Audacity Jones to the Rescue

by Kirby Larson

  “Come along, Annie. We mustn’t be late.” The Commodore took Audie’s arm, propelling her toward the elevator cage.

  “Where are we going?” The gold coin in Audie’s right boot shifted and she shook her foot surreptitiously to move it back to the toe so she could walk more comfortably. “Are we finally going on the”—she lowered her voice to a whisper, confident that Cypher was far enough ahead not to overhear—“mission?”

  “Tut, tut!” The Commodore put his finger to his lips. The metal cage doors creaked open. “Mum’s the word.”

  The elevator operator let Audie push the button for the lobby; upon their arrival, she and the Commodore waited in the vestibule while Cypher fetched the car. The Commodore exchanged another mumbly conversation with the bellman while Audie counted the black tiles on the entry floor.

  “Here we go.” The Commodore held the hotel door for Audie.

  “Fifty-seven,” she said.

  “What?” The Commodore looked perplexed.

  “Tiles,” Audie answered.

  “Remember what I said.” The Commodore flashed a forced smile. “Silence.”

  Audie nodded and climbed into the car when Cypher pulled it up in front of the hotel. As she slid over to the far side, she thought she caught sight of a newly familiar face. She leaned forward, seeking left and right.

  “I can still hear you!” The Commodore glowered at her over the front seat.

  Using only her eyes, Audie took one last look. No sign of Juice. No sign of anyone she knew. She quietly pulled the lap robe over her legs. Would today be the day that her role in the mission would be revealed? That thought warranted only a moment or two of cogitation. It was a bit like watching a pot boil: No amount of eyestrain could increase the speed of the desired end result.

  Their automobile eased around a dawdling enclosed observation car—25 MILES OF SIGHTSEEING. DAILY TOURS. 50 CENTS—narrowly missing a squadron of beskirted young ladies who were propelling their smart new Racycle bicycles down Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Since they’d arrived in the city, except for her adventure with Juice, Audie’d had little time to explore. It would be such a shame to return to Miss Maisie’s with no stories to tell the Girls about the nation’s capital. She vowed to instantly begin to put to memory all the wonderful sights and sounds around her.

  As if he read her mind, Cypher spoke. “Turn quick, and you can see the monument.”

  So stunned at this offer of enlightenment, Audie nearly missed the glimpse of the Washington Monument behind them.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said. “It’s much more impressive in person than on that postcard.” Audie hugged herself. Wouldn’t Bimmy love to see it. Rather, wouldn’t Bimmy love to climb to the very tip-top, as high up—or higher!—than her high-wire parents? When her neck would turn no farther, Audie faced forward, in time for the Capitol to fill her view. The auto jogged around the Capitol grounds, and past the Botanic Garden—the triplets would so love to stroll there, perhaps among the flowers that were their own namesakes. She would endeavor to bring them in the springtime; on this December day, the gardens bore the look of an old tomcat worse for the wear after a few too many late-night alley fights.

  A few more lefts and rights and lefts again, and the car turned down a street lined with small businesses. In front of one brownstone building, Cypher eased the auto up to a curb. “Shall I wait, sir?”

  The Commodore was already extruding himself onto the sidewalk. “Return for us in an hour or so,” he said. He got himself erect, smoothing overcoat, hat, hair, and moustache. “Come along, Annie.”

  Audie slid obediently out of the backseat and began to close the door behind her. “There’s a food stall by Union Station,” she told Cypher, thinking to repay his tour guidance with a bit of her own. “Lulu’s. Ask for the special with a cup of joe. It’s delicious!”

  To her complete surprise, Cypher gave a nod. “I would enjoy a cup of coffee,” he said.

  She followed the Commodore up the steps of the trim brick row house endowed with the fanciful name of Rainbow’s End, pausing at the glossy black door. Next to the entry, a directory proclaimed the businesses contained within. Audie doubted that she and the Commodore had come to pay a call on JOHN ALBEE, AUTHOR, or DOT DODGE, MANICURIST. That left MRS. ISABELLA WOODARD, LADIES EXCHANGE, SECOND FLOOR.

