then they started cursing F.T. to high heaven for stealing their life savings. They hoped he'd be caught and get prison for life. When I showed them the trains Florrie had wrecked, they laughed and cheered.”
“Did you show the video?”
“Twice! Tish refused to look at it, and Florrie had to go to bed because the excitement had knocked her out, but the three men thought the video was wonderful. After that, I drove them back to Sawdust City.”
“I'd say you handled everything nobly, Celia.”
“Thanks, Chief, but that's not the end. When I got back to The Roundhouse, I got the shock of my life! Are you ready for it?”
“Fire away.”
“It's something the lawyer had just told Tish. He said Floyd had put the Party Train in Florrie's name to protect himself from creditors and lawsuits!”
“Well! That puts a new complexion on the matter, doesn't it?” Qwilleran said. “The train can be sold and the proceeds used to send Florrie to Switzerland.”
“But you haven't heard the whole story, Chief. Grandpa Penn is buying the train!”
“Wait a minute! Does he have that kind of money?”
“That's what I wondered,” Celia said, “but Tish says he's had a good railroad job for fifty years and always believed in saving for a rainy day. What's more, his money is in banks and government bonds, so it's not tied up. He's turning everything over to Florrie. They've called the lawyer already.”
“Will the old man have enough left to live on?” Qwilleran inquired.
“She says he has his railroad pension and social security and good medical insurance. He doesn't need much else. . . . What do you think of it, Chief?”
“Sounds like the ending of a B-movie made in the 1930s, but I'm happy for everyone. You didn't say how much he's turning over to Florrie, but he can sell the train for well over a million. More likely, two million. I heard that Floyd had put $600,000 in the locomotive alone. Just imagine! An old engineer's dream! To own the celebrated No. 9!”
Celia looked puzzled. “But if he wants to sell the train, who would buy it? That's an awful lot of money to spend on a thing like that.”
“Train collecting is a growing hobby. More people than you think are pursuing it.” It also occurred to Qwilleran that the economic development division of the K Foundation, currently promoting tourism, might take over the Party Train and operate it as Floyd intended.
“Well, it's time for me to go home and see what Wrigley's doing,” she said.
Qwilleran handed her an envelope. “Here are your tickets for the play Thursday night, plus a little something extra in appreciation of your work.”
“Oh, thank you!” she said. “I'm enjoying this assignment so much, I don't expect a reward.”
“You deserve one. And the next time you talk to Tish, see if she has any idea who tipped off the auditors to the Lumbertown fraud . . . and why they haven't been able to find Floyd . . . and who made the mysterious phone call on the night of his disappearance. She's a smart young woman. She might be able to make some guesses.”
“Yes, but I don't know how much longer she and Florrie will be here. Tish has already phoned the airline. They'll probably leave this weekend.”
After Celia had driven away, Qwilleran walked around the barn exterior several times and pondered a few more questions: Does Tish want to leave the country in a hurry for reasons other than those stated? Is there really a doctor in Switzerland who has a miracle cure? Is Florrie actually as ill as she appears to be?
* * *
After the shocks, successes, and surprises of the last twenty-four hours, the next forty-eight were consistently disappointing. Operation Whistle came to a sudden standstill; Polly upset the plans for opening night at the theatre; and Qwilleran's imaginings about lurid secrets at the Trackside Tavern were squelched.
Wednesday morning: He ran into Roger MacGillivray at Lois's Luncheonette, and the reporter said, “Hey, Arch told me to check out what happened at the Trackside Tavern ten years ago. Women boycotted it because they weren't allowed to use the pool tables.”
“Is that all?”
“That's all. They picketed the bar for a couple of weeks and then got a better idea. They opened the Jump-Off Bar and went into competition with the Trackside. The food's better, and the owner is a buxom, fun-loving gal that everyone likes. Floyd lent her the dough to get started and helped her to get a license.”
“I've been to the Jump-Off establishment,” Qwilleran said, “and I don't remember seeing any billiard tables.”
