P N Elrod Omnibus

by P. N. Elrod

  “But, ma’am—” agent Borden looked unhappy, reluctant to abandon his protective instincts.

  “Report it to the appropriate party,” said Mrs. Hoover. “In the meantime, I’ll look into this. Allan, she seems in need of help.”

  Allan readily stepped forward and assisted Izzy to her feet. Ow, they were still in agony, and she was still sick; the aftermath of the fight left her shaking from unused adrenaline.

  “Are you injured?” he asked, supporting her.

  “The gator didn’t hurt me, it was that butler who hit me in the head.”

  “What butler?”

  “One of the butlers or footmen or someone socked me one in the noggin,” she said. “Then he ran off.”

  Allan looked at the agent. “I think she’s seen your intruder, Mr. Borden.”

  “Where?” Borden demanded.

  Izzy waved toward the sun room. “He was in there a minute ago.”

  “The Palm Court?”

  This time Mrs. Hoover did not demure. When Borden gestured decisively toward the other end of the hall and some stairs, she went without a word. Allan, also silent, followed, helping Izzy limp along. She was too slow for him, though, so he swept her up just like that and carried her down. She was too surprised to protest. Besides, it was very nice to be in the strong arms of a handsome young man, made her glad she wasn’t really a Girl Scout.

  Borden shouted, and a number of men in dark suits bounded upstairs. At the lower landing several more surrounded the Hoovers, leading them away. Someone had forgotten to ring the signal bells to warn of the first lady’s approach. Two maids carrying linens were caught flatfooted by the quick-moving parade and hurriedly ducked around a corner. Izzy hoped they wouldn’t get into trouble. That would hardly be fair.

  They finally came to something resembling a sitting room, but without windows and only one door. Izzy wondered if it might have originally been a storage cupboard converted to a waiting area. Borden shut them in with one of his men and rushed outside to see to other duties.

  Allan set Izzy down on one of the chairs. It must have been a leftover from Lincoln’s day, it had the look, and she became conscious that she was not only disheveled, but smelled strongly of alligator. Ugh.

  “Felling better?” he asked.

  “Very much,” she lied. “Thank you, and I owe you both a huge apology.”

  “Why don’t you tell us your name first?” suggested Mrs. Hoover, taking a chair opposite. “Then you can explain the details behind your apology. Are you or have you ever been a Girl Scout?”

  Izzy winced, having collected the instant impression that the first lady would be as rankled by the misuse of this uniform as any military man upon seeing an undeserving civilian masquerading in full officer’s kit. Wrestling another alligator would be preferable to this particular accounting, that or getting shot by the Secret Service. She could make a run for it. The man by the door would cut her down point-blank. . .but no. Izzy had already resolved to bare all, but for that butler spoiling things.

  Besides, these shoes made running quite impossible.

  She offered a weak smile, squirmed, gave her name, and began talking, starting with her desire to get an interview to her impersonation idea, to her misinterpretation of the gator’s intentions. It was explained to her that the beast had indeed been looking for food, but seeking out Allan to give it some, not to make a meal of the first lady.

  “Father will be none too pleased,” Allan said, referring to the business of the interview and the eavesdropping. Izzy had apologized frequently and sincerely.

  “He won’t be the only one,” agreed Mrs. Hoover. “However, Miss DeLeon exhibited a remarkable turn of wit and nerve to get so far, and then to leap so boldly upon that great reptile. . .”

  Allan’s smile returned briefly. “That was smooth. Miss DeLeon, you’re the only female I’ve ever met who wasn’t terrified to shrieking at the very sight of my pets. That puts you ahead of a number of men, too.”

  “Pets?” she squeaked. While growing up Izzy had had to deal with occasional gator incursions. They were a sometimes dangerous nuisance and more often than not turned into the family’s dinner depending on who had the gun that day, but certainly nothing you’d want to keep as a pet. A coon hound was much more practical. “You have more than one?”

  “I’ve a matched set. A Mr. Cornell Woolley gave them to me a few years ago when we lived on S Street. They were whizzer. I was the only boy in the whole town with my very own alligators.”

