The Art of the Devil

by John Altman

  Inside a vast foyer, he was met by a Negro butler wearing a crimson vest with buttons polished to a high shine. The butler led him down a hallway featuring tall arched windows, orchids in crystal vases, and alabaster busts on Grecian pediments: all clean, fluid lines, with every banister, door handle, and archway flowing sinuously into the next. At the end of the hall, French doors blocked by lush curtains opened into a study. The desk was an ocean-sized hunk of walnut, the fireplace brass-screened with instruments encased in platinum. Logs burning behind the screen hosted a small center of red-hot coal. The window, fashioned of stained glass, portrayed cubist kings, horses, and armored knights.

  Upon Hart’s entrance, Senator John Bolin stood from behind the desk. His silken white suit shimmered with the motion, rolling like water. Remote blue eyes flickered behind rimless spectacles. Thin lips fixed in a welcoming smile. The practiced smile and trustworthy spectacles belonged to a career politician. But the authoritative bearing and unmistakable air of power, thought Hart, belonged to a man more fundamentally born to lead: a general, a warlord, an emperor.

  Bolin indicated a leather-upholstered chair before the fireplace. For a few moments, after Hart sat, the senator considered, stone-faced. Then he softened in a calculated way, designed to put company at ease – the same manner that had won him multiple terms of office and much fawning press.

  ‘The President,’ he said, ‘has never before used a closed car. Our man on the inside should have given us warning. This was not your fault.’

  The knot in Hart’s chest loosened. The senator did not blame him; today would not be the day the fortune-teller’s prediction came true, after all. ‘What does it mean – the closed car?’

  ‘Perhaps nothing.’ Bolin adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his aquiline nose. He put hands on hips, flaring out his white jacket, catching the faint firelight on a silver lining. His tendency to strike poses might make a cynic dismiss the man. But Hart knew better.

  ‘The day was cold,’ continued the senator after a moment. ‘And his doctors believe he’s recently suffered a heart attack. It may have been an ordinary precaution for his health.’ He shrugged, took out a pack of Viceroys. For a moment before lighting a cigarette, he gazed broodingly into the middle distance. ‘Or perhaps the effort in Denver has shown our hand. Have you ever read Emerson, Mister Hart?’

  Richard Hart’s formal education had ended with high school. His real education had taken place in Salerno, and Lazio, and Anzio, and there had been no Emerson there. ‘Sir?’

  ‘“When you strike at a king, you must kill him.”’ Bolin lit his cigarette and then flicked the match negligently through the brass screen of the fireplace. ‘But we have now struck twice without scoring a fatal blow. A wise man must realize that we are treading dangerous ground, indeed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘My associates will be within their rights, Mister Hart, to insist we try another approach.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The senator turned to look out the window. In the expansive backyard an ashen moon was rising like a wraith above a forest of maple, elder, birch and walnut. ‘Yet I think,’ he said, ‘that despite the setbacks, we still have reason for hope. Bon courage, Mister Hart. Get some rest. When I need you, I’ll call.’

  COLUMBIA ISLAND

  Francis Isherwood stood on the shoulder of the George Washington Memorial Parkway, following the line of a man’s arm.

  He found himself looking at a thatch of pines perched on a hillside perhaps one hundred yards distant. A cool breeze moved the pine needles serenely. On his right, the Potomac stirred in time with the trees. On the road between park and river, vehicles whizzed past at reckless speeds.

  ‘That rise yonder.’ The NBC camera operator named Charlie Morgan was of average height and above-average weight, with thinning sandy hair, watchful green eyes, and a nascent double-chin. ‘That’s where I saw the glint. A sniper’s scope,’ he said with conviction. ‘No doubt in my mind. I’m just glad you guys took me seriously enough to send someone out here.’

  Isherwood didn’t have the heart to tell the man that he had no real authority. Instead he said, ‘No offense, friend. But what makes you think you can recognize a sniper’s scope at one hundred yards?’

  Charlie Morgan bristled. ‘Eighty-two days in Okinawa,’ he said. ‘That’s what, friend, thank you very much.’

