The Art of the Devil

by John Altman

  Had General Eisenhower only shown more backbone, thought Hart, they could have avoided this current geopolitical morass altogether. America could have beaten the Russians to Berlin. On April eleventh, 1945, following an advance of sixty miles in a single day, a spearhead of the US Ninth Army had reached the Elbe River, leaving only sixty miles more between themselves and the capital city of the Third Reich. But Eisenhower had hesitated, fearing that German armies might regroup to make a last stand in the Alpine mountains of southern Bavaria, where the impenetrable territory could extend the war indefinitely. And so, from that day forward, he had concentrated on preventing such a retreat, leaving the way open for the Russian advance and everything which had followed.

  Turning from international news to national, Hart scanned for an article, as he had every day since returning from Denver, concerning a body part discovered in Colorado’s South Platte River, or Chatfield or Cherry Creek Reservoirs. He found none. The story might not be big enough to make a national paper. Yet he kept looking anyway – from morbid curiosity, or from a lingering pang of guilt.

  Pushing the newspaper away, he finished his coffee and then stepped out onto the sidewalk, buttoning his dark coat against the chill. The rooming house had been chosen for its location: far enough from the center of town that he could avoid the worst of the crowds, but close enough that he could conveniently reach the bench before the Plaza Restaurant every day at noon.

  Even on its outskirts, Gettysburg harbored a noticeably larger population than its infrastructure could comfortably support: a side effect of the President’s sudden proximity. The faces crowding the sidewalk belonged to fox-like journalists or stern members of the Signals Corps, or to the administrative team of Chief of Staff Sherman Adams, who according to the papers had been installed above the post office where Ike could summon him at a moment’s notice. All the extra eyes put Hart on edge; at six-foot four, he was not exactly inconspicuous.

  The day was windy but mild, with skies of dazzling blue. He drove west, toward the Eisenhower farm. Parking a safe mile away, well off the road, he screened his vehicle behind branches and foliage. From the glove compartment he removed a pair of binoculars and Peterson’s third edition of A Field Guide To The Birds. Then he walked through the forest to within five hundred yards of the Eisenhower farm’s main gate, where he concealed himself behind a wide oak, laid prone, brought binoculars to eyes, and waited.

  During the war he had become accustomed to the stresses, both physical and mental, attending long-term surveillance. For the first hour, then, he barely felt the discomfort of remaining motionless in raw terrain, holding Bushnells to his eyes and focusing on the distant gate. Throughout that hour he saw minimal traffic into and out of the farm. A single delivery truck pulled up to the gate, unloaded its cargo, and turned around again. A single dark Chevrolet, driven by a slight bald man, exited in the direction of town. A pick-up truck carrying sightseers made several passes before giving up.

  By the second hour, Hart felt the prone position catching up with him. In Italy he had been young, eager, and in peak physical condition. Now he carried a few extra pounds around his midsection, and his muscles were not quite as toned as they once had been. An ache began in his knees and elbows, radiated out to his other joints, and soon turned his entire back into a throbbing mass of bone and gristle. Changing position on the forest floor relieved the stress only for a moment. His nicotine center insisted that tobacco would alleviate his discomfort. But smoking might draw attention, which despite his birdwatching cover he hoped to avoid, and so he denied himself the cigarette, much to his body’s displeasure.

  By the third hour, he was deciding that he had become too soft for such work. Civilian life, advancing age, and the material benefits of association with the senator had weakened him … but even as he was thinking it, luck favored him at last. The gate opened again, disgorging the second vehicle of the day: a Studebaker sedan.

  Through the lens of the Bushnells, Hart found the driver behind the wheel. Francis Isherwood looked older than in the photographs Hart had been given – rounder in the face, rumpled and paunchy – but the resemblance was unmistakable, and the model of the car was right. He had found his target.

  He waited until the sedan vanished from sight (Isherwood drove quickly, recklessly) and then stood, joints creaking. Brushing off his dark coat, he hurried back to the Buick. He would not catch the man before he reached town. But in a place the size of Gettysburg, the Studebaker should not be difficult to locate again, despite the crowds.