  The Commodore puffed his way up the narrow stairwell, mopping his brow upon reaching the summit. The quiet within the building was no doubt explained by the fact that it was the lunch hour. The inhabitants had likely made their way to one of the nearby cafés. Audie’s stomach gave a tentative little grumble itself at the thought of lunch. Croissants, though scrumptious, were not a sufficient breakfast for a growing girl.

  The Commodore bypassed a closed office door whose neatly painted letters announced that said office belonged to the Mrs. Isabella Woodard listed on the directory below. A few steps down the hall, he gave a gentle rap on a similar door, though unmarked.

  A tall woman answered, opening the door a narrow wedge. Her face put Audie in mind of a bird: her nose beaky, her eyes small and shiny. “Is this the girl?” The woman’s accent was English.

  Audie felt a thrill at the question. Perhaps the pot had finally boiled! Perhaps she would now learn her part in the Commodore’s plan!

  The Commodore nodded and the woman opened the door wider so they could step inside. For the second time that day, Audie caught a whiff of gardenia. The woman pointed to two chairs; both Audie and the Commodore sat.

  “I suppose you know why you are here?” The bird woman squawked the question.

  Audie glanced at the Commodore. She didn’t want to answer incorrectly.

  “I thought it best to keep her in the dark.” The Commodore shifted on his chair.

  After a brief pause, the woman nodded. “Yes, of course. The less she knows—” She let the thought hang in the air, unfinished.

  Audie’s imagination couldn’t help but finish. The less she knows, the safer she is? Is that what was implied? Audie swiped damp palms on her new wool coat, inhaling deeply to steady her nerves.

  “We have an exceedingly important job to do. Tomorrow. At the White House.” The woman stared down her beak at Audie, her hot gaze warming Audie right through to her backbone.

  The White House! That silly game she’d played with Beatrice hadn’t been too far off the mark. The White House. What would the Wayward Girls say to that? Audie sat a little taller, shoulders back, pride puffing out her chest. Think of it! An orphan coming to the aid of the President of the United States.

  “It’s an honor.” Audie couldn’t help but wonder what sort of assistance the President might require of her. Though there could not be another man in America with more on his mind than poor Mr. Taft, it would hardly do for Audie to offer him bedtime songs such as those she had sung to soothe the triplets. She struggled to imagine what other help the nation’s leader could demand of an orphan. Nothing came to mind. But nevertheless. The President needed her. And she was not about to let him down. By the time her thoughts cycled through all the possibilities, she was so full of patriotic fervor and passion she nearly saluted Madame Beaknose. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  The woman nodded curtly. “We haven’t much time. Listen closely.”

  Audie sat up in bed, tugging the coverlet to her chin, straining to listen. Once assured that Beatrice was breathing the gentle respirations of the sleeper, Audie peeled back the bedclothes and slid her feet to the floor. A shadow with a swaying tail had appeared outside the window nearly an hour before, but she hadn’t dared take action, not with Beatrice bustling about.

  “Perhaps you will get to meet Monsieur le President after all!” Beatrice had exclaimed, brushing Audie’s hair into one-inch sections and wrapping each section around a strip of flannel, before tying the ends of each strip into a loose knot. By the time Beatrice was finished, Audie felt as if Miss Maisie’s quilt scrap bag had burst open upon her head.

  “Ooh la la.” Beatri
ce had spun Audie around and kissed her on both cheeks. Audie had determined that this was something the French did when they greeted one another or when they parted or when they were excited or for nearly any occasion in between. “To meet such largeness!”

  Audie had turned away, quickly. She was certain Beatrice was not referring to the nation’s twenty-seventh president’s girth—which was astounding, that could not be denied—but his political stature. The maid’s misunderstandings of the English language could be so humorous at times.

  “I doubt I’ll get to meet the President,” Audie had replied. “But if I do, I’ll look more than presentable, thanks to you.”

