by P. N. Elrod
Both men chuckled.
Izzy set her mouth, used to the endless fencing match that existed between politicians and the press. Each needed the other much the same as a rhinoceros needed a tick bird. Well, she was anything but some hack reporter. She was after a real story, and this was it: the Hoovers at home, a warm, caring family of true public servants with a disliking for Democrats, Communists. . .and a predilection for canaries.
And dogs. Uh-oh. Izzy froze even more, if that was possible, as a couple of completely gigantic police dogs bounded into the room, one dark, the other white. Allan and his father greeted them, but some kind of altercation broke out with the animals, requiring sharp commands from both men to restore order.
“They just don’t mix,” said Mr. Hoover. “Better get those two out of here.”
“The dogs?”
“Yes, the dogs, at least they know how to obey a command. They work better with the help around here than your herd.”
Allan laughed and set about removing the dogs, calling for King Tut and Snowboy to make a quick exit. They reluctantly complied. Izzy breathed soft relief; she’d been terrified the dogs would sense her presence.
“I don’t know how you manage to keep those things from eating everything in sight,” Hoover admonished.
“They’re not so much trouble,” said Allan. “You should be around when I toss them raw chicken. Mother would stop complaining about how fast you eat.”
“Just mind that they don’t scare the servants.”
“If I ever see any. Every time a bell goes off around here they’re popping into closets like jack-in-the boxes in reverse. I wish you’d get over your dislike of dealing with them. They’re only just people after all.”
His father mumbled something in which the word privacy figured, and Allan Hoover chuckled.
So that explained the ringing alarm and why she’d not seen anyone. Izzy had no need to take notes, this was too completely extraordinary to forget.
“How did your downstairs concert go?” Allan asked.
“Fine, fine. Cheered your mother up. She does enjoy seeing all those bright faces. I think she’d like to be president of them again, given the chance, but she knows she can do more from here than any other place. Oh, get off, you overgrown newt! Look at that. He’s trying to eat my shoe!”
Allan laughed again—what a cheerful sort he was—and there was a dragging sound followed by a strange hissing. “You behave yourself. You want the Secret Service to shoot you?”
Izzy didn’t think he was addressing his father, so there must have been someone or something else in the room, perhaps another dog. But what kind of a mutt hissed?
There was a knock. Mr. Hoover bade them enter, though there was no real door, just a gap in a series of partitions meant to create a space removed from the hall. Like the rest of the room there was a heavy Oriental influence to the panels, reflecting the family’s travels in China.
A man came in, tall, dark suit, with a grim and hasty manner. “Mr. President, we think there may be an intruder in the house.”
“What? Another one?” Mr. Hoover sounded more annoyed than disturbed at the prospect. Izzy held her breath.
“Yes, sir. We’re doing a room-by-room search, but for your own safety it has been suggested that you remove to your office. We’ve checked and cleared it.”
“I was going back to work regardless,” said the president. “It never stops, unless Mrs. Hoover insists on a pause for me.”
Allan murmured agreement. “I suppose those Scouts will be gone by now. Mother will want to tell one of us about it. Shall I volunteer?”
“By all means, but she’ll have you stuffing envelopes with her secretaries if you’re not nimble enough to escape.”
“I don’t mind. This way I can keep an eye on her.”
His father said something to the effect that Mrs. Hoover was more than capable of keeping an eye on herself. Neither seemed concerned about the intruder, which Izzy took for a favorable sign. If by horrible chance she got caught they might laugh it off. Might. She didn’t think so. Not really. One of the men must have hit a signal button, for a moment later three rings sounded and they all left.
And not a moment too soon. Izzy flopped flat on the floor, stretching her legs in agony, and unsuccessfully stifled a sneeze caused by the haze of presidential cigar smoke. It came out as a kind of truncated squeak that closed up her ears. She worked her jaw until her hearing popped back to normal, then rubbed her abused shank muscles until she felt the pins and needles of returning circulation. She was tempted to remove her painful shoes before they permanently crippled her toes, but didn’t dare as she’d never force them back on again. Since quitting her backwoods home for the city her feet had grown soft, used to the protection of shiny leather and fashionable heels. Her days of running barefoot through grass and swamp were long over.