“Right! I asked the boss lady, and she said the women didn't want to shoot pool when no one told them they couldn't. She considers that a big laugh.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Well, I suppose I'll see you at the play tomorrow night.”
“I'm afraid not. We'd have to hire a babysitter, and that costs more than the tickets. Besides, Sharon's the Shakespeare nut, not me.”
Wednesday afternoon: Celia phoned. “I won't have anything to report tonight, Chief. They didn't need me at The Roundhouse. Tish is there with Florrie. They're getting ready for their trip. I went to the hospital, and they've got Eddie trussed up like a mummy and hooked up to tubes and bottles. He doesn't look like anything human.”
Wednesday evening: Qwilleran telephoned Polly to inquire about Bootsie.
“I'm bringing him home tomorrow,” she said. “If you don't mind, I'll stay with him instead of going to the theatre. You can go and concentrate on your review. I'll look forward to reading what you think of the production.”
With a hint of annoyance he replied, “What I think about it and what I say about it in print aren't necessarily the same. I don't need to remind you this is a small town.”
Thursday morning: Celia called again, saying somberly, “Eddie isn't expected to last the morning. The hospital notified Tish to come right away. I'll meet her there and let you know what happens.”
Thursday afternoon: “Chief, I have sad news. Eddie passed away at ten thirty-seven. Tish is in Pickax, and I'm looking after Florrie, but I'll be back in time for the play.”
* * *
A gala crowd attended the opening of A Midsummer Night's Dream. There was excitement in the hum of voices in front of the theatre, in the foyer, and in the upstairs lobby. Half of the playgoers were friends, relatives, or classmates of the young extras. The rest were people Qwilleran knew. Among them:
The Comptons. “Where's Polly?” they asked him.
Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers. They too wanted to know why Polly was absent.
Dr. Diane Lanspeak with Dr. Herbert, Hixie's former attachment. As luck would have it, both couples had tickets in the same row.
Celia Robinson with her new friend, Virginia Alstock. Celia and Qwilleran exchanged discreet nods.
Dr. Prelligate of the Moose County Community College with a few faculty members.
Scott Gippel, the worried treasurer of the club. “Looks like we'll end up in the black, but you never know.”
Three generations of the Olsen family. Jennifer Olsen was playing Hermia.
Amanda Goodwinter, alone. “I hate this play, but Fran's directing it, and she gave me a ticket.”
Qwilleran met his guests in the upstairs lobby: Arch and Mildred Riker and Mildred's daughter, Sharon, who had driven in from Mooseville to use Polly's ticket.
“What's with Polly?” Riker asked.
Qwilleran described the situation.
“Look here, Qwill! We've got to do something about your most favored friend. She's not herself these days. I realize how she feels about Bootsie, but her house is driving her batty. A sister of mine once had a nervous breakdown over the remodeling of her kitchen. What can we do about Polly?”
“I wish I knew. To make matters worse, her builder died this morning.”
The lobby lights blinked, and they took their seats in the fifth row.
The play was wildly acclaimed. The audience applauded the students dressed as lords and ladies, as they made their entrance down the central aisle. Derek Cuttlebrink and the crew of rude mechanicals brought down the house, as expected. The greenies with their weird makeup and robotic movements stole the show, however. Meanwhile, the Shakespeare buffs waited for their favorite lines: I am amazed and know not what to say . . . The course of true love never did run smooth . . . What fools these mortals be!
As the king of the greenies delivered his line, I am invisible, and disappeared in a puff of smoke, Qwilleran heard the wail of a siren passing the theatre. It always alarmed him; he thought of fire. Then it faded away in the distance beyond the city limits. Moments later, he heard the honking of the rescue squad's vehicle. Then, just before intermission, Riker's beeper sounded, and the publisher, sitting on the aisle, made a quick exit to the lobby.
As soon as the first act ended, Qwilleran hurried up the aisle and found Riker in front of the telephone booth.