  Beatrice had insisted on an early bedtime so Audie would be ready for her big day. Thankfully, Audie had been able to slip her daily postcard to the elevator operator, who promised to get it into the seven-thirty post. What with the beauty salon treatment and early donning of nightgowns, Audie would have had no opportunity to mail the card otherwise. Once she’d gotten Audie settled, Beatrice had had no trouble falling asleep herself. But then she did not know what Audie was going to be doing at the White House. Not that Audie could tell her—she’d been sworn to secrecy by Madame Beaknose.

  Now assured that Beatrice was back home in Saint Cado, at least in her dreams, Audie slowly cracked open the hotel room window to allow entrance to her oldest and dearest friend.

  “Hmm,” Audie mused, when it became apparent that she would need to nudge the window open a bit wider than usual. “It looks like you’ve gained some weight, Min. City life must agree with you.”

  Such a tactless comment about her weight caused Min to pause on the windowsill, half in and half out of the room. But she pressed on, deciding to forgive Audie for her insensitive observation. After all, the young have much to learn about what one does and does not say to others. Min had caught a glimpse of herself that morning in the window of the Betsy Ross Candy Shop across the street from the hotel and thought herself looking the epitome of feline felicity. She found the rounded purse that swayed between her four paws to be quite comely indeed. It made her look every bit a cat of the world.

  Min bounded onto the bed, kneading at the coverlet to show Audie that there were no hard feelings about her thoughtless remark. Audie climbed back under the sheets, scratching that delicious spot behind Min’s left ear.

  “Bees and bonnets, Min, you’d think I’d have been brought all this way for something really important, wouldn’t you? I mean, it must have cost the Commodore a fortune to feed me and buy me all these nice new clothes. And for what?” Her head drooped to rest on top of Min’s. “You’ll never guess.” She could hardly bring herself to say the words. Not even to her dearest friend. It was only Min’s purr that gave her confidence to confess.

  “I know it’s important to keep the President happy, especially with all the hard work he has to do. I mean, can you imagine running this country? Keeping peace between the Democrats and Republicans? Between the farmers and the businessmen? Between the oilmen and the conservationists?” Audie’s head began to ache a bit in sympathy for Mr. Taft. “And, with my own unseemly fondness for gingersnaps, I certainly know what it’s like to suffer from food cravings. But honestly, Min.” She could not bring herself to meet that pair of golden eyes. “Soup?”

  Audie pushed herself away from her feline friend, slumping backward against the headboard. “I’ve been brought all the way from Miss Maisie’s to help make the President’s favorite soup. Which can only be prepared by a real English cook. And this particular real English cook can only work if she has an orphan for an assistant.” Audie hung her head. “And not any soup, Min. Terrapin Soup.” She made a face. “Turtle soup.”

  Min could tell that her friend was distraught. She corkscrewed herself into a ball next to Audie’s left hip and remained there, radiating warmth and comfort, until Audie fell asleep. Audie squirmed in her dreams, dodging turtles paddling their flippers in murky green ponds, all the while wearing a copper kettle on her head and cooking mitts on her feet. Finally, the dreaming and squirming stopped and she began to engage in the soft, deep breaths of the young and innocent.

  Satisfied that Audie was soundly asleep at last, Min slipped away, out the window, onto the ledge. Her every cat fiber tingled with concern. A mere kitten could put two and two together and figure out that Audie had not been brought all the way from Swayzee, Indiana, to Washington, D.C., to lend assistance in preparing a batch of turtle soup, no matter who was set to consume it. There was more to this kettle of fish than met the eye.

  The cat bounded its way to the street below. It was time to enlist some assistance.

  Bimmy’s arms flailed as she batted at something furry crawling over her face. She bolted up in bed, clutching at the bedcovers.

  Her movements awakened the one triplet on her left and the two on her right.

  “Something’s wrong!” declared Lilac.

  “Did my snoring wake you?” asked Lavender.

  Violet took one look at Bimmy and hopped out of her own cot. “I’ll make you some hot milk,” she said.

  “No, no. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” Bimmy was comforted by the faces of her friends, made paler in the moonlight. Yet, she shivered as the last of the fleeting images of her nightmare evaporated.

  Lilac and Lavender tugged the coverlet they shared to Bimmy’s bed and tucked it around her shoulders. Her trembling eased.