She noticed an odd slithery sound, like something dragging roughly over the rug. Peeking above the chair she looked accusingly at the canaries. They seemed agitated yet at the same time were oddly silent. What a mess they made, feathers and seed husks everywhere. But enough of them, Izzy had to figure a way out of this place. The Secret Service itself was on to her presence, though lord knew how they found it out. Perhaps one of the people in the Blue Room mentioned seeing a straying Girl Scout wandering around. How could they deem that to be a threat to the president? No matter. She had her story; it was past time to skedaddle.
Her legs mostly functional again, she slowly rose from behind the plants, heading toward the opening to look at the rest of the hall.
Drat. Now there were servants moving around, one of them anyway. How to sneak past him? The longer she waited, the worse it would get. Maybe her Scout cover would hold. If she worked herself into some tears and pretended she’d gotten lost from her troop. . .what was the troop leader’s name? Monahan or Houlihan? Not important, the White House staff would hardly know the difference. Bluff, bluff, bluff until blue in the face, then run like crazy, that was the way to get a story.
The butler was out of sight. Good, she could slip downstairs and only have to haul out the lost little girl ruse as a last resort.
She eased from behind the partition—
—And came face-to-face with an extremely surprised-looking man wearing dark livery. He had been on the other side of the hall and somehow silently moved up on her. Izzy hadn’t wanted to test herself so soon. She’d not even gotten her tears in place.
He never gave her the chance. Before she could move or speak he hauled one arm back and smartly slammed his fist against the side of her head.
Light lanced behind her eyes and she dropped straight down, face in the rug, utterly unable to move.
Izzy never quite lost consciousness, but lay quite breathless and stunned. Instead of raising a hue and cry at discovering the intruder, the servant bolted off. She managed to crack one eyelid enough to mark his retreating feet. Oh, God, now she was in for it. Was trespassing at the White House a federal crime? She should have researched that. Maybe she could write a series about women in prison. Was there a women’s federal prison?
Think, Isabelle. They’d not clapped the irons on yet, nor had he sounded the alarm. She could hide in a closet until the ringing in her skull died down. Ow-ow-owwwww. What a bully, hitting a helpless little Girl Scout. If she laid eyes on him again she’d show him a thing or three. . .
Ring-ring.
That hadn’t come from inside her head. The president must be on his way back. Being found sprawled over the hall rug was too ignominious to be endured. She’d go back to her hiding place. Maybe later she could duck into a bedroom, knot sheets together, and escape out a window after dark.
Footsteps. Coming her way.
She managed to get to her knees, and crept past the partitions to her spot behind the palms. She was dizzy, and her head hurt miserably.
Flat on the floor again. How had that happened? Oh, her feet hurt, her head, ouch-ouch; she’d better get a bonus for
this one, if she ever got away. Quiet, she had to be very, very quiet.
She put her back to a wall, drawing her knees up, the easier to cradle her pounding head. The president’s lingering cigar smoke made her sick to her stomach. Adding to the misery was another smell mingling with the smoke, a strangely familiar musk, redolent of the swamp. There must be some stagnant water in one of the vases, left forgotten after the removal of its flowers. Phew, what a stink.
Two more people seemed to be in the room. Allan Hoover and a woman in the midst of expressing her irritation. Izzy recognized the first lady’s voice.
“It’s ridiculous,” she said. “How can we not be safe in our own home surrounded by guards?”
“They’re just being cautious, Mother. Once they’ve combed the house you can get back to work.”
“I’ve much too much to do to leave it for long. There’s mail to answer, dinner invitations to send, and those calling cards will want a reply.”