  Indeed, forty minutes later Hart found the vehicle parked on the main drag outside a drugstore. Inside, Isherwood sat before a malted and a cheeseburger, chatting easily with a red-headed girl behind the counter as he ate. Parking across the street, Hart feigned reading the morning’s newspaper while keeping an eye on his quarry.

  Upon exiting the drugstore, Isherwood walked to a nearby phone booth. There he stood for another few minutes, feeding nickels into the coin slot, looking increasingly frustrated. Emerging at length, he glanced up and down the street before striking off on foot. Leaving the Buick, Hart paced him, maintaining a secure distance.

  Five minutes later Isherwood stepped into a small bar-and-grill. Through a window Hart watched the man order a seltzer and then exchange words with the bartender. If a small town had a pulse, barkeeps and counter clerks were its arteries; Agent Isherwood had put his finger unerringly on Gettysburg’s lifeblood. Hart didn’t know what questions the man was asking, but he was proving himself a dangerous fellow to have sniffing around.

  Leaving the bar, the agent stopped at a chemist’s to buy a small gift-wrapped parcel. He then returned to his car and drove at an illegal speed to the outskirts of town. Parking in a gravel lot by a package store, he left the Studebaker again, carrying a brown paper bag. After depositing the bag in a dumpster, he climbed back into the bullet nose and continued west. Hart debated between following and checking the dumpster. Checking his watch, he saw that the hour of his rendezvous was almost nigh. He decided on the latter.

  The contents of the paper bag turned out to be an ordinary, half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Curious.

  Hart drove back into town. At one minute before noon, he settled down onto the agreed-upon bench before the Plaza Restaurant (‘LOUNGE STEAKS CHOPS SINCE 1863’). Smoking, he waited. On the walkway before him, a little girl wearing a bonnet threw a crying fit as her mother tugged hard on one arm. A motorcycle without a muffler circled the pavilion, revving its engine unnecessarily. Two teenagers sauntered past, each loudly laying claim to the title of pinball champion. When the wrought-iron clock in the center of the pavilion read 12:15, Hart stood again, pitching away the butt of his second cigarette. He would try again tomorrow.

  He took his midday meal in the same bar-and-grill Isherwood had visited, in case a garrulous bartender revealed some insight into the man’s purpose; but the shift had changed, and the barkeep was gone. Yet the day had been far from wasted. Hart had identified his target and some of the man’s habits – most saliently a tendency to drive too fast – and confirmed the make of his automobile. When he encountered Agent Isherwood again on the dark mountain road, he would have no trouble finding his mark.

  Polishing a pair of brass candlesticks in the dining room, Elisabeth became slowly aware of a gaze drilling into her back.

  Turning, she saw a girl watching her. Pretty if chubby, the girl had skin the color of sandalwood, and lively eyes beneath smears of blue mascara. ‘You replaced Babs, right?’

  Elisabeth nodded.

  ‘My name’s Josette. What’s yours?’

  ‘Elisabeth.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Elisabeth.’

  Cautiously, Elisabeth nodded again.

  ‘Dunbarton’s taking a nap. Want to sneak a cigarette?’

  Elisabeth hesitated only briefly. ‘Why not?’ she said lightly.

  They went out through a side door and hid behind a venerable oak. Without warning the sky
had turned the color of bruises, livid with thickening storm clouds. The air was frigid enough to make Josette shiver beneath her thin afternoon maid’s uniform, although Elisabeth, accustomed to mountain climates, felt comfortable.

  ‘How’d they find you so quick?’ Lighting two cigarettes, Josette casually passed one over. ‘Usually it takes a year for anyone to get hired here, with all the security precautions.’

  ‘I had a good recommendation.’ Elisabeth puffed her tobacco to evenness. ‘I used to work for Senator Bolin.’

  ‘Ooh – fancy.’ Josette looked at her with naked interest. ‘Well, I’ve been here almost two years already. If you’ve got any questions, just ask.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  For a few moments, both smoked in silence.

  ‘So what do you think of Dunbarton?’ Elisabeth asked.

  ‘She’s not bad. Although … Well, I don’t like to complain. You catch more flies with honey, right?’