  Following a rough path up into the park, Isherwood encountered a few colorful autumn leaves and a handful of late-migrating birds; but for the most part, he saw only skeletal branches, deepening shadows, and bristling evergreens.

  To reach the area indicated by Charlie Morgan, he had to go off-trail. Almost immediately, brambles scratched his hands, and a singlet of perspiration sprung up beneath his trench coat and threadbare blue suit. Emerging onto another crude path, he paused to wipe sour sweat from beneath his hat brim and fortify himself with a jolt from his flask.

  Achieving the rise at last, he turned to look back at the vista spreading beneath him. The French called it coup d’oeil: the ability to take in a battlefield with a glance. After absorbing the lay of the land beneath the rising moon, he paced off a few wide circles, scowling down at a bed of fallen pine needles and a low parapet of rocks. For several minutes he used a foot to shove aside dense tangles of brush, uncovering at length a roughly human-sized depression, which had kept its shape thanks to a gentle rise serving as a windbreak.

  Lighting a cigarette with shaky hands, he kept looking around, seeking something innocent – a discarded bottle, a bracelet dropped by a couple of necking teenagers, a lost lipstick tube – to explain the glint reported by the newsman. The darkening night complicated his search. Using the flame of his Zippo, however, he pressed on until satisfied: there was nothing here except pine needles and dead leaves.

  Knitting his brow, he brought the nub of the cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers.

  Back in the Chief’s office, sitting beneath the soft glow of an electric chandelier, he explained his findings. Overall, he concluded, the site would indeed have been ideal for a sniper whose target was traveling in a motorcade below, and in his opinion Charlie Morgan constituted a reliable witness. While the evidence was far from irrefutable, his mind had hardly been set at ease.

  A brief, reflective quiet followed. Isherwood itched to reach for his flask; instead he reached for another cigarette, trying to steady his hands.

  ‘Drinking much?’ the Chief asked after a moment.

  Isherwood started guiltily. He attempted – unsuccessfully – to cover his discomfort by snapping open the Zippo. ‘Here and there,’ he allowed.

  ‘Some men can handle drink.’ The Chief’s gaze was direct and pitiless. ‘But Ish: you’re not one of them.’

  Blinking owlishly, Isherwood said nothing.

  ‘Ike’s scheduled to spend the next month and a half at Gettysburg. If I get you onto that property, can you stay sober – and keep an eye out – quietly?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t answer so fast.’ The Chief produced his own cigarette, which he lit with damnably steady hands. ‘I can’t afford to have a drunk stumbling around out there. We’re under specific orders from the doctors not to rile the President during his convalescence. He needs not only rest, but relaxation: everything sunshine and roses. Moreover, we can’t afford to stir up the hornet’s nest. If there is someone on the inside gunning for Ike, we need information before we show our hand. Keep a low profile and you can blend in with all the other tag-alongs … but not reeking of whiskey.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go home, Ish. Dry out. Talk it over with the little woman. If you still think you’re the man for the job, come back in the morning and we’ll talk.’

  Isherwood was looking at a framed, gilt-edged photograph on the desk. In the photograph, the Chief’s wife wore a wide-brimmed sun hat and a huge smile. Isherwood could not remember the last time his own wife had smiled so broadly – if she ever had.

 
‘Do right by this,’ the Chief was saying, ‘and it may be your ticket back to active duty. You’re a good man. And everyone deserves a second chance now and then. Get it?’

  Isherwood jerked his chin up and down. ‘Got it,’ he said, in a voice not quite steady, and reached for his fedora on the desk.

  TWO

  ANACOSTIA, WASHINGTON DC

  Later that night Francis Isherwood sat in his study, stroking a tortoiseshell cat and restlessly quartering the bookcase with his gaze: Shakespeare, Milton, Mommsen, Housman; Shakespeare, Milton, Mommsen, Housman.

  The stillness was palpable. For as long as Evy had been in the house, the constant babble of the TV from the parlor had put his nerves on edge – but the absence of sound proved even worse. His gaze ticked to a calendar on the desk. The day was Friday, the eleventh of November, 1955. Veteran’s Day. Had Evy been here, he would have been trying to tune out the sound of Jack Bailey hamming it up with good-natured contestants on Truth or Consequences. Instead, he tried to tune out silence.