  From that perspective his enthusiasm for the distinction was understandable. Mrs. Hoover’s expression was reserved, but it was clear she was holding back her private opinion concerning Mr. Woolley’s questionable generosity. “Allan still keeps them in the bathtubs at night. It’s a wonder we have any servants left.”

  Allan seemed used to this particular observation. “They’re better than the Marines. In all that time on S Street, were we ever worried over burglars?”

  “No, just finding ourselves short of a cook some morning, whether she departed in the night of her own accord or had been untimely consumed. But we are losing the point. What are we to do with you, Miss DeLeon?”

  Izzy had a number of proposals, all of which ended with her being free to leave the grounds, never to return. She would gratefully totter home, tender her resignation to the paper, and hop the first train to New York or Chicago where things were safer. So far as she knew, no gators roamed free in the houses of the rich and refined there. And after this debacle, interviewing the likes of Al Capone would be far less fatiguing or perilous. But Izzy never got the chance to voice her ideas; Borden returned.

  “Are we free to leave?” Mrs. Hoover asked him.

  “Sorry, ma’am, no.”

  “You’ve still not found him?”

  “We have and we haven’t.”

  She raised her brows, inquiring.

  “We made a search of the house and rounded up every man in servant clothing. Some are new to the general staff, but all are known to each other and the house usher. If this miss would make an identification of the culprit we can clear it up right away.”

  “I only got a glimpse,” said Izzy.

  “Miss, you are in very serious trouble. The best way to ameliorate things is to cooperate with us.”

  “At least give it a try,” said Allan. “Shall I carry you again?”

  If his mother had not been looking on with a shrewd eye Izzy might have taken him up on that. “I can manage now.” Biting back the shoe discomfort she stood, but had a genuine need to lean on his arm.

  They went to a wide hall, the equivalent of the one on the floor above, but with majestic pillars marching down its length. What a grand impression it must make on visiting heads of state. Izzy felt a swell of pride to have her country represented in such a beautiful manner. Between the pillars on one side nearly twenty men in servant livery were gathered, looking remarkably alike except for the dark faces of the Negroes. With a jar, Izzy noticed that to a man, they were all exactly the same height.

  “The one who hit me was white,” she whispered to Borden.

  At a word from him the ranks were thinned. The men dismissed from the line-up—for that was what it looked like—were slow to leave, obviously curious to know what was going on. Mrs. Hoover took off her glasses and twirled them. They instantly departed.

  “Which one?” asked Borden.

  Izzy checked each remaining face, none were remotely familiar. In a fit of inspiration she examined their trouser knees for signs of crawling around. Last she inspected their shoes, and finally shook her head. “I’m sorry, but he’s not here. The man I saw had old, worn-down heels. He’d polished his shoes, but there was too much scuffing to cover up the damage.”

  “Good eye for detail,” said Allan. “Miss DeLeon should be working for you. Well, if he’s not here, then he’s still upstairs. Is my father is safe?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hoover. I doubled the number of men around him. They’re alert for tr
ouble.”

  “The man may still be on the same floor,” said Mrs. Hoover. “Just in a very good hiding place. I trust you looked under the beds in the family quarters?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hoover.” Borden seemed unpiqued at having so basic a point raised. “We will check all over again.”

  “The windows are wide open with this heat. Perhaps he made an exit by that means.”

  “From so high up?” asked Izzy, then remembered she’d planned a similar escape using knotted sheets. “It could be possible that. . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, something Mr. Hoover said about not having burglars at your previous residence. I’d been hiding a very long time in that sunny room.”

  “The Palm Court?”

  “Yes, and the alligators were there the whole while?”

  Allan nodded. “They like to sun themselves. It scares the canaries, though.”

  “I think they scared more than the birds. If this man got up to the Palm Court, hid himself, then realized he was sharing his bushwhacking blind with a pair of gators—”

  “He’d have been too terrified himself to move. Oh, this is smooth! I think you have it. Mr. Borden, let’s go hunting.”

