she passed the receiver to FDR.
There was a hiss and a crackle on the telephone line. “Cole here.”
“Thank you,” the President said to Grace Tully, who knew that was her cue to leave.
He waited until she closed the door behind her. “What the hell’s going on, Cole?” Fala, sensing his master’s displeasure, looked on with anxious black eyes.
“Sir, the situation with Blanche Balfour—it’s resolved.”
The President whistled through his teeth, his hand dropping to pet Fala absently. “She’s not going to go to the press with her crazy story?”
There was a long silence. “I assure you, Mr. President, Miss Balfour will
not
be going to the press.” Cole’s tones were clipped.
The President sighed and stroked Fala, who snuggled in, relaxed now. “At least it’s not about Lorena Hickok.”
“The ‘She-man’? No, sir. There’s been nothing on her. Nothing on Joseph Lash, either, thank God. Mr. President, if you’d like to know the details about Miss Balfour—”
“Cole,” the President interrupted, “you’re on my payroll to get things done. Things I don’t need to be bothered with. As far as you’re concerned, in situations like these, I don’t need to know the details. That’s why I call you the Cleaner.”
There was a pause. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”
—
The Prime Minister’s upstairs quarters had already been turned into a war room, with the walls covered in huge maps with colored pushpins indicating the positions of British ships and troops, and a shelf of scrambler telephones. Maggie asked, “Do you have everything you need, Mr. Churchill?”
The P.M. waved a hand through a fog of thick blue cigar smoke. “Have that giant butler send up more scotch.”
Mrs. Roosevelt knocked at the open door and then stuck her head in. “Everything all right?” Her tone seemed pitched even higher than usual.
“We’re fine, ma’am. Thank you.” Maggie looked closer at the First Lady. Her face was pale as a photograph that had been left out too long in the sun. “Are you all right, ma’am? Do
you
need anything?”
“I know it’s silly, but I’m worried. My secretary didn’t call in today. She’s still not answering her telephone, and her doorman hasn’t seen her. I think I should go and check on her.”
Churchill spoke from behind his curtain of smoke, like Oz the Great and Powerful. “Use Miss Hope,” he said, jabbing in Maggie’s general direction with his cigar.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly…” Mrs. Roosevelt protested.
“She’s an excellent secretary, and helpful in all sorts of…situations. Take her with you!” He waved at the smoke with the cigar. “I must insist!”
As if I were a piece of office equipment,
Maggie thought. She and John locked eyes. This was
not
the plan. Not the plan at all.
“Well,” said the First Lady, “maybe we should go to Blanche’s apartment, Miss Hope.”
“ ‘Apartment’ means ‘flat,’ ” Maggie whispered to the P.M.
“I know what ‘apartment’ means, Miss Hope!” he boomed. “I’ve been to America before—nearly run down in New York City back in the day, I’ll have you know!” Then, in a gentler tone to the First Lady, “Well, Mrs. Roosevelt, Miss Hope is a woman of many talents. Perhaps she can accompany you, checking on this Miss…”
“Balfour,” Maggie prompted.
Churchill glared. “Balfour, yes.”
“Of course I’d be happy to help you in any way, Mrs. Roosevelt. Is there anyone you’d like me to call? One of your husband’s detectives?”
“Call?” If possible, her voice rose even higher. “No, no, I’m sure I’m just being a nervous Nellie. Perhaps she’s ill? Maybe she needs soup? I could have Mrs. Nesbitt prepare some…”
Maggie saw John’s look, his eyes dark. Well, their special evening would have to wait just a bit longer. “Would you like me to alert the Secret Service that we’re leaving, Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“I’ve already arranged to have the car
There was a hiss and a crackle on the telephone line. “Cole here.”
“Thank you,” the President said to Grace Tully, who knew that was her cue to leave.
He waited until she closed the door behind her. “What the hell’s going on, Cole?” Fala, sensing his master’s displeasure, looked on with anxious black eyes.
“Sir, the situation with Blanche Balfour—it’s resolved.”
The President whistled through his teeth, his hand dropping to pet Fala absently. “She’s not going to go to the press with her crazy story?”
There was a long silence. “I assure you, Mr. President, Miss Balfour will
not
be going to the press.” Cole’s tones were clipped.
The President sighed and stroked Fala, who snuggled in, relaxed now. “At least it’s not about Lorena Hickok.”
“The ‘She-man’? No, sir. There’s been nothing on her. Nothing on Joseph Lash, either, thank God. Mr. President, if you’d like to know the details about Miss Balfour—”
“Cole,” the President interrupted, “you’re on my payroll to get things done. Things I don’t need to be bothered with. As far as you’re concerned, in situations like these, I don’t need to know the details. That’s why I call you the Cleaner.”
There was a pause. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”
—
The Prime Minister’s upstairs quarters had already been turned into a war room, with the walls covered in huge maps with colored pushpins indicating the positions of British ships and troops, and a shelf of scrambler telephones. Maggie asked, “Do you have everything you need, Mr. Churchill?”
The P.M. waved a hand through a fog of thick blue cigar smoke. “Have that giant butler send up more scotch.”
Mrs. Roosevelt knocked at the open door and then stuck her head in. “Everything all right?” Her tone seemed pitched even higher than usual.
“We’re fine, ma’am. Thank you.” Maggie looked closer at the First Lady. Her face was pale as a photograph that had been left out too long in the sun. “Are you all right, ma’am? Do
you
need anything?”
“I know it’s silly, but I’m worried. My secretary didn’t call in today. She’s still not answering her telephone, and her doorman hasn’t seen her. I think I should go and check on her.”
Churchill spoke from behind his curtain of smoke, like Oz the Great and Powerful. “Use Miss Hope,” he said, jabbing in Maggie’s general direction with his cigar.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly…” Mrs. Roosevelt protested.
“She’s an excellent secretary, and helpful in all sorts of…situations. Take her with you!” He waved at the smoke with the cigar. “I must insist!”
As if I were a piece of office equipment,
Maggie thought. She and John locked eyes. This was
not
the plan. Not the plan at all.
“Well,” said the First Lady, “maybe we should go to Blanche’s apartment, Miss Hope.”
“ ‘Apartment’ means ‘flat,’ ” Maggie whispered to the P.M.
“I know what ‘apartment’ means, Miss Hope!” he boomed. “I’ve been to America before—nearly run down in New York City back in the day, I’ll have you know!” Then, in a gentler tone to the First Lady, “Well, Mrs. Roosevelt, Miss Hope is a woman of many talents. Perhaps she can accompany you, checking on this Miss…”
“Balfour,” Maggie prompted.
Churchill glared. “Balfour, yes.”
“Of course I’d be happy to help you in any way, Mrs. Roosevelt. Is there anyone you’d like me to call? One of your husband’s detectives?”
“Call?” If possible, her voice rose even higher. “No, no, I’m sure I’m just being a nervous Nellie. Perhaps she’s ill? Maybe she needs soup? I could have Mrs. Nesbitt prepare some…”
Maggie saw John’s look, his eyes dark. Well, their special evening would have to wait just a bit longer. “Would you like me to alert the Secret Service that we’re leaving, Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“I’ve already arranged to have the car
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