  ‘Just between us,’ promised Elisabeth.

  ‘She can be tough sometimes, that’s all.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Well.’ Leaning in closer, Josette lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Last year I found a little sparrow, right over there, with a broken wing? So I brought it up to my room, in a shoebox lined with cotton. And I was nursing it back to health – fresh worms, water from an eye dropper, the whole nine yards – but when Dunbarton found out, she made me get rid of it.’

  ‘She didn’t!’

  ‘She did. Even though everybody knows that once you’ve handled a bird, the mother won’t take it back.’

  ‘How heartless.’

  ‘Well, I felt that way at the time. But looking back, I can see that maybe she was right. We’re here to work, after all. That’s why we don’t get a TV, and radio’s not allowed, although – just between us? – I’ve got one hidden in my room.’ Josette shrugged, smoked. ‘Dunbarton doesn’t have the easiest time of it herself. You know, she drinks.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Like a fish.’

  ‘I never would have guessed.’

  ‘Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Even President Eisenhower struggles with demons, you know. The big man himself.’

  Elisabeth raised her eyebrows.

  ‘He had that girlfriend during the war. Kay Summersby. Everybody knows about it – that’s what drives the First Lady crazy. It’s not as if she actually minds the cheating. It’s just the gossip that bothers her. She likes to keep up appearances. But then Mamie isn’t so perfect herself. Dunbarton’s not the only one around here who likes to tip the bottle. But listen to me: Josie the blabbermouth. It’s one of my worst habits. Oh, I really must do better.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I won’t hold it against you.’

  A first drop of rain fell. Josette gave a girlish shriek. ‘To be continued,’ she promised. They snuffed out their cigarettes half-smoked and ran back inside.

  Throughout the rest of that rainy afternoon, Elisabeth kept her eyes peeled for a chance to engage the girl again, to find out what else Josie the blabbermouth might reveal.

  But Miss Dunbarton, up from her nap, played quite the taskmaster. During a brief pause, Elisabeth critically examined the calloused palms of her hands. The humiliation of lowly physical labor – a member of the master race, working as an equal alongside subhumans – was galling. But it was toward a purpose, she reminded herself. The end would justify the means.

  Following the hard labor came suffocating tedium: for two endless hours, assigned the task of polishing the demitasse, she charily ran a chamois cloth around the inside of tiny porcelain cups. By the time her chores were finished, the sun was down. Falling across her bed, she tried to find a hidden reserve of energy.

  She was spared seeking out Josette, as it happened, because a moment later the younger girl knocked on her door. ‘Hi,’ Josette said, breezing in. ‘Oh, you look beat. Tell me about it. My dogs are barking.’

  Elisabeth sat up. ‘Dunbarton has no mercy.’

  ‘I told you, she can be tough. But remember what I said: walk a mile in her shoes.’

  Josette proceeded to explore the quarters familiarly, fiddling with items on the bureau. All were innocent – but Elisabeth nonetheless felt the urge to thump a warning across the girl’s snout. ‘You ought to come by and listen to my Philco sometime,’ said Josette as she snooped. ‘Do you like music?’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘Me too. I listen at night, after everyone’s asleep. Mostly to Dick Biondi out of Chicago – he plays good stuff. My favorites right now are ‘Rock Around The Clock’ and ‘Mr Sandman’ and ‘That’s All Right’ and ‘Earth Angel’. Do you like rock and roll?’

  ‘Do you have to ask?’

  ‘What about movies? Do you like movies?’

  ‘I love movies,’ said Elisabeth seriously.

  ‘Me too. One day I’m going to pack up and head out to Tinseltown and get discovered sitting at a soda fountain, just like Lana Turner.’ She dropped down onto the edge of the bed beside Elisabeth; the springs creaked complainingly. ‘A friend of mine – Babs, who you replaced – recently did just that. Dunbarton thinks she ran off with some guy. But I’m sure she went to Hollywood. We talked about it all the time.’

  ‘Lucky girl.’