“You don’t have to respond to all of them.”
“Allan, that’s not proper or polite. Those people took the trouble to come and leave their cards, the least we can do is show our appreciation. This is their house, too.”
“I think many leave a card just to get your autograph on the house stationery.”
“You have a poor opinion of the people of this country.”
“The people are just fine, it’s the politicians we want to watch out for.”
“Oh, Allan.” But there was affection in her tone. “Just let your father hear that.”
“I’m certain he would agree.”
Despite her nausea, Izzy still took mental notes, albeit with the suspicion that she could just possibly be dreaming. A bang on the head might do terrible things to one’s brain, creating hallucinations. Had she imagined that butler? Where had he gotten himself?
“Have they cleared this floor yet?” Mrs. Hoover asked.
Allan went to the opening. “They’re still looking around. It shouldn’t be too long.”
“Please tell them to hurry. There aren’t that many places to search. Certainly no closets to speak of.” That sounded like a pet grievance of hers. A house this huge with no closets? Unthinkable.
“Not yet, anyway. Any day now I expect you to start tearing into the walls.”
“The place needs shaking up. Never did I see such a drab old barn in my life. I don’t know how Mrs. Coolidge stood it, and she was always so ill here. Poor thing should have gotten more sunshine. That would have set her right. Always worked well for you two boys.”
“Yes, Mother.” Allan left, calling to someone in the distance, then went off.
He was gone for longer than the first lady had patience to wait. Izzy heard Mrs. Hoover give an audible sigh, then follow her son.
Izzy wondered if now would be the best time to show herself. After hearing a mother’s affectionate talk with her son, Izzy began to realize how she might feel having an uninvited stranger eavesdropping in her house. This had gone too far. Time to stop no matter the consequences. They might go light on her. Surely if Mrs. Hoover heard a personal appeal to her well-known humanitarian instincts, along with a groveling apology. . .
But Izzy couldn’t do that. The bash in the head had her going silly. Good heavens, she was tougher than this. She could stick it out a little longer. Besides, this was likely the safest place to hide. She’d wait, escape, and then apologize. Anonymously. From a distance. Chicago, maybe. She could do stories on Al Capone. Unless they fobbed her off to Mrs. Capone.
Izzy blinked herself alert to the present, not the future. Yes, she could stick it out, but this seemed to be a favorite gathering spot for the family; what else might she overhear? Personal talk was the bread and butter of the yellow press, but she had higher standards than that. Human interest was acceptable, but one had to draw a line. And what if the dogs were brought in again? They’d been distracted earlier, but sooner or later they’d sniff her out. Perhaps they wouldn’t eat her—she’d been raised with coon hounds and knew how to stall excited canines until help arrived—but avoiding the circus would be best for all concerned.
Conscience wanted her to do otherwise, though. Common sense said that throwing herself on the first lady’s mercy would be better than explaining things to the Secret Service. Those fellows were uncommonly serious. All right, well and good. Isabelle DeLeon, soon to be a former member of the Washington press would emerge, confess, and apologize. Besides, it would put everyone’s mind at rest about the so-called intruder. No bomb-throwing Bolsheviks, no Communists, just one diminutive reporter with more enthusiasm than wisdom.
Decision made, Izzy unsteadily emerged from her bolt hole. At least now she could get rid of these awful shoes, though on second thought it might not be the right sort of behavior to display before this well-bred crowd. She didn’t think Mrs. Hoover would approve of people walking about in socks.
Smothering a groan for her feet and head, Izzy started toward the opening. Mrs. Hoover was in conversation with others from the sound of things. Servants, perhaps? Though from that bell-ringing earlier the clear-the-halls signal applied to her as well as her husband.
Then Izzy saw that darn butler again. Where had he come from? What in heaven’s name had he been doing waiting around in this room the whole time she’d wrestled with her conscience? Now he’d spoil everything by giving away her presence before she was ready. She had to get to Mrs. Hoover first.