“Qwill, there's been a bad train wreck—south of Wildcat. The city desk is sending a man, but I think I should go, too. Want to come along? Sharon can take Mildred home.”
The two men missed the second act. As they pulled out of the theatre parking lot, Riker said, “I'm taking you away from the play, and you have to write a review for tomorrow's paper.”
“That's all right,” Qwilleran said. “I know what I'm going to say about the first act, and I'll wing it for the second.”
Outside the city limits Riker drove fast, and conversation was terse.
“Roger's baby-sitting. He'll be sorry to miss a hot story.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . ”
“Who's on tonight?”
“Donald. The new guy.”
“He's getting his baptism by train wreck. Wonder what kind of train it is.”
“Freight is all they pull on SC&L.”
“Northbound or southbound?”
“They didn't say.”
Reaching the town of Wildcat, they noticed unusual activity. The hamlet consisted of a general store, bar, gas station, and antique shop, with railroad tracks running parallel to the main street. People were milling around the intersection or standing on the tracks and staring to the south. Riker had to sound the horn to get through. “It's supposed to be a half-mile south of town.”
“If you remember the Party Train,” Qwilleran said, “the tracks veer away from the highway south of Wildcat. We saw views from the train that we'd never seen before.”
It was still daylight but overcast, and a strange glow lighted up the gloom ahead of them. As they rounded a curve, they found the highway blocked with police vehicles, ambulances, and fire trucks. A few private cars were parked on the shoulder, their occupants gawking at the emergency equipment. Riker found a space, and they walked toward the center of activity. As soon as an ambulance was loaded, it took off for Lockmaster or Black Creek, and another took its place. All surrounding towns had responded. Medics running into the woods and stretcher bearers come back from the wreck had to push through underbrush, although rescue personnel with axes and chain saws were frantically trying to clear a path.
Riker showed his press card to a state trooper. “Can we reach the scene of the accident?”
“Follow those guys, but stay out of their way,” the officer said. “Take flashlights. It'll be dark soon.”
The newsmen plunged into the woods, Riker grumbling that it was going to ruin his new shoes.
Voices could be heard shouting orders that bounced off the cliffs on both sides of the creek. The whining of chain saws and hacking of axes added to the feeling of urgency. When they emerged from the brush, they were on a railroad right-of-way with a single track and a string of old telegraph poles. A team of paramedics, carrying a victim strapped to a stretcher, came running up the track, hopping awkwardly from tie to tie.
As the newsmen hobbled toward the wreck, they could see a flatcar with a huge floodlight that illuminated the trestle bridge. On the opposite bank of the creek was another flatcar with a railroad wrecking crane. Then a surreal scene came into view: a row of dazed victims sitting or lying on the embankment, while white-coated doctors moved among them. No train was in sight.
“There's our guy!” Riker said. “Hey, Donald! Getting anything?” They ran to meet him.
“Not much,” said the young reporter. “Only pictures. Nobody knows anything for sure.”
“Keep on shooting,” said the boss. “We'll hang around and try for quotes.”
“They think the train was stolen from a siding in Mudville.”
“My God!” Qwilleran shouted as he ran toward the gulch. “It's No. 9!”
Three jack-knifed cars were piled on top of a locomotive lying on its side in the mud—a grotesque monster still breathing smoke and steam.
FIFTEEN
The Friday edition of the Moose CountySomething came off the presses two hours early, following the episode at Wildcat. The banner headline read:
TRAIN WRECKED IN BLACK CREEK No. 9 and Party Train Crash After Whittling Joyride
The fabled engine No. 9 roared at top speed through the village of Wildcat Thursday night before plunging down a steep grade and around a treacherous curve. It derailed and crashed into the muddy water of Black Creek. One person was killed. Forty were injured, some seriously.
