“How bad?”
“I phoned this morning, and she's out of danger. It was a shock, although I should have seen it coming. Too much stress and not enough exercise.”
“You've gotta look after that lady, Qwill. She's an asset to the community. Why don't you and Polly—”
“Never mind,” Qwilleran said. “You can go and play your bagpipe at someone else's wedding.”
The two men sat at the breakfast bar with their coffee and some doughnuts from Lois's.
“How's the Lumbertown investigation coming along?” Qwilleran asked.
“To tell the truth, I think they've run out of places to look for that guy.”
“It's my opinion that he's right here in Moose County—underground.”
“You mean—hiding out?”
“No. Buried.”
Brodie swallowed a gulp of coffee too fast and coughed. “What makes you think so? Have you been conversing with your psychic cat?”
“I have an informant.”
“Who?”
“I'd be crazy to reveal my source.”
“Why did he come to you? Why not the police?”
“Well, it's like this, Andy. A lot of people out there don't like the media, but they like the media better than they like the cops. Tipsters, you know, are whispering in our ears all the time.”
Brodie grunted. “D'you pay for the information?”
“Why would we pay for it? We didn't ask for it; we didn't want it; we can't use it.”
“So what did you find out?”
“Floyd was no financial wizard, but he hired someone who was. That person juggled the books to defraud the depositors, and Floyd wasn't savvy enough to realize it, or he was too involved with his trains to care. Then the true embezzler threw suspicion on Floyd by having him disappear, when actually she had plotted his murder.”
“She?” Brodie said with unprofessional astonishment. “You mean—his secretary?”
“She posed as his secretary, although she was second in command, hired to introduce new accounting methods—and she sure did! Not only did she abscond with the loot, but she didn't even pay off her hitman. The investigators questioned her in Texas but let her slip through their fingers.”
“She told them she was fired for accusing the Lumbertown president of sexual harassment,” Brodie explained.
“Okay, now I want to show you a video of the Lumbertown Party Train on Audit Sunday, if the cats will allow us to use their TV. The suspect appears in several frames.”
“Why don't you get a TV of your own?” the chief grumbled as they climbed the ramp to the highest balcony. The Siamese followed them, then bounded ahead to claim the only available chair.
“Sorry, we have standing room only,” Qwil-leran apologized. “Now watch the crowd scenes for a gorgeous woman in trousers—also in the dining car with Floyd.”
The video played. Brodie watched. Koko yowled at intervals.
“So where's the body?” he asked when the tape was rewinding.
“No one knows; that's for you guys to find out. The hitman himself was killed in that fracas at the Trackside Tavern, and his accomplice has since died in an accident. If you ever find the body, I believe your forensic experts will say he was killed by a blow, or blows, to the head, inflicted by a carpenter's hammer.”
“You expect me to believe all this? Well . . . thanks for the entertainment. It was better than the play I saw Thursday night.” They started down the ramp, and in passing one of the large windows Brodie said, “You should clear out that jungle and build a motel.”
“The far end of the jungle,” Qwilleran told him, “is where Floyd's son, Eddie, was fatally injured in the tractor rollover.”
“Must be true what they say about the Trevelyan curse.”
After walking with his guest to the parking area, Qwilleran made a few turns around the barn before letting himself in the front door. As he opened it, something slammed into his legs, throwing him off balance. It was Koko, shooting out of the door like a cannonball!
“Koko! Come back here!” Qwilleran yelled, but the cat was headed lickety-split down the orchard trail. The man charged after him, shouting. Koko kept on going. It was a hundred yards to Trevelyan Road, and he was covering it with the speed of a gazelle. There was the danger that he might dash across the highway in front of a car.
“Koko! Stop!” Qwilleran yelled with all the breath he could muster during the chase.
The cat stopped, but not until he had reached the building site. He ignored the framework of the new building. He went directly to the concrete slab of the garage and started his digging act. His hindquarters were elevated, and his brisket was close to the slab as he scraped the rough surface. Then he flopped on his side and rolled luxuriously on the concrete, twisting this way and that in apparent ecstasy.
The demonstration chilled Qwilleran's blood. He remembered that Eddie had poured the slab early in the morning after Audit Sunday, although the cement work had been scheduled for later in the week. It was on that Monday, also, that Koko had commenced his vigil at the foyer window. Had he witnessed something unusual during the night? From his window on the top balcony he had a view of the orchard trail. With his feline nightsight he might have seen a truck without headlights pulling onto the property. Perhaps he heard the clink of shovels in the rocky soil. Later came Koko's resolute digging in the crook of Qwilleran's elbow, not to mention his interest in the Panama Canal.
Qwilleran grabbed Koko and carried him back to the barn. Now what? he asked himself. If he confided his suspicions to Brodie, the jackhammers would move in, digging up Polly's garage floor, and she'd have another heart attack.
* * *
Carrying a bunch of fresh daisies, Qwilleran went to the hospital and found Polly sitting in a chair, looking remarkably serene. She was feeling fine, she said. She was looking forward to the catheterization; it might be an adventure. The hospital food was better than she expected. Dr. Diane was a dear young woman. The cardiologist from Lockmaster was most encouraging.