  ‘Yeah. But … well, not to sound mean, of course. But she’s not too easy on the eyes, Babs. And she doesn’t have much in the way of talent. And she’s got lousy posture, to boot. I’m afraid she’ll end up waiting tables, or worse.’ Josette sighed. ‘Personally, I hope to get a shot at something more. I was named after a French film star, you know. My mother says I’ve always had a flair for acting, and modeling, and telling stories. You know: drama.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that about you.’

  ‘One day I hope to star in a movie opposite Clark Gable or William Holden. That would just be the living end. When Clark took off his shirt in It Happened One Night and wasn’t wearing anything underneath, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘They’re both dreamy.’

  ‘Say, let’s play a game. It’s called “Truth”. You answer one question honestly, and then I have to do the same.’

  Elisabeth smiled. ‘Okay,’ she said.

  ‘Swell. You can go first, if you like.’

  Bluntness would be counterproductive; any valuable information would need to come indirectly. ‘Who on the farm,’ asked Elisabeth slowly, ‘do you find most attractive?’

  ‘Bill Brennan,’ answered Josette promptly. ‘He’s a dead ringer for a young Clark Gable, if you ask me. Plus he’s important; he’s head of security. You probably haven’t seen him around, because he spends most of his time on Farm One. But every once in a while he comes over to butter up Miss Dunbarton, so he can get extra coffee or bacon when he wants it, or toss back a few and sing some songs when she goes out. Next time, I’ll point him out to you.’

  ‘If he’s really so handsome, I wish you would.’

  ‘Maybe even later tonight,’ said Josette cheerfully. ‘Dunbarton’s gone into town to see her sister – that’s why she took a nap today – and a few of the guys might stop by. Now: my turn.’ Elisabeth could see wheels turning in the girl’s head. ‘Have you ever … you know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know.’ One corner of Josette’s mouth rose suggestively.

  ‘Josette! Of course not.’

  ‘Well,’ said Josette, adopting a sudden air of sophistication. ‘That’s a mistake, Libby, if you ask me. On your wedding night, you need to have some idea what you’re doing. You can’t just jump into the deep end of the pool if you’ve never had any practice swimming.’

  ‘So you have?’

  ‘Is that your question, officially?’

  ‘Yes, officially: have you?’

  ‘I have,’ said Josette demurely. ‘I’m no child, you know. In fact I’ve already been engaged to be married.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Being engaged?
’

  ‘Don’t tease!’

  ‘Well, technically it’s my turn to ask a question, but, why not, I’ll give you one for free: no, it didn’t hurt one bit. But that may be because I grew up with brothers, playing ball and riding horses. Now, my turn – if you could go on a date with anyone in the world, who would it be?’

  ‘Dirk Bogarde, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve got good taste, don’t you?’

  ‘I like to think so. My turn: have you ever, in all your time working here, seen the President up close?’

  ‘Just once. He came over to inspect the steers. But that was last year. From what I hear he’s not even allowed to leave the house any more, since the heart attack.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Not according to Caroline, who’s friendly with Jane, who’s friendly with Rose – that’s Mrs Eisenhower’s maid. These days the President spends all his time on the porch, from sunup to sundown. Now: my turn. I know you’ve only been here a few days, but – who do you dislike most?’

  ‘Dunbarton, of course.’

  ‘I should have guessed. That was a wasted question. Give me another one?’

  ‘My turn first! Okay, so – who actually lives on Farm One, and who gets to visit …?’

  That night Josette and a group of Secret Service men took advantage of Dunbarton’s absence to stay up past curfew, singing and drinking and strumming an out-of-tune guitar.

  Despite a burgeoning friendship, Josette had not extended Elisabeth an invitation to join the party; she must not have wanted competition for the favor of the men. Still, through the thin walls Elisabeth could hear every tipsy word. If she paid close attention, there was valuable intelligence to be gained.

  She counted four male voices. One apparently belonged to Bill Brennan, identified by Josette as the handsomest man on the farm, akin to a young Clark Gable – the one she had named as head of security. Another was called ‘Skin’, which sounded like a nickname. The remaining two were never addressed directly. None seemed bothered by Josette’s mixed blood; they all flirted carelessly. But what else would one expect from men like these, probably half-mongrel themselves?