The ill-fated run, unscheduled and allegedly unauthorized, left the switchyard at Sawdust City about 9:15, according to witnesses. It raced south with whistle blowing through Kennebeck, Pickax, and Little Hope, narrowly missing a consist of 20 freight cars being shunted at Black Creek Junction.
Residents of Wildcat heard the continuous screaming whistle that signified a runaway train and rushed to the crossroads in time to see the last car hurtling down the grade. Signals to slow down are clearly posted on the approach to Wildcat. An investigation is under way to determine whether the accident was due to mechanical failure or human error.
In either case the SC&L disclaims responsibility, a spokesman for the railroad said, since the Party Train was privately owned and berthed on a private siding.
At presstime, the reason for the unexpected run had not been ascertained. A spokesman for the Lockmaster County sheriff's department called the ill-fated run “a joyride for railroad nuts who knew how to shovel coal.”
The Party Train is known to be the property of Floyd Trevelyan, who is wanted on charges of fraud in connection with the Lumbertown Credit Union. The crew and passengers were all residents of the Railroad Retirement Center in Sawdust City. The only fatality was the engineer, Oswald Penn, 84, retired after 50 years with SC&L. He had an outstanding safety record. He was Trevelyan's father-in-law.
Passengers and other crew members jumped to save their lives before the crash. Eighteen sustained injuries requiring hospitalization; 22 were treated and released. They were being questioned by investigators. Conspiracy has not been ruled out.
A paramedic on the scene said, “All these old fellows are long past retirement age. Looks like they wanted to make one last jump. They didn't know their bones are getting brittle. We've got a lot of fracture cases here.”
Emergency medical teams, volunteer rescue squads, and volunteer firefighters from Lockmaster, Black Creek Junction, Flapjack, and Little Hope responded. The sheriffs of two counties were assisted by state police. SC&L wrecking equipment was brought from Flapjack to clear the right-of-way for northbound and southbound freight consists.
The Black Cree
k trestle bridge itself was not damaged, but tracks and ties are being replaced. A repair foreman on the scene said, “The train was traveling so fast, it tore off the curved tracks and made them straight as a telephone pole. Man, that's real whittlin'.”
Twelve hours before the headlines hit the street, Riker and Qwilleran drove away from the wreckage with divided reactions. One was exhilarated; the other was troubled.
Riker conjectured that the train was stolen by depositors defrauded by Trevelyan, who were indulging in a senseless act of revenge. It was ironic, he said, that the embezzler's father-in-law lost his life, trapped in the cab and scalded to death by the steam. Why didn't he jump, like the others? The alleged thieves knew what they were doing; the engine was fueled with plenty of coal and water for a short high-speed run.
Qwilleran, on the other hand, had privileged information that he could not divulge without exposing Operation Whistle. His professional instincts required him to tell Riker what he knew, but it would all be revealed in the end. Meanwhile, he had to protect his private mission—and Celia's part in it, for that matter. He had no doubt that Ozzie had intended to “go out whittlin' ” and never intended to jump. He wondered if the old man had consciously wanted to re-enact the famous 1908 wreck at Wildcat, hoping to go down in railroad history.
While Riker had been flashing his press credentials on the embankment, Qwilleran had been talking quietly with the survivors. They balked at talking to the press, but Qwilleran introduced himself as a friend of Ozzie's. There were no secrets at the Retirement Center. They had heard all about this “Mackintosh feller from Chicago,” who had interviewed Ozzie for a book he was writing and who had bought him two shots and a burger at the Jump-Off Bar. Now they all related the same story: The idea had come up suddenly, the day before, during a huddle at the bar. Ozzie Penn had said it would be a helluva joke to steal the train and wreck it. He would drive the hog, and he'd need a crew of three to keep up a good head of steam for a fast run. Anyone else could go along for the ride, unless he was too old to jump. Everyone would be expected to jump before the hog hit the curve north of the bridge. They all knew how to jump. Now—waiting on the embankment, fortified by a good dose of painkiller—they had no regrets. It was the most excitement they'd had in years!
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 18