There was a sparkle in Polly's eyes that Qwilleran had not seen for several weeks, and finally she said, “I have a subject to broach to you, dear. I hope you won't be offended.”
“You know I'm offense-proof where you're concerned, Polly.”
“Well, I believe that this little setback of mine is a message from the fates that I should not build a house; Bootsie and I should move into the Duncan homestead with Lynette. That is, if you think I can dispose of my two acres and a half-finished house.”
“No problem,” he said with a sigh of relief.
SEVENTEEN
It was mid-September, and in Moose County the vicissitudes of summer were simmering down. Most vacationers had left; children were back in school; and the new college reported excellent enrollment for its first semester.
Polly Duncan, who had been flown to Minneapolis for coronary bypass surgery, was convalescing at the Duncan homestead. She claimed to feel better than she had in years! Bootsie was enjoying his new diet, running up and down stairs, and losing weight.
The Pickax Arts Council hoped to move into its new gallery and studios by Thanksgiving. Thanks to the generosity of the Klingenschoen Foundation, they had taken over the unfinished house on Trevelyan Road. References to the legendary curse were avoided.
Celia Robinson received a postcard from Switzerland: Florrie was improving, and Tish had met an interesting ski instructor.
Word was circulating on the Pickax grapevine that Mr. Q had been seen in Scottie's Men's Store, being measured for a kilt.
As for the Lumbertown scandal, the body of Floyd Trevelyan, buried under concrete, had been disinterred, and Nella Hooper replaced him on the wanted list. It seemed odd to Qwilleran that the law enforcement agencies, with all their technology and expertise, had failed to find this spectacularly good-looking woman. Earlier they had found her and let her go after questioning. Now they had the video of the Party Train, in which she appeared several times. An
d yet . . . It was Arch Riker's theory that the lawmen weren't trying hard enough, and he wrote an editorial to that effect. Anything that happens 400 miles north of everywhere, he argued, is of lesser importance to the establishment Down Below.
Then, quite by accident, Qwilleran uncovered a new clue. Following the final matinee of A Midsummer Night's Dream, theatre club members were invited to an afterglow at the apple barn. Among those present were Fran Brodie, the Lanspeaks, Junior Goodwinter, Derek Cuttlebrink, Elizabeth Hart, and Jennifer Olsen, who was becoming the club's leading ingenue. The Lanspeaks inquired about Polly's health. Derek demonstrated his exuberance by climbing the loft ladder straight up to the third balcony. Fran reminded Qwilleran that he had promised to read her playscript and give an opinion. He apologized for overlooking it.
Derek, having brought his guitar, also volunteered to sing a new folksong, titled The Wreck of Old No. 9:
There was once a famous hoghead
On the old SC&L.
His name was Ozzie Penn,
And he could drive a hog through hell!
But he had to give up drivin'
‘Cause they said he was too old.
They retired him with a dinner
And a watch of solid gold.
“You've survived your share of train wrecks
“In fifty years,” they said.
“Now go home and join the lucky ones
“That get to die in bed.”
Chorus:
“No, I want to go out whittlin',”
Said good old Ozzie Penn.
But they said his dreams were over,
And he'd never drive again.
He hung around the switchyard
And told hair-raisin' tales:
How he made the fastest runs
And kept the hog upon the rails.
Then one day he saw a vision
That made his old eyes shine.
On a siding east of Mudville
Sat old Engine No. 9!
The great steam locomotive,
A mighty 4-6-2,
Had a tender full o' coal
And—by Crikey!—looked like new.
Chorus:
“I want to go out whittlin',”
Said the famous engineer.
There was nobody to see him
Wipe away an old man's tear.
He rounded up his buddies
And said, “Let's have some fun!
“Let's take the whole dang consist
“For one last whittlin' run!
“You fellas gotta jump
“Before we hit the final curve.
“So don't sign on with Ozzie
“If you haven't got the nerve.”
With a crew of three old-timers
And fifty deadheads, too,
They left the yard at Mudville
To make Ozzie's dream come true.
Chorus:
“I want to go out whittlin',”
They'd often heard him say,
And he'd earned his chance to do it
Now that he was old and gray.
With the whistle screamin' “wildcat!”
They whittled down the line,
All knowin' what would happen
To engine No. 9.
As the fiery, sweatin' monster
Plunged down the steepest grade,
The final order came to jump
And every man obeyed.
But Ozzie at the throttle
Said he'd go down with the hog
As it sank with hissin', scaldin' steam
In the muck o' Black Creek bog.
Chorus:
“I want to go out whittlin',”
Said good old Ozzie Penn,
And the hoghead got his wish
Because he'll never drive again.
Derek's listeners applauded and wanted to know if he'd written it himself. He glanced at Qwilleran, who nodded.
“Yep,” said the folksinger in an offhand way.
Elizabeth said, with her eyes shining, “He's so talented!”
