by P. N. Elrod
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 varmi
nts. 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 place.
“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.
“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.