  Eventually, he pushed out of his chair. Moving closer to the bookcase, paced by cats winding between his ankles – with six cats in the house, four seemed to be underfoot at any given time – he ran his eyes along a line of photographs on a high shelf. Here was young Francis Isherwood, graduating from the University of Washington with a degree in criminal justice, his face shockingly boyish beneath a black mortar board. Here a slightly older Francis Isherwood posed as a state trooper, crisply outfitted in blue, half-sneering, proud to a fault. Here a still more mature variety wore a sober charcoal suit and navy tie, with a lugubrious expression to match. Appearances to the contrary, he thought, that had been the best year. He and Evy had been getting along like gangbusters, and at the tender age of twenty-seven, after less than eighteen months chasing counterfeiters, he had been assigned the plum role of presidential protection, safeguarding FDR himself.

  His gaze ended up in a window, from which his reflection gazed stonily back. And here was Francis Isherwood at rock bottom: jobless, wifeless, and lacking now even the comfort of the bottle.

  He returned to the desk, opened a drawer, removed a flask of Jack Daniels, and twisted off the cap.

  In a fit of sudden fury, he flung the open flask across the room, whipsawing streams of whiskey onto ceiling and floor, sending cats scattering.

  The flask landed on edge, pulsing liquor out onto the carpet. In a flash Isherwood was on his knees, cradling it like a wounded child. Too late; the contents had emptied with devastating speed. But there were other hoards, of course – in the living room and the glove compartment of his Studebaker, and beneath their marriage bed and inside the toilet tank, and in the package store or the bar just down the block. And if all else failed, there was always Sterno beneath the sink, waiting patiently between cobwebbed bottles of Lysol and Gold Dust.

  His hands were shaking worse than ever. God damn Evelyn, he thought. If he weakened and took a drink, the fault would be hers. He had done his best, but if his goddamned wife insisted on undermining him, his best would not be enough. Earlier that night he had placed a long-distance call to Boca Raton – damn the expense – where Evy was staying with her sister as she ‘figured things out’. He’d heard the desperate note in his own voice as he’d told her about Spooner’s call, begging her to come home and cover his back as he seized the long-awaited chance to redeem himself.

  Would it have killed her to play along? He needed her faith, now more than ever. Yet faithless, worthless, nit-picking Evelyn had questioned him just when she should be reinforcing him. She had dared suggest that perhaps he wouldn’t be able to stay dry—

  Isherwood snorted aloud with enough vehemence to startle a nearby cat. He lit a cigarette which tasted like shit, dropped it into the puddle of whiskey on the carpet. After a moment he reached for another cigarette, which he snapped in two in the process of bringing to his mouth.

  Cats spooling between his feet, he stumbled to the basement. Somehow he managed to descend the creaky steps in darkness without breaking his neck. At the flick of a switch, a single bare light-bulb mounted in the ceiling stuttered to life. The cellar was filled with accumulated junk, boxes and Mason jars, old magazines, dusty books, pottery and flowerpots and piping. After a momentary hesitation, he pressed forward. Silt and cobwebs smothered the clutter; his nose tickled, his eyes watered.

  It took almost twenty minutes to find the box he was seeking. One by one, then, he removed photograph albums from the carton, considering them querulously in the dim light. Finding the album he wanted, he prevaricated briefly before opening it. Good memories could be the most painful of all. But this was why he was here. He wanted to remember.

  Evy in her youth had been slim and dark and striking. In snapshots taken with a Kodak Brownie, the earliest days of their courtship played out: Evy posing before the Jefferson Memorial during the Cherry Blossom Festival, kicking up one playful heel; Evy sipping a root beer at the A&W in the Palisades. Then a trip to New York: Evy boarding the Cyclone at Coney Island, looking nervous (she had called it a death trap); Evy standing beside Isherwood, holding his hand, before the Statue of Liberty. He remembered kissing her, that evening, hard enough to feel the shape of her jaw. Everything had been perfect, or as close to perfect as real life allowed. And then had come the war …

  After VE Day he had come home to a nation – and a woman – eager to throw a victory parade, award a medal, and move blithely ahead into a stainless-steel future. His wife’s head had been filled with Doris Day and Pat Boone, Norman Rockwell and Father Knows Best. She had proudly showed him her new Frigidaire, stocked with iceberg lettuce which could last for weeks without spoiling. She had exhibited even less interest in hearing about the war than he had shown in telling about it … and that was saying something.

