Audacity Jones to the Rescue

by Kirby Larson

Dorothy got a quizzical look. “Why can’t I just go in?”

  “We can’t do either thing. Not right now.” Audie pointed to her left ear. “Because of the buzzing.”

  “Buzzing?” Juice squinted at her.

  “You mean like an earache?” asked Dorothy.

  “I can’t explain it.” Audie cast an imploring look at each of her companions. “I must ask you to trust me.”

  “I do,” said Dorothy.

  “We do,” said Juice.

  They returned to the New Year’s reception crowd.

  “We’ll never get in if we go to the back of line,” Juice pointed out. “Not when it goes clear across Seventeenth Street.”

  Dorothy grabbed their coat sleeves. “Let’s find a motherly type and blend in.”

  “As easy as that?” Audie asked. Juice pulled at his collar.

  “As easy as that.” Dorothy winked at the two of them. “Now, buck up!”

  “That’s one sassy gal,” Juice said.

  “Who would’ve imagined?” Audie smiled.

  “No one in my family, that’s for certain.” Dorothy tugged on her kerchief, causing Audie to blink. In that instant, Dorothy carried the look of a pirate about her.

  Audie shook that ridiculous image out of her head and followed Dorothy as she weaseled her way closer to the front. But not too close to the Commodore and Mrs. Finch. Audie pointed to a puffed-up woman wearing a Daughters of the American Revolution sash, who was distracted by the mischief making of her two small sons. Dorothy waved her friends in behind her, acting as if that was where they belonged. No one seemed to notice that they’d cut in. At least, no one commented about it.

  The trio was so intent on keeping a careful eye on the Commodore and Mrs. Finch that they did not notice the duo in line some yards behind them.

  “Minden rendben,” said the tiny woman. “All is well.” The gigantic man with her merely nodded.

  As they nudged their way in line behind the distracted mother, Audie looked at Dorothy with new admiration. She had some spunk, that was certain. Even after all she’d been through. She leaned in to Audie, sharing an observation that planted the seed of a plan. “They’re not very good kidnappers,” Dorothy said. “I overheard the bellman, Stanley, say that they hadn’t delivered the ransom note yet.”

  Audie reflected on the last time she’d seen Stanley. She doubted he would be able to assist the Commodore in delivering a ransom note. But this she kept from her friends.

  “Hard to figure why they’re standing in this long line.” Juice shook his head.

  “If only we knew what they were up to.” Audie tipped her head toward the Commodore and Mrs. Finch. Audie was too far behind to overhear any conversation.

  “Way this line is moving, we’ve got ourselves some time to work that out.” Juice stamped his feet to warm them. “Going to get frostbit at this rate.”

  “Think warm thoughts,” Audie encouraged. “Pretend it’s summer.”

  Juice shivered. “My imagination’s not that good.”

  Slowly, they shuffled closer and closer to their objective. Soon they would trudge up to the north portico. Across the threshold and on to the Red Room, where the certainly weary President waited, right hand outstretched, to shake hands with his compatriots. Step. Step. Step. And only a yard or so in front of them in line, also marched the Commodore and Mrs. Finch. Step. Step. Step.

  With each inch forward, Audie’s mind raced to work out how being in this receiving line might fit into the Commodore’s plan. She noticed that he patted his vest pocket frequently. What was in there that he was keeping such careful track of? Might it be the not-yet-delivered ransom note?

  Though Audie had merely skimmed it—the language was painfully dry—she had partaken of Mr. Witherton’s small section on the law. Had she been more studious, she might now be able to understand the finer points of certain crimes, such as kidnapping. For example, our heroine mused, without the ransom note, could what had happened to Dorothy technically, legally, be called a kidnapping? Audie experienced a wave of bitter disappointment in herself for not having paid closer attention to those books. That was a situation she would remedy without delay upon her return home.

  Turning back to the situation at hand, she posed the question to her comrades. “Without a note, is there a kidnapping?”

  Juice shrugged. Dorothy shook her head. “Goodness, I have no idea.” She blew on her cold hands. “I see where you’re going with this, Annie. Brilliant!”