  “Was it a bad dream?” Lilac asked tenderly.

  “It might help to talk it out,” suggested Lavender.

  Violet said nothing, but gently rubbed Bimmy’s back.

  After a few minutes, Bimmy sighed deeply. She had carried the burden of this nightmare all alone these past two nights. She could not bear it by herself any longer. “It was so dark,” she began. “There was a room. A messy room full of castoffs—broken tools and kitchen utensils.”

  “Was that what frightened you?” asked Lilac.

  “The room?” Bimmy shook her head. “No.”

  “But something did,” prompted Lavender.

  Bimmy nodded. “Everything was blurry, confusing. Remember that time we had a twirling contest?”

  The triplets nodded.

  “And that was scary?” Violet asked.

  “No.” Bimmy swallowed hard. “There was a bird-faced woman and a knife and something bad was going to happen. But there was no way out. The door was locked. Locked tight.”

  “And you were trapped,” surmised Violet.

  “That’s the worst part.” Bimmy covered her face with her hands, lowering her shaky voice. “It wasn’t me in that horrible place. In that horrible situation.” She shuddered, then grabbed Violet’s hands. Lilac and Lavender gathered as close as they could to the other two girls.

  “Not you?” Violet pressed.

  Bimmy clamped her lips together. She stared into the dark for several full and wretched seconds. She dreaded speaking the words but she must. “It was Audie.”

  “Audie!” Lilac and Lavender gasped.

  The girls trembled together in the darkened room. After a time, Violet bent to place a kiss on Bimmy’s furrowed brow. “But you woke up before the dream was over, isn’t that right?”

  Bimmy nodded.

  “Then let us recall what Audie has always told us.” Violet summoned every ounce of bravery within her to comfort her sisters and her friend.

  Together, the girls recited in a whisper so as not to waken the other Waywards asleep nearby: “Things will turn out splendid in the end. And if it’s not splendid, it’s not the end.”

  Bolstered by these words, the triplets crowded into Bimmy’s bed where they cuddled in their joint and utter confidence in their absent friend and her abilities.

  Bimmy, the dear thing, could not rest. The nightmare’s bleak vision had shaken her to the core. She wanted to believe that things were going to turn out all right. But didn’t Reverend Woolnough advise to “pray but swing the hammer”? Audie needed help. Bimmy was convinced of that. How on earth could she h
elp her dearest chum when they were so many miles apart?

  Bimmy tossed and turned like a seashell atumble in the tide. She was about to give up, give in to utter despair, when it came to her. There was a way she could lend assistance to Audie, despite the great distance between them.

  Her heart grew light along with the morning sky. Bimmy had friends all over the country. Circus friends. And it stood to reason that some of those friends had to be performing in Washington, D.C.

  Now all she had to do was figure out which friends those might be. Then she would send out the SOS.

  The Commodore was fuming, though it did not interfere with his breakfast. Hardly anything, let alone a tardy chauffeur, interfered with his meals. “Where is that infuriating man?” He attacked the T-bone steak on his plate, a breakfast choice inspired upon learning that the President generally began his day in this same manner.

  Audie did not know the answer to the Commodore’s question. She had her own suspicions about Cypher, however; none of them good. She had no idea why he might want to gum up the mission, but she would not put it past him. If only the Commodore had taken her concerns about Cypher seriously. But he dismissed her every point. “Simply because the man makes a few telephone calls hardly makes him a criminal,” the Commodore had told her. And he’d laughed aloud about Cypher’s plump thumbs.

  So rather than push the point now, with the Commodore so clearly in a dither, Audie wisely remained seated on the chair across the room, ankles crossed in precisely the manner prescribed in Mrs. Paul’s Manners for the Modern Girl. It wasn’t so much that Audie was keen on etiquette; rather, this pose gave her ample opportunity to admire her new boots. She wiggled her toes, reassuring herself that the gold coins were secure.

  “You are to report to the kitchen at ten on the dot. If he makes you late …” The Commodore hinted at the consequences of such an action with a sharp slice of his knife through the air, flinging a blob of quince jelly onto his pristine white vest.