  “Sir, I can’t allow you to—”

  “Bother that, follow me!”

  Allan charged up the stairs, Borden and his men hastened after, and sore feet or no, Izzy charged too, since no one told her to stay put. Mrs. Hoover called after her son, but to no avail. Perhaps he’d been so quick to go in order to prevent parental restraint.

  Izzy had to hang onto the hand rail at the top; she wasn’t quite up to her best yet, but wanted a prime location to watch.

  Borden reclaimed enough of his authority to compel young Hoover to hang back a sensible distance. Two men were doing their best to stand in front of him while Borden and two others made their way cautiously toward the dividing panels.

  “Don’t shoot my alligators,” said Allan in a very low voice, pitched to carry only a few feet.

  Borden gave no sign of acknowledgement, his whole attention focused on listening. All Izzy heard were the birds, singing and flapping in their big cage. She inched forward. Just inside the Palm Court lay one of the gators. Its tail toward them, its head was partly turned. Evidently it was aware of Borden’s presence. He hesitated. Though protecting the president required flinging himself between his charge and assailants, dealing with a testy alligator was likely not a normal part of his job duties.

  Getting an idea, Izzy took off her shoes. Oh, dear lord, that felt good, but she couldn’t pause to enjoy the exquisite relief. She said psst. Borden turned. She motioned for him to move to one side. He got her intent and stepped clear. Izzy had the eye and arm for throwing things, and the official Girl Scout footwear was a very sturdy, heavy item, built for tough use. Izzy made use of it by a hard and, as it turned out, accurate throw at the gator’s head.

  The gator snapped irritably at the object as it bounced off its flat skull. Izzy threw the remained shoe, this time so it landed past the snout. The thing scrabbled after, snapping it up like a prize.

  With the way clear, Borden and his men entered the court, guns ready. Izzy held her breath and could tell Allan did the same. No one moved for a moment, then Borden emerged, disappointment on his face.

  “No one’s there, sir,” he said to Allan.

  “My alligator.” Allan moved past them. “If he swallows that shoe it could kill him.”

  Saving the gator was not Borden’s concern, but Izzy felt a touch of responsibility. She followed Allan into the Palm Court. It was bright and hot compared to the dim hall, the light dazzling her. Allan was on his knees straddling his pet’s back. As if from long practice, he grabbed the alligator’s jaws and pulled them apart like a lion tamer.

  “Would you retrieve your shoe, Miss DeLeon?” he asked.

  Izzy didn’t like to risk getting her arm bitten off if his grip slipped, but she couldn’t flinch now. The shoe was hanging half way out, anyway. She snagged it up and backed away.

  “Watch out, there’s the other one,” Allan advised.

  Turning, Izzy saw the second gator approaching from the other side of the room, attracted by the activity. “Maybe you’d better feed them,” she said.

  “Yes, then they might forgive me for all the abuse they’ve been through.” Allan released his hold and jumped back. “Perhaps we can—” He stopped, staring at something behind Izzy. She whirled. A man was clambering through the open window. He had firm hold of a thick, knotted rope that extended upward. Apparently he’d just climbed down from the roof.

  Without thinking, Izzy aimed and threw again. Her official Scout shoe smashed square into the side of his head. Allan yelled for help, then tackled the reeling man. Secret Service agents rushed in; there was a mad scuffle for about four seconds, then everything went quiet. The man was lying face to the floor and handcuffed. Allan Hoover, puffing a bit, stood.

  “Whizzer!” he said, grinning at Izzy, then looked down at the captive. “Who are you?”

  “I have an appointment with the President,” the man stated. His voice was muffled, his mouth partly imbedded in the rattan rug.

  “I think not. People with appointments don’t lurk, and you were lurking.”

  “I was trying to get away from those monsters! Kept me from my duty half the day!”

  “For that they will get extra chicken. Sounds like his pot is cracked, Mr. Borden.”

  “We’ll find out for certain, sir.” Borden, who had been part of the rescue mob, now supervised the man’s removal. “This miss needs to come along, too.” He put a hand on Izzy’s arm.