  Juice’s brow wrinkled. “What’s brilliant?”

  Audie was uncertain herself.

  “Don’t you see?” Dorothy lowered her voice. “Here I am, free as a bird. And my uncle has not received a ransom note. For all practical purposes, no kidnapping has taken place.”

  “My thoughts, exactly,” said Audie.

  Juice scratched his head. “Have you lost your minds? Do you want those two to get off the hook?”

  Of course, Audie wanted the Commodore and his cronies brought to justice. But what if they were denied the prestige of a kidnapping? What if they were brought up on different charges? She explained this proposition to Juice, Dorothy nodding all the while.

  “All right, then.” Juice straightened his shoulders. “I am not proud of this, but I am able to render invaluable assistance at this juncture in our adventure.” He put his fingers to his lips. “But I must wait for the opportune time.”

  Audie exchanged a look with Dorothy. “What kind of assistance?” she asked.

  “I would prefer not to say.”

  The look on her friend’s face made it clear to Audie that the topic was not to be pursued. She nodded and the three huddled closer together against the cold, Juice sharpening his attention on the Commodore.

  Step. Step. Step.

  Now the line mounted the stairs, under the portico. Audie had never seen such a grand door, with roses carved over the arching entrance and Easter-egg-colored bits of jeweled glass inset in the panels. She caught her breath when she stepped inside. On every surface rested huge vases overflowing with roses and carnations and ferns. Audie closed her eyes to permanently imprint this memory. She couldn’t wait to tell the Wayward Girls. Imagine—Audacity Jones in the White House proper! The triplets would no doubt cry tears of joy. Bimmy would shake her curly head. Divinity would, of course, cast aspersions as to the veracity of Audie’s story.

  But she really was here.

  Step. Step. Step.

  Each footfall brought her closer to the President.

  And closer to the moment of truth.

  Charlie gave himself ten minutes in this getup. Fifteen minutes, tops. Then he would pass clean out.

  “Mother, do I have to wear a tie?” He tugged at his collar, scarcely able to breathe.

  Mrs. Taft beamed at her youngest. “You look so handsome, darling.”

  “Entirely dapper,” added Helen. Charlie’s sister admired herself in the mirror over the mantel in the Red Room, fussing with a poufy bit of hair above her ears. She’d changed her gown four times before deciding on the dusty pink one with the ridiculous white-feathered headband. “Cousin Dorothy will be positively taken.”

  Charlie groaned at his sister’s remark.

  “Where is she?” Helen asked. “Odd to be sleeping so late. Especially after missing supper last night.”

  Mrs. Taft exchanged a sharp glance with her husband. “She’s not … not feeling well. I’m sure we’ll see her soon.” The capitol police force was quietly searching for the girl at this very moment. It was probably only a little temper tantrum. That’s what Detective Hill-Long had said. “Twelve-year-old girls are bundles of emotion,” he’d told them. “No sense upsetting the apple cart yet. Give us until the end of the reception tomorrow. Then we’ll notify her parents and the press if necessary.” But, Detective Hill-Long had added, he did not think such notification would be necessary.

  Charlie recognized the look between his parents. He’d seen it often enough. They used it whenever they wanted
to keep something from him. He couldn’t imagine what could be going on, but if Dorothy was under the weather, that was jim-dandy with him.

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Taft bent to take a closer look at her son’s tie. “Is that a spot?”

  Charlie wiped at the bit of dried egg yolk. “I told you I shouldn’t dress before breakfast.”

  Mrs. Taft placed her hands on his shoulders. “Run upstairs, and put on a clean tie. Scoot.”

  Charlie sighed but did as he was told. He could never disobey his beloved mother. He took the stairs two at a time. Luckily, he’d left his bureau drawer open so it was easy to pull out a clean tie. Tying a Windsor knot was another story altogether. He stood in front of the mirror opposite the window and tried to remember the steps. He got the first loop and was wrestling with making the second loop—the wide end of the tie kept getting twisted—when he heard a noise. He stared in the mirror and there, over his shoulder at the window, a chocolate-striped cat batted against the pane.

