The Art of the Devil

by John Altman

  Josette turned to face him at last. ‘Sample of the disease?’ she said muzzily.

  ‘It’s a true fact, Josie. It’s a little piece of polio, which they inject right into these kids’ arms …’

  With Josette momentarily distracted, James pressed his attack, sidling closer to Elisabeth on his bale, chafing her knee. ‘You like music, honey? Me, I love Benny Goodman. Next time he swings through Philly I’m gonna go check it out. If you want to come with, I’ll try to score an extra ticket.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sweet,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Yeah, but whaddya say?’

  ‘Thing is, I’ve got a fellow back in Virginia.’

  ‘Virginia? Might as well be Mars.’

  Maintaining her empty smile, Elisabeth again dislodged his hand. She dragged her bale a foot away from him, closer to Josette, and then glanced at her friend, hoping the gesture had not gone unappreciated. But the younger girl still looked wounded.

  Now Caroline and Earl talked earnestly about the difficulty college women had in finding a husband, while the other man spoke again to the back of Josette’s head, complaining about the back-breaking labor they had done that afternoon, filling the corn crib. Voices grew ever more strident, and a fug of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. James scooted his bale closer to Elisabeth again. ‘Come on,’ he implored. ‘Don’t play hard to get.’

  Abruptly, Elisabeth stood. ‘I’m going back to the party,’ she announced. ‘Josie, come with me.’

  Josette hesitated. After a moment Elisabeth turned, heading out into the night alone; in a flash, Josette was by her side.

  During their minutes inside the barn, the snowfall had stopped. A diffuse glow lit the cloudy sky. Elisabeth started back toward the herdsman’s home, but Josette brought her up short with a hand on one arm. ‘Let’s go for a walk, huh? I need to clear my head.’

  Elisabeth bit back an argument. They wandered aimlessly away from both barn and house, in the general direction of the bullpen and corn crib. For several long moments, they strolled through the cold without speaking. Josette hummed a few tuneless bars of ‘Darling, Je Vous Aime Beaucoup’. She took out a cigarette, dropped it, bent to retrieve it, and stuck it between her lips upside-down. ‘Libby,’ she said sulkily, ‘you and James never … you know. Did you?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. He was flirting with me, Josie. Not the other way around.’

  ‘Sure. And who could blame him? You’re gorgeous.’

  Elisabeth reached out, turning the cigarette around before Josette could light the filter. A moment passed, during which their crunching footsteps were the only sound. A match flared, illuminating Josette’s heavy mascara and slightly drooping eyes. Then Josette said: ‘You’re a good friend, Libby.’

  Elisabeth scanned for sarcasm, found none. Josette took her hand, and they kept walking. Each time the wind shifted they could hear music and rowdy laughter, chopped by the breeze. By now there would have been some pairing-off, thought Elisabeth, some hanky-panky between the girls from the herdsman’s home and the healthy red-blooded American Secret Service boys. She wondered if she might take a chance, sneak onto Farm One, and finish her work this very night. With luck and courage, she might be gone before sunrise.

  Tempting – but foolish. In just three more days, she could do it right.

  As if reading her mind, Josette asked, ‘How much longer you planning on staying here?’

  ‘Hm? I’m not really sure. I just started … A while, I guess.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be here much longer. I’ve got to get out.’ Josette stifled a small, ladylike belch. ‘And I’m going to. Real soon now. I’m going to Tinseltown, like Babs.’

  ‘Gee. Some day soon, Josie, I’ll see your name in lights.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Josette avidly. ‘Right opposite Clark Gable’s. Right up there on a marquee.’ She stumbled, quickly righted herself without losing her grip on Elisabeth’s hand. ‘Although sometimes I wonder: how many girls go to Hollywood and end up on the streets? Prettier girls than me, too.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re beautiful, Josie.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you to say. But I know it’s not true. You’re beautiful. That’s why James is all over you. Me, I’m just fat. Oink. But,’ she rushed on before Elisabeth could protest, ‘I’m also talented. I’ve got star quality. That’s what my mother always said; that’s why she named me after a film star. But then, mothers always think that about their daughters, don’t they? Anyways: I should probably start my career on the stage, I’m thinking, before I go into the movies. The theater rewards talent. The movies chew it up and spit it out. And I’ve got more talent than looks.’

  Elisabeth said nothing.

  ‘So I’m thinking maybe New York, or Chicago, or London. You know: the theater cities. To get my foot in the door.’

  ‘It sounds exciting.’

  ‘Or Paris.’ Josette reached beneath her crêpe de chine and hoisted up a falling bra strap. ‘I’ve always dreamed about Paris. Have you ever dreamed about Paris, Libby?’

  A flash of a memory: one dark night in a Saint-Michel graveyard, while working her way from Great Britain back to Berlin. She had snuck up behind a resistance leader, silently drawing a knife while the man was distracted by a map … ‘Paris,’ Elisabeth echoed faintly.