  Allan Hoover removed it. “I’ll vouch for her, Mr. Borden.”

  “But, sir, she—”

  “I know, but Mother and I will look into it. I’m satisfied she meant no harm. On the contrary, she and my alligators have endeavored to do your job.”

  “I’ll have to make a report, sir.”

  “Looking forward to reading it, if Father allows it. Come, Miss DeLeon. Let’s get your other shoe before my pets eat it.”

  In the hall, Izzy padded along, shoes in hand. Mrs. Hoover waited by lower landing, staring after the agents as they led the intruder away. He was speaking loud and rapidly about his missed appointment with the president.

  “Dear me, if he’d just left a calling card he’d have gotten an invitation to one of our receptions,” she said. She looked at Izzy. “Well, Miss DeLeon, what are we to do with you? As a staunch supporter of the Constitution I cannot curtail freedom of speech as represented by the press, but—”

  Izzy raised a conciliatory hand. “Not to worry, Mrs. Hoover. This is a heck of a—I mean a great story, but I’d rather forget it ever happened. I promise to respect your privacy and that of your family for as long as I live. My word of honor as a not-quite-Girl Scout.”

  Mrs. Hoover blinked a few times, digesting this, and looked at Allan, who nodded. “Then your word is good enough for me, Miss DeLeon. I think you should leave now, but I will expect you back here this evening. We serve dinner at eight sharp.”

  Izzy felt a case of shock coming on.

  “That is, if you’re up to it?”

  “I. . .yes! I’ll be here!” No bump on the head would keep her away.

  “Very good. Allan, see that she gets a ride. Good day, Miss DeLeon.” Mrs. Hoover left them.

  “Dinner,” Izzy breathed. Had she heard right?

  Allan shrugged. “My parents never eat alone unless it’s their anniversary. This is Mother’s way of thanking you for your help and providing you with a safe story to write. Wait ’til my father hears this.”

  Oh, this was wonderful. . .terrific. . .whizzer. “Dinner at the White House!” Saying it aloud made it more real.

  “You’ll enjoy it. Can’t say that I always do.” He took her arm, leading her gently off. “Don’t quote me, but this big old barn has always given me the willies.” So said a man who kept alligators for pets. He gestured back toward the
m. “Seems to agree with those two, though. . .”

  * * * * * * *

  __________

  THE QUICK WAY DOWN

  Author’s Note: The original version of this 5,000- word Vampire Files story sold to DAW Books for their anthology MOB MAGIC. I tweaked and expanded things, so consider this 8K-word version to be “the director’s cut.” Here we get to see a bit more of the working relationship between vampire Jack Fleming and gang boss “Northside Gordy.”

  Chicago, May 1937

  Gordy Weems trudged up to my table, his phlegmatic face showing a subdued combination of annoyance and disgust, which was as angry as I’d ever seen him. “I got a stiff in the men’s john.” he stated.

  I refrained from making an obvious joke. He was too serious. The Nightcrawler Club, of which he was the owner and where I was presently seated, was a class operation; bodies in the washroom were not normal despite Gordy’s reputation. Sure, he ran a very large hunk of Chicago’s underworld territory, but he was too careful and smart to bump anyone off in his own yard—not so he’d get caught, anyway.

  “Natural causes?” I knew the answer, but had to ask.

  “A pill in the heart. I figure a .22. There’s not much blood. When his tie’s in place, it hides the hole.”

  I had no curiosity to ask how he’d determined that detail. “Who?”

  “Alby Cornish.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  But Gordy is no kidder.

  “Damn.”

  Alby was—or had been—an up-and-coming boxer being groomed for more important fights. He’d been able to throw a right that could knock down a barn and known how to take a dive and make it look real. A number of big shots would be unhappy about his demise.

  Gordy would get the blame.

  He turned his head slightly, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop. He’d have done that before speaking in the first place. This told me how nervous he was. “Alby was here all evening with that singer, Ruthie Phillips. They were living it up pretty good until about an hour ago.”