  He tugged on the knot as he approached the casement. “Do you want in, kitty?” Charlie carefully nudged the window open, so as not to knock the cat down. “Mother’s not that fond of animals,” he warned as the cat lifted its delicate long legs over the sill and pounced into the room. “You better wait here till I get back.” Charlie reached down and scratched behind the cat’s ears. “It’s going to be a long time, I’m sorry to say. Big doings today.” He got the spare blanket from the closet and made a nest on the floor. “You can sleep here,” Charlie offered. “I’ll bring you some food as soon as I can.” He put a finger to his lips. “But keep it down or it’s out you go.”

  The cat blinked its golden eyes at him, as if it understood everything he said.

  Charlie dashed out the door, this time with a lighter step than minutes before. He could hardly keep the grin off his face as he entered the Red Room where his family was gathered.

  “Well, don’t you look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” Helen teased.

  “Slow down, son,” President Taft said. “Let’s show a little decorum.”

  Charlie slowed, and moved with as much decorum as a boy who had miraculously snagged a pet cat could. He could not resist one glance toward the stairs. He would make his way to his room as soon as was humanly possible.

  Mrs. Taft gave her family one last inspection, nodding to indicate her satisfaction. “Shall we go?”

  And at the moment the clock struck eleven, they lined up to greet the earliest of their hundreds of morning guests. The First Family was accompanied by Agent Sloan and his small detail of Secret Service men—though today there were four agents in all instead of the usual three. The agents stationed themselves in their prearranged places.

  By the time the Tafts had greeted every member of the diplomatic corps, the thrill of the costumes and accents had dulled for Charlie. His legs ached from standing, but if Mother was still on her feet, he had to be, too. If only Quentin Roosevelt could have come. They would have found some way to entertain themselves. Maybe they would’ve talked the Ambassador from Chile into letting them hold his sword. Or maybe they would’ve tied together the shoelaces of that sleepy-eyed Secret Service agent behind the ferns. Or maybe he and Quentin would have snuck away so Charlie could show off his new cat.

  Charlie’s stomach rumbled as the last of the diplomats passed by and the first of the citizens began filing through. The sound was so loud that the Ambassador from China jumped a foot off the ground.

  Mother frowned at him.

  “I can’t help it,” Charlie whispered. “I’m hungry.”

  “Me too,” said President Taft.

  His wife glowered at him. “You can wait,” she said. Then she turned to Charlie. “Run on down to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Jaffray for a sandwich to tide you over until the luncheon.”

  “Thank you, Mother!” Charlie waited for a break in the advancing column of citizens and ducked through the State Dining Room, planning to make a beeline for the first-floor pantry. Mrs. Jaffray had stationed herself there during the reception.

  Charlie edged along the far wall of the dining room, and was about to step through the doorway into the pantry when he saw a familiar face. That girl, the one he’d run over with his bicycle. She was with a Negro footman about Charlie’s age, and another girl. That girl looked familiar, too. He stared. Though she was decked out in some kind of kitchen maid’s clothes, it was Dorothy! What on earth was going on? Wasn’t she ill? Were these three playing some sort of prank? Charlie ducked behind a pillar.

  This boring reception was looking up!

  As the disguised threesome scuffed closer and closer to the President, the First Lady, and most of the Tafts—Charlie was missing from the receiving line—Audie continued to refine their plan of action. Its goal was ambitious: to find a way to safely return Dorothy to her family and reveal the Commodore’s dastardly plot at the same time, without giving him the dubious honor of having successfully kidnapped the President’s niece. Though the Commodore was behind everything, Cypher, Mrs. Finch, and that bellman must also be dealt with.

  Audie stuck her hand in her pocket, her fingers encountering the rosette there. The Commodore’s fortunes had likely taken a nosedive with the popularity of the automobile. And President Taft’s passion for the four-wheeled rather than the four-legged form of transportation would certainly make him unpopular with the Commodore. Audie could see that. She could fathom, too, how a downturn in fortune would also injure his pride. But there were many to whom bad fortune had fallen who had not resorted to dishonorable measures.

  And what assurance had the Commodore that his plan for ransom would work? She reflected on Daddy Dub’s story about President Grant. Simply because someone was President didn’t mean they were rich.