Izzy shot forward, beating him to the hall, then halted cold in her tracks, frozen with absolute shock.
Just ahead of her, moving at a quick pace for its size, was an honest-to-God alligator.
It couldn’t be a hallucination, not with that stagnant water smell. How in heaven’s name had that monster gotten here?
The answer could wait. It was heading straight for the first lady, long mouth gaping wide, and she seemed quite unaware of its threat.
Without thinking, Izzy launched bodily toward the thing. It was nearly as long as she was tall, but she knew how to deal with the varmints. She and her brothers had pulled more than one of them out of the hen house. If you were strong enough you could grab the tail and haul backwards, and if quick enough, jump clear before the head whipped around to bite off anything important. Izzy was quick, but lacked the muscle power for heavy hauling.
Instead, she landed on the reptile in a flying tackle, pushing down hard with all of her ninety-nine pounds and clamping her small hands onto its snout. The beast had a fearsome bite, but first it had to get its jaws open. Preventing that took surprisingly little effort. However, the rest of its body was pure muscle, especially the tail. She wrapped her legs around the gator just as it bucked and rolled, twisting with outrage. Izzy knew she would tire before it did and unashamedly shouted for help, hoping the Secret Service would shoot only it and not her.
“Run, Mrs. Hoover!” she put in for good measure. “I’ve got it! Run!”
Mrs. Hoover did not run, and in fact looked remarkably calm about the whole business, calling for her son. “Allan, will you please remove this reptile from that poor girl?”
The gator had other ideas and twisted again, violently thrashing until it was on top. She tried to hold it firm, but its great head began to get away from her, which could be deadly. She felt the shape of the teeth under her fingers; one slash from those in the right place would cut to the bone and beyond.
Then a man stepped into her field of view, made a successful grab at the snout, and pulled the thing right from her. He danced backward with it, nearly blundering into a Secret Service agent brandishing a gun.
“Shoot it!” Izzy yelled.
“No!” the man yelled back. He was Allan Hoover and seemed much taller from Izzy’s low vantage point. In very quick order he had the gator under control. He charged toward the partitioned end of the hall, and released the thing, skipping away in time to avoid getting whacked by the tail. Her brothers couldn’t have done better. Young Hoover puffed, grinned, and shook his rumpled suit back into pl
ace.
“He’s going to be mad for awhile,” he said. “We better stay out of there until he settles down.”
“Allan, I think it’s time you put that beast in a zoo.”
“Oh, Mother, he’s not even half grown yet. He behaves so long as people don’t surprise him.” He glowered down at Izzy, but failed at truly intimidating her. After wrestling with an alligator she didn’t think very much else would.
Goodness, but he was handsomer than his photos. His cleft chin was more pronounced than his father’s, and he had his mother’s forthright eyebrows. All in all, an impressive combination.
“Don’t go scaring the chid,” said Mrs. Hoover. “She’s been through enough.”
“I’m all right,” Izzy ventured. She started to pick herself up—how many hours had she been on the floor today?—but the agent with the gun came forward.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, sighting down its short muzzle at her.
Izzy had no intention of arguing with him, but Mrs. Hoover did. “Do put that away, Mr. Borden. I’ll take care of this.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Orders.”
“I said to put that away.” She did not raise her voice, but there was a note in it that would brook no argument. She wasn’t used to repeating herself, this was her house, and in domestic matters she was in full charge of it. All that in half a dozen words combined with a slight lifting of her chin. Light flickered off her eyeglass lenses, concealing some of her expression, but none of her dynamism. The agent wavered. “Use your head, Mr. Borden, this little girl thought she was saving me from being eaten alive. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Izzy nodded. Could her disheveled Scout disguise be working? Probably not. Mrs. Hoover seemed the type not to miss much. Allan Hoover had begun to smile. Or was that a smirk? Going suddenly red, Izzy yanked her skirt down to a more socially acceptable level.