  Falling back onto his haunches, he sighed.

  After a few moments, he stood; his knees popped like gunshots. Loading the memorabilia back into the box, he closed the flaps and then pushed the carton all the way into a corner, beneath cobwebs, into shadow.

  EAST OF GUILFORD, PENNSYLVANIA: NOVEMBER 12

  The train rocked gently across a landscape dotted with ponds, barns, tumbledown fences and weathered silos.

  Inside a passenger car, Barbara Cameron sat ignoring the book in her lap, stealing glances at the girl sitting just across the aisle. The girl held a copy of Confidential magazine – the September issue, which had been one for the history books, revealing ‘The Real Reason for Marilyn Monroe’s Divorce’ and ‘The Astor Testimony The Judge Suppressed’ and, juiciest of all, ‘The LowDown on That ‘Disorderly Conduct’ Charge Against Tab Hunter’.

  Of course, respectable people only read gossip rags behind closed doors. But this girl was perusing the magazine quite openly, without shame. Stealing another look, Barbara decided that girl wasn’t quite the right word. This was a young woman, several years older than Barbara herself, wearing a stylish sapphire angora and an air of self-possession. Her blonde hairstyle was a fashionable beauty parlor wave – no home Toni perm here – which framed a pale, pretty, tranquil face.

  After a few moments, Barbara summoned her courage and scooted a few inches closer to the aisle. ‘That’s a good article,’ she said. ‘I read it a million times. I practically memorized it.’

  Looking up, the blonde smiled politely.

  ‘“It all started with a vice cop who was drifting in and out of Hollywood’s queer bars on the afternoon of October fourteenth,”’ Barbara recited, ‘“looking and listening for tips on the newest notions of the limp-wristed lads. The deputy struck up a conversation with a couple of lispers who happily prattled that they were set for a big binge that very evening …”’

  The blonde laughed. ‘You’ve got some memory.’

  Barbara shrugged. ‘It’s funny: if you’re interested in something, I find, you can learn it without even trying. But math? Forget it. My name’s Barbara Cameron, by the way.’ After allowing a tiny pause, during which the young woman might have v
olunteered her own name, Barbara charged on. ‘Where are you heading? I’m going to visit my sister in Guilford. I go every Saturday: my day off.’

  ‘Isn’t that funny! I’m going to Guilford, too.’

  ‘Really! What for?’

  ‘My husband’s a pastor. They’ve offered him a position with the church. He asked me to come take a look around – you know, see what’s what.’

  ‘Well, you’ll absolutely love it. Guilford’s charming.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so.’

  ‘I know so.’ The blare of the train’s whistle broke the morning quiet. ‘You can see for yourself; we’re here.’

  Together they rose, holding onto seat backs as a conductor passed through the car. Moments later, they stepped out onto a deserted platform. On this sleepy Saturday morning, the small town sprawling on the other side of a parking lot beneath a still-kindly November sun appeared uninhabited, with only the church steeple visible above the trees. The wind gusted, carrying scents of compost and distant burning leaves. Moving down the platform they passed a sign announcing GUILFORD: POPULATION 320.

  The whistle blew again; doors closed, steam vented, and gears engaged. As the train pulled away, Barbara led the way off the platform, down a shallow staircase. ‘Say, would you care to join us for lunch? I’m sure my sister would love a chance to tell you about the town. She’s Guilford to the core: born and raised.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to put her out.’

  ‘No trouble at all, I’m sure.’

  ‘That’s so sweet of you. If you’re really sure it’s no trouble …’ Crossing the empty parking lot, the blonde suddenly stopped, taking a pack of Luckies from her purse. ‘Would you happen to have a light?’

  Barbara stopped beside her, reached into her own Bakelite handbag.