The Cat Who Blew the Whistle - Lilian Jackson Braun, ebook
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THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLELILIAN JACKSON BRAUN-1-The engineer clanged the bell. Thewhistle blew two shrill blasts, and theold steam locomotive - the celebratedEngine No. 9 - huff-puff-puffed away fromthe station platform, pulling passengercars. She was a black giant with six hugedriving wheels propelled by therelentless thrust of piston rods. Theengineer leaned from his cab with hisleft hand on the throttle and his eyesupon the rails; the fireman shoveled coalinto the firebox; black cinders spewedfrom the funnel-shaped smokestack. It wasa scene from the past.Yet, this was a Sunday afternoon inthe hightech present. Thirty-sixprominent residents of Moose County hadconverged on the railway station inSawdust City to pay $500 a ticket for aride behind old No.9. It was the firstrun of the historic engine since beingsalvaged and overhauled, and the ticketpurchase included a champagne dinner in arestored dining car plus a generous tax-deductible donation to the scholarshipfund of the new community college.When the brass bell clanged, a stern-faced conductor with a bellowing voicepaced the platform, announcing, "Trainleaving for KenNebeck, Pickax, LittleHope, Black Creek Junction, Lockmaster,and all points south! All abo-o-oard!" Ayellow stepbox was put down, and well-dressed passengers climbed aboard thedining car, where tables were set withwhite cloths and sparkling crystal.White-coated waiters were filling glasseswith ice water from silver-platedpitchers.Among the passengers being seated werethe mayors from surrounding towns andother civic functionaries who found it intheir hearts, or politics, to pay $500 aplate. Also aboard were the publisher ofthe county newspaper, the publication'sleading columnist, the owner of thedepartment store in Pickax, a mysteriousheiress recently arrived from Chicago,and the head of the Pickax PublicLibrary.The flagman signaled all clear, andNo.9 started to roll, the cars followingwith a gentle lurch. As the clickety-clack of the drive wheels on the railsaccelerated, someone shouted, "She'srolling!" The passengers applauded, andthe mayor of Sawdust City rose to proposea toast to No.9. Glasses of ice waterwere raised. (The champagne would comelater.)Her black hulk and brass fittingsgleamed in the sunlight as she chuggedacross the landscape. Steel rumbled onsteel, and the mournful whistle soundedat every grade crossing.It was the first run of the LumbertownParty Train. . . . No one had any idea itwould also be almost its last.Moose County, 400 miles north ofeverywhere, had a rich history, andrailroads had helped to make it thewealthiest county in the state beforeWorld War I. Fortunes had been made inmining, lumbering, and transportation,and many of the old families were stillthere, hanging on to their inheritedmoney or lamenting the loss of it. Onlythe Klingenschoen millions had escalatedinto billions, and then - by an ironicquirk of fate - had passed into the handsof an outsider, a middle-aged man with aluxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache and aunique distaste for money.The heir was Jim Qwilleran, and he hadbeen a hard-working, prize-winningjournalist Down Below, as Moose Countycitizens called the polluted and crime-ridden centers of overpopulation. Insteadof rejoicing in his good luck, however,Qwilleran considered a net worth oftwelve digits to be a nuisance and anembarrassment. He promptly establishedthe Klingenschoen Foundation to disposeof the surplus in philanthropic ways. Hehimself lived quietly in a converted barnand wrote the twice-weekly "Qwill Pen"column for the local paper. Friendscalled him "Qwill," with affection; therest of the county called him "Mr. Q,"with respect.If a cross-section of the populacewere to be polled, the women would say:"I love his column! He writes as if he'stalking to me!""Why can't my boyfriend be tall andgood-looking and rich like Mr. Q?""His moustache is so romantic! Butthere's something sad about his eyes, asif he has a terrible secret.""He must be over fifty, you know, buthe's in terrific shape. I see him walkingand biking all over.""Imagine! All that money, and he'sstill a bachelor!""He has a wonderful head of hair forhis age. It's turning gray at thetemples, but I like that!""I sat next to him at a Red Crossluncheon once, and he listened toeverything I said and made me feelimportant. My husband says journalistsare paid to listen. I don't care. Mr. Qis