Brodie gave him a sharp glance. "Don't believe everything you read in the paper."
"Are you implying that you have a description of the suspect?"
"Are you just here to ask questions?" the chief growled.
"No, as a matter of fact, I have a theory to bounce off your official skull. As you know, Polly is building a house at the corner of the orchard trail and Trevelyan Road."
"How's she comin' with it?"
"That's a long story, but my point is that one of the carpenters is a young Chipmunk fellow with a ponytail - "
"A lot of guys have 'em if they jog or do sweaty work outdoors," Brodie interrupted.
"Hear me out, Andy. This guy failed to show up for work today. His peers call him Benno. I have a wild hunch - "
Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "I have a hunch that Benno is James Henry Ducker, and that the murder was not soccer-related but drug-related. I know you don't have a big drug problem up here..."
"But it's starting, and Chipmunk is where it's at."
"That being the case, he could have been dealing in bennies."
"Who does he work for?"
"Polly's contractor is Eddie Trevelyan, Floyd's son."
"Sure, I knew him when he was in high school and I was with the sheriff's department. Eddie got into trouble and would have had a juvenile record, only his father pulled strings to get it off the books. He was good at that! Even so, Eddie was expelled from Pickax High, and- wouldn't you know? - Floyd-boy sued the school board."
Qwilleran said, "Eddie seems to be doing all right now. He works hard and does a good job, as far as I can see. Drinks heavily, I suspect, but not during work hours. Smokes a lot - only the legal stuff. Keeps a sharp pencil, so he can't be all bad."
"Yeah, all he needs is a shave and a haircut."
"Eddie told me that Benno had been his buddy since high school."
"Then your hunch is right. Benno is James Henry Ducker, and Eddie has lost a carpenter as well as a father who can pull strings."
"Any news on the manhunt, Andy?" "Nothing for publication."
"I wonder what happened to the Lumbertown Party Train."
"It's on a siding in Mudville."
"One more question, and then I'm leaving," Qwilleran said. "What happened at the Trackside Tavern ten years ago that scared women away?"
"Who knows? That's not my beat. Look it up in your newspaper files."
"The Something wasn't publishing ten years ago, and the Pickax Picayune was never more than a chicken dinner newspaper. But there's some hushed-up reason why women don't patronize that bar."
Brodie waved the subject away, saying impatiently, "Maybe they didn't like the cigars and four-letter words. Maybe the bartender wouldn't mix pink drinks. Who cares? It was ten years ago. Why don't you ask your smart cat? Lieutenant Hames was asking about him the other day. He was up here for a few days."
"What was he doing here?" Qwilleran asked. He had known the detective Down Below while working for the Daily Fluxion, and now he wondered why a metropolitan lawman would be involved in an investigation 400 miles north of everywhere, unless -
"He was up here with his family, doing some camping and fishing. They caught some big ones. I met him at a drug seminar Down Below a while back and gave him a big selling on Moose County. His kids were crazy about it."
As Qwilleran was leaving the police station, he saw Dwight Somers coming out of city hall.
"Dwight, you old buzzard! Where've you been?"
"Buzzin' around the county, picking up clients," the publicity man said. "How about an early dinner at the Mill?"
"Suits me. I'll meet you there after I go home and feed the cats."
Dinner at the Old Stone Mill was brief. Dwight had another appointment, and Qwilleran was anticipating another report from Celia.
The younger man was elated. He had lined up the Moose County Community College as a client and was working on a great project with the K Foundation. "That's the good news," he said. "On the down side, I'm being hounded by Floyd- boy's creditors. Just because I promoted his party train, they think I'm going to pay his outstanding bills. It's strange they haven't found him, isn't it?"
"Are you in touch with the family?" Qwilleran asked.
"Only with their attorney. He doesn't allow them to talk to anybody, including me."
"Didn't you tell me that Floyd's secretary had an apartment in your building in Indian Village?"
"Yeah, but I never got an invitation to drop in for a neighborly visit. Perhaps I'm too neat and clean. I've seen some scruffy types knocking on her door, and Floyd himself was a little on the wild side, sartorially."
It was a one-drink, small-steak, no- dessert dinner, and the publicity man apologized for having to rush away.' As they walked to the parking lot, Qwilleran asked, "Do you happen to remember the name of the engineer who drove the locomotive when we took our historic ride?"
"Historic in more ways than one," Dwight. said bitingly. "There'll never be another. The government will be sure to get their hands on Floyd's rolling stock.... But to answer your question: Sure, his name is Ozzie Penn. He's Floyd's father-in-law."
"If he could tell me some good railroad stories, I'd interview him - not for the 'Qwill Pen.' I want to write a book on the Steam Age of railroading."
"Well, he's in his eighties, but in good shape and mentally sharp. We got a doctor's okay before letting him drive No.9. He lives at the Railroad Retirement Center in Mudville," Dwight said as he stepped into his car. There was a packet on the seat, which he handed to Qwilleran. "Here's the video of our train ride. Run it and see if you think we could sell copies to benefit the college."
"Thanks. I'll do that," Qwilleran said, "and... uh... keep it under your hat, Dwight, about the railroad book. I'll be using a pseudonym, and I haven't told anyone but you." The two men went their separate ways.
At home Qwilleran looked up the phone number of the Railroad Retirement Center; the address was on Main Street. Then he checked the Trackside Tavern. First, out of curiosity, he called the bar.
"Not open!" the man's harried voice shouted into the phone before slamming the receiver.
At the Retirement Center the male switchboard operator paged Ozzie Penn and tracked him down in the TV room.
"Hello? Who is it?" said a reedy voice with the surprise and apprehension of one who never receives a phone call.
"Good evening, Mr. Penn," Qwilleran said slowly and distinctly. "1 was one of the passengers on the Party Train when you drove old No. 9. We all had a good time. That engine's a wonderful piece of machinery."
"Yep, she be a beaut!"
"My name is James Mackintosh, and I'm writing a book on the old days of railroading. Would you be willing to talk to me? You've had a long and honorable career, and I'm sure you know plenty of stories."
"That I do," said the old man. "Plenty!"
"May I visit you at the Center? Is there a quiet place where we can talk? You'll receive payment for your time, of course. I'd like to drive out there tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Saturday."
"What be yer name again?"
"Mackintosh. James Mackintosh. How about one o'clock?"
"I ain't goin' no place."
As Qwilleran replaced the receiver, he thought, This old man speaks a fascinating kind of substandard English that will fade out in another generation. Eddie Trevelyan's speech was simply the bad grammar common in Moose County. Ozzie Penn spoke Old Moose.
"May I use your TV?" Qwilleran asked the Siamese, who had been watching him talk into the inanimate instrument. The telephone was something even Koko had never understood.
The three of them trooped to the highest balcony, furnished to feline taste with soft carpet, cushioned baskets, empty boxes, a ladder, scratching pads and posts, and a small TV with VCR. There was one chair which the cats commandeered, while Qwilleran sat on the floor to watch the video.