Meanwhile, Yum Yum watched the festivities from the balcony, tantalized by the aroma of pizza drifting up from the main floor. Koko, always more adventurous, mingled with the guests, accepting compliments and slices of pepperoni. He was within earshot when Qwilleran commended Jennifer for her portrayal of Hermia.
“Yow!” he said.
“See? Koko agrees with me. I believe his favorite character in all of Shakespeare is Hermia.”
“Yow!” Koko repeated with added emphasis.
Qwilleran pondered the incident when the guests had left. The Siamese were enjoying a private afterglow-of-the-afterglow under the kitchen table, nibbling sausage and cheese and fastidiously avoiding the bits of mushroom and green pepper. Qwilleran, watching them, suddenly said, “Hermia!”
Koko looked up from his plate and made the usual comment.
Qwilleran thought, There's more to Hermia than meets the ear! During the summer the cat had exhibited many quirks, which were now abandoned. As soon as the mystery of Floyd's disappearance was solved, Koko stopped staring out the foyer window in the direction of the two-car garage slab. At the same time he stopped his everlasting digging in Qwilleran's elbow and lost interest in the Panama Canal. After the crimes of Edward Penn Trevelyan and James Henry Ducker were exposed, he no longer stole black pens or sat on the fireplace cube with the decoys.
Was it coincidence that he had pursued these activities so assiduously? Was it ordinary feline fickleness when he stopped? Qwilleran knew otherwise. Koko had a gift of intuition and prescience that was not given to mere humans—or even to the average cat—and he had an unconventional way of communicating. It amused Qwilleran to paraphrase Shakespeare: There are more things in Koko's head, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
When the Siamese had finished their gourmet treat and washed up, the three of them ambled into the library for a read.
“What'll it be?” Qwilleran asked. He had asked that question several weeks before, and Koko's choice was Swiss Family Robinson. And what happened? Celia Robinson moved to Pickax, and the Trevelyan women flew to Switzerland. Coincidence? “Sure,” Qwilleran said with derision.
Now Koko sniffed the bookshelf devoted to drama and nudged the copy of Androcles and the Lion.
“We had that book a few weeks ago,” Qwilleran reminded him. “Try again.”
This time the cat's choice was a slender paperback, Fran Brodie's playscript of the Lion in Winter.
In a flash of revelation Qwilleran remembered the young woman in the Pickax People's Bank: Letitia Penn, who turned out to be Letitia Trevelyan . . . and who had a friend named Lionella. Later it developed that the one name was shortened to Tish and the other to Nella.
That was the answer! That remarkable cat knew from the beginning that the Lumbertown fraud was masterminded by Nella a.k.a. Lionella! Now Qwilleran understood Koko and the lions, but what about Hermia? There was something about this H word that triggered Koko's brain cells and was supposed to trigger Qwilleran's. Yet, he was stymied—until he thought about the dictionary. His unabridged dictionary always stimulated the associative process.
As he climbed the ramp to consult its erudite pages, the Siamese followed with vertical tails. On this occasion he had a reason for allowing them into his sanctum. One of them immediately inspected the typewriter and left a few cat hairs among the typebars; the other lost no time in knocking a gold pen off the desk.
Looking up the definition of Hermia, Qwilleran found what he already knew: Hermia was a lady in love with Lysander in A Midsummer Night's Dream. There were other proper nouns, however, that might have a similar sound to a cat's ear, and he read them aloud: “Hermo . . . Hermione . . . Hermitage . . . Hermes.” Nothing attracted Koko's attention until he reached “Hermaphrodite.”
The sound of the word brought an alarming response that started as an ear-splitting falsetto and ended in a menacing growl.
Qwilleran checked t
he definitions of hermaphrodite. It referred to a two-masted vessel, square-rigged forward, and schooner-rigged aft. It also referred to a vertebrate or invertebrate having male and female organs.
He read no further. He grabbed the telephone and called the police chief at home. “Andy! I've got a far-out idea!”
“Let's hear it—fast. My favorite program's just beginning.”
“It's only a hunch, but it might help your colleagues in their womanhunt. First, it's a fact that Nella Hooper's name was shortened from Lionella. It's my guess that this person's name was really Lionel. The bloodhounds are hunting for a suspect of the wrong sex! Impersonating a woman was part of the scam. Now that Nella Hooper is on the wanted list, Lionel Hooper is probably growing a beard. . . . Now hang up and go back to the tube.”
Qwilleran returned to the lounge area and sprawled on the sofa. The Siamese took up positions on the coffee table, where the day's last shaft of sunlight slanted in from a high window to warm their fur and make each guard-hair look like spun gold. It turned their whiskers into platinum. Yum Yum sat comfortably on her brisket like a regular cat. Koko sat tall like an ancient Egyptian deity.
“You've done it again, young man!” Qwilleran said with admiration. “You blew the whistle on the whole crew!”
Koko gazed at the man with a superior cast in his blue eyes, as if he were thinking, What fools these mortals be!
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 20