a charming man!""You know he must be a nice person bythe way he writes about cats in hiscolumn."And if the men of Moose County werepolled, they would say:"One thing I'll say about Mr. Q: Hefits in with all kinds of people. You'dnever guess he has all that dough.""He's a very funny guy, if you ask me.He walks into the barber shop, looking asif he's lost his last friend, and prettysoon he's got everybody in stitches withhis cracks.""All the women like him. My wife goesaround quoting his column like it was theConstitution of the United States.""They say he lives with a couple ofcats. Can you beat that?""You wonder why he doesn't getmarried. He's always with that woman fromthe library.""People think it's strange that helives in an apple barn, but what theheck! It's better'n a pig barn."Qwilleran did indeed live in aconverted apple barn, and he spent manyhours in the company of Polly Duncan,head librarian. As for the cats, theywere a pair of pampered Siamese withextraordinary intelligence and epicureantastes in food. The barn, octagonal inshape and a hundred years old, had afieldstone foundation two feet thick andas high as Qwilleran's head. Framing oftwelve-by-twelve timbers rose to a roofthree stories overhead. Once upon a timea wagonload of apples could go throughthe barn door, and bushels of apples werestored in the lofts. Now the interior wasa series of balconies connected by ramps,surrounding a central cube of pristinewhite. There were fireplaces on threesides, and three cylindrical white fluesrose to the octagonal roof. It was alofty perch for cats who enjoyed highplaces. As for the spiraling ramps, theSiamese considered them an indoor racetrack, and they could do the hundred-meter dash in half the time required by ahuman athlete.One evening in early summer Qwilleranand his two friends had just returnedfrom a brief vacation on BreakfastIsland, and he was reading aloud to themwhen the telephone rang. He excusedhimself and went to the phone on thewriting desk."I got it, Qwill!" shouted an excitedvoice. "I got the job!""Congratulations, Dwight! I want tohear about it. Where are you?"" At the theatre. We've just had aboard meeting.""Come on over. The gate's open."The home of the Pickax Theatre Clubhad been carved out of the formerKlingenschoen mansion on the Park Circle.Behind the theatre a fenced parking lothad a gate leading to a patch of denseevergreen woods that Qwilleran called theBlack Forest. It was a buffer between thetraffic on the Park Circle and the applebarn. Within minutes Dwight's car hadnegotiated the rough track through thewoods."Glad everything worked out so well,"Qwilleran said in greeting. "How about aglass of wine to celebrate?""Just a soft drink," said the youngman. "I'm so high on good news thatanything stronger would launch me intospace. How do you like my new facade?" Hestroked his smooth chin. "My new bossesdon't go for beards. I feel suddenlynaked. How would you feel without yourmoustache?""Destitute," Qwilleran saidtruthfully. His moustache was more than afacial adornment, more than a trademarkat the top of the "Qwill Pen" column.As Qwilleran carried the tray ofdrinks and snacks into the lounge area,Dwight pointed to the top of thefireplace cube. "I see you've got yourducks all in a row.""I haven't heard that expression sincethe Army. How do you like them? They'rehandpainted, hand-carved decoys fromOregon.Polly brought them back from hervacation.""What did she think about Oregon? Ihear it's a beautiful state.""I doubt that she saw much of thelandscape," Qwilleran said. "She wasvisiting a former college roommate, who'snow a residential architect, and it seemsthey spent the whole time designing ahouse for Polly. She's going to build ona couple of acres at the east end of myorchard.""I thought she wanted to keep herapartment on Goodwinter Boulevard.""That was her original idea when theystarted converting the boulevard into acollege campus. She thought she'd enjoyliving among students. But when theybegan paving gardens for parking lots,she changed her mind.""They should've made one large parkinglot at the entrance and kept a grassylook on campus," Dwight said."God forbid anyone would have to walka block from his car, Dwight. Ruralcommunities live on wheels. Only citytypes like you and me know how to usetheir legs. . . . But tell me about thenew job."Dwight Somers, a publicity man fromDown Below, had come north to work for aprosperous Moose County developer.Unfortunately the job fizzled, and thecommun...
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