  Audie snuck another glance at the Commodore, several feet ahead of her, patting his own coat pocket.

  Her ear tingled all the more. Even a bungling criminal like the Commodore would surely find a solution more sensible than delivering the note while in the receiving line. Though Audie discussed possibilities with Dorothy and Juice, she could not imagine what the Commodore’s plan entailed.

  Juice, however, had surmised a reasonable option. One that he preferred to keep from his two companions, lest they think ill of him. He had decided the time had come to put to use the skills learned from his light-fingered cousin during that brief but wretched period in his care. At least, this time, he would be doing a bad thing for a good reason.

  Holding his finger up to Audie and Dorothy, signaling them to wait where they were, Juice straightened his clothing and edged his way up the line, where he accidentally on purpose bumped into the Commodore.

  “Oh, pardon me, sir.” Juice tipped his cap and backed away. “I was playing with a nickel and it rolled right by your feet.”

  “Watch what you’re doing,” Mrs. Finch snapped.

  “He’s only a boy,” the Commodore said, patting her arm. “No harm done.”

  “Thank you, sir. Dreadfully sorry, sir.” Juice tipped his hat again and quickly made his way back to Audie and Dorothy.

  Juice gave Audie the biggest wink. She cocked her head, mystified, but completely trusting her friend. What happened next would depend on the Commodore. She fixed her eye on him as he greeted Mrs. Taft and stepped closer to the President.

  Though we pride ourselves on having provided a reliable reporting of the events thus far, the details of the next few moments are difficult to accurately portray. One really needed to be present. The following are the facts as best as can be shared.

  The Commodore, his white hair in stark contrast to his black coat and hat, stepped forward, his right hand outstretched to clasp the President’s, while his left hand went to his vest pocket. That motion caused two men to appear out of nowhere. They pounced on the Commodore while the President swept his wife and daughter out of harm’s way.

  One of the tacklers was a man of amazing girth, who, despite having been several yards in line behind the Commodore, exec
uted a fantastic series of leaps and tumbles to cover the space as if it did not exist. Another one of tacklers was a man with raven-black hair, who, not fifteen minutes before, had been deputized into the White House Secret Service.

  “Drop it!” Cypher ordered. In a series of incidents much too complicated to explain here, the erstwhile chauffeur turned national hero. There may be some who were surprised by the chauffeur’s bold actions, but not Detective Hill-Long, who deputized him, and certainly not the Shah of Persia, whose life had been saved not once but thrice by this very chauffeur prior to his leaving that country because of a broken heart. Had Cypher been overly unkind to a certain young orphan, or had he acted out of grave concern for her safety? That you must judge for yourself.

  “Drop what?” The Commodore raised his hands above his head. “I’ve nothing. Nothing.” He turned to search for Mrs. Finch, all the while muttering, “I don’t understand. It’s gone. Where did it go?”

  During the kerfluffle, Mrs. Finch had been slowly and steadily backing away from her associate. She had nearly achieved the corridor, with a clear shot to the East Room’s exit and freedom, when a blur of fur scrabbled across the parquet floor, and leapt atop her hat, ripping the stuffed bird clean off.

  “Good on you, Min!” Audie called. She joined her four-footed friend in the chase of the phony cook, grabbing the hem of her skirt, which she tugged as hard as she could to stymie an escape.

  “It was all her idea!” The Commodore pointed at the now hysterical Mrs. Finch, who was thumping Audie with her pocketbook. Audie did not think she could hold on much longer when a petite woman in a emerald velvet dress appeared and gazed into Mrs. Finch’s eyes.

  “Állj!” The tiny woman said in nearly perfect English, “Stop.” And Mrs. Finch did. At that moment, two more Secret Service agents popped up, each grabbing one of Mrs. Finch’s flailing arms.

  “You’d both better come with us,” one of the agents said.

  The Commodore looked at Cypher. “Tell them. Tell them you work for me!”

  Cypher folded his arms across his chest. “The truth is, Stinky, now I work for him.” And with the first smile Audie had ever seen on his stern face, Cypher pointed at the President.