  ‘What girl hasn’t? Well, then, why don’t you come with me? Oh, it’ll be so much fun! We’ll have the time of our lives. What an adventure! I’m born for it – my mother knew it, I think, when she chose my name – and you’ve got a certain sophistication, don’t you? A kind of European flair. You’ll fit right in. We’ll get a little garret together in, what do they call it, the fifth arrondissement? Do I have that right? The left bank? The artsy place. The Latin quarter. Oh, and we’ll have affairs – beautiful affairs with beautiful Frenchmen. Très sophistiqué. We’ll smoke Gaulouise and walk through the rain and go to art galleries and such. And you can help me pick out outfits for my auditions, and I’ll help you get your modeling career off the ground. Oh, we’ll just have a ball. An absolute blast. And I’ll get some valuable experience in the theater so that when I am acting opposite Clark Gable, I’ll be ready.’

  They walked, holding hands.

  ‘We’ll get up early,’ Josette continued after a moment, ‘and drink our morning coffee in a little café. And we’ll watch the sun rise behind the Eiffel Tower. I picture fog. Do they have fog in Paris, or is that only London?’

  Elisabeth couldn’t help but smile; she wiped it off her face before her friend could notice. ‘I think they’ve got fog everywhere.’

  ‘I picture fog and beautiful men and pretty dresses and lots of cigarettes and coffee and wine and dancing. And music and salons and artists and those little hats, what are they called, berets. And no more Miss Dunbarton! No more sweeping and mopping! Can you picture it, Libby?’

  ‘You know,’ said Elisabeth, with the smile flickering back, ‘actually, Josie, I think I can.’

  THE TREASURY BUILDING

  Spooner was trying to coordinate, using only local police, a contingent to interview every guest at the motor court, another to set up strategic roadblocks, another to check bus and train stations, another to cover Washington National and Friendship International airports, and another to trace the Buick found in the motel’s parking lot.

  ‘Then call in some favors, man, for the love of God.’ The Chief shook his head. ‘Don’t you know who I am? Listen: if I wanted to use G-Men, I’d use G-Men. I want to use you, and I don’t want to have to get the President out of bed to make you hop to. That’s right, I said the President. Well, Sergeant, which fucking President do you think I mean?’

  His frustration was contagious. Isherwood paced the office, snapping his Zippo open and shut, snik snik, snik snik, and working his way through an endless chain of cigarettes. Passing by the window, he paused to absorb the view – not the postcard-ready scene visible from the reception area, but a sandstone pavilion, small parking lot, and stretch of 15th Street NW.
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br />   On a chilly Saturday night, vehicular and pedestrian traffic moved in cycles: slackening, so that for a moment everything was still beneath the diminishing snowfall, and then picking up again as the next swell of diners or drinkers or late workers spilled out onto streets and sidewalks. Richard Hart, thought Isherwood, was somewhere out there at this very moment. Perhaps in one of these very passing cars …

  The cigarette between his fingers had burned half to ash. The Chief was still shaking his head. ‘No, I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you what to do next. Now listen close – got a pen? I want any reports of stolen vehicles, stolen food or clothing, unexplained assaults … a matter of national security, pal, and that’s all you need to know … are you writing this down? … stowaways, hitch-hikers, dead bodies …’

  UNION STATION, WASHINGTON DC

  The Metropolitan pulled over. ‘Here you go,’ said the driver.

  ‘Much obliged, sir.’

  ‘Pleasure’s mine, young man. Good luck to you. And remember what I said: stop and smell the roses.’

  They shook hands. Hart climbed out, cumbersomely, and watched the car go. Then he turned his attention to the train station’s six-hundred-foot facade and triumphal arch, with three American flags riding high on burnished poles, and a steady stream of visitors moving in and out despite the hour.

  Inside, the horde was even thicker. Speckled among civilian garb he saw official uniforms: police, seamen, railroad conductors, an occasional Marine wearing dress blue. Beneath a high vaulted ceiling, a schedule informed him that the next train to New York would not depart until 10:15 p.m. After a few seconds of consideration, he turned toward the rectangular bar set dead center in the bustling Main Concourse. Fugitives ran, he thought; fugitives hid in corners, shadows, cars, houses, apartments. Fugitives did not remain in broad, well-lit spaces crowded with authorities. But sometimes the best way to hide was in plain sight.

  On his way through the main hall he passed a drunk, sprawled across cold marble and talking to himself. ‘Mother,’ the derelict muttered. ‘Mr and Mrs America, you say, and all the ships at sea. But Mother: Mr and Mrs America live right next door.’ He chortled. ‘Five-star generals and admirals right next door, Mother, living with the Cheesecake Girl and Ginger Rogers, if you’d just open your eyes and see …’ The man’s hat lay ignored on the floor. Hart snagged it with his crutch, lifted it in one smooth motion, barely slowing.

  At the bar, laying the crutch out of the way against the floor, he pulled the brim of the hat low over his eyes. Ordering a Martini, he focused exclusively on his drink. Hide in plain sight, he thought again. Audacity worked wonders. Once he had heard a story about an old-time magician who would ‘levitate’ a young lady in front of a large crowd. With her body floating in the air, the conjuror would declare that no mirrors or wires were assisting the trick. Then he would call a child from the assembly, lifting the youngster up directly beside the floating lady so the kid could vouch that indeed there were no wires or mirrors. Up close, the child would see thin cords, imperceptible from a small distance, supporting the illusionist’s assistant. But at that moment the magician would growl directly into the child’s ear: Breathe a word of this, you little shit, and I’ll track you down and teach you how to keep your motherfucking mouth shut! At which point the child’s mouth would fall open; and the magician would beam to the audience, which would take the child’s expression of astonishment as proof of magic, and well-deserved applause and cheers would sweep the arena.

  The bar began to fill up. Hart studied the crust of olive brine on the rim of his glass, avoiding being drawn into conversation. Police drifted through the shifting crowd. But with the crutch on the floor, the coat draped over his shoulders and cast, and the hat pulled low over his face, Hart did not merit a second glance. He was starting to feel confident. He had no cigarettes, no vehicle, and no weapons; but he also had nothing to weigh him down. He had used an alias in the motor court’s registry, and he’d left behind nothing to indicate his origin or destination. Years of drifting had left him light as a feather, thin as smoke.

  He waited until his train was within minutes of departure. Then he retrieved the crutch, slipped it beneath one arm, rearranged the coat to conceal it, and moved as smoothly as possible toward the platform. Two Martinis poured with a heavy hand had given him poise. At 10:12, he stepped directly past another uniformed officer and onto the train.

  The car was unexpectedly crowded. But the throngs worked to his advantage; he melted in, vanishing. On his right, a young man with bulging eyes read a newspaper. On his left, a severely-drawn young woman gave her full attention to an Agatha Christie mystery. Hart stared at the seat back before him, rocking gently back and forth with the motion of the creaky old car as they pulled out of the station, heading north.

  Several times during the first forty-five minutes, newspaper vendors passed through the car, dressed like mourners as they hawked the Washington Post. Then the vendors stopped coming; the young man on Hart’s right dozed, and the young woman on his left, finishing her book, promptly started reading again from page one.

  He closed his eyes. Now was his chance to catch some rest. But he couldn’t sleep, and soon enough he opened his eyes again, looking through bleary windows at the passing night.

  THE STORK CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

  The usual angst the Vice President would have felt upon entering the Cub Room – a shrine to the decidedly un-Nixon-like virtues of drink, nightlife, gossip, glamor, and celebrity – was compounded by the uncertain nature of the business that had brought him here.

  His misgivings were hardly relieved when he caught sight of the FBI Director’s table. Associate Director and close pal (nudge-wink) Clyde Tolson favored Nixon with a jealous eye as the Vice President approached. Two stolid middle-aged women looked at him as if he were something good to eat. Taking a seat, Nixon recognized one as Ethel Merman, the First Lady of musical theater and a frequent guest at the Eisenhower White House. His discomfiture increased a notch. A close friend of Hoover’s, the diva suffered from a legendary penchant for loose talk. At least Winchell, the slime-mongering kike, was missing in action tonight, thank God.

  Smiling warmly, Nixon tried to set aside his concerns. He engaged in the de rigueur few minutes of courteous small talk, starting with an explanation for his presence – he had been just down the block at a fund-raising dinner and had heard that Hoover was holding court in the Cub Room – and moving on to brief chit-chat about the pleasures of the theater. Did Miss Merman realize that Nixon had met his darling wife onstage? It was true. Seeking to drum up business as a young attorney just starting out in Whittier, he had joined the local theater group, where he had found himself cast in the mystery The Dark Tower opposite a pretty new teacher named Pat Ryan. Tall, slim, and graceful, Pat had caught his eye immediately …

  The crowd moved around them in a smooth, unobtrusive flow, guided by the sure hand of Sherman Billingsley, the club’s founder, owner, and premier bon vivant. Passing by the table, Billingsley tossed a chummy nod to Merman, for many years his mistress and still a favorite companion. On the other side of a glass partition, the orchestra started in on a mambo; on the small dance floor, people gamely began to cha-cha-cha. Cigarettes girls and white-suited waiters circulated fluidly, smiling and serving with glints in their eye.

  At length Nixon managed to communicate with a lift of his brow that a private moment of Hoover’s time would be appreciated. The songstress took the hint, suddenly recalling business in the main dining room. Picking up a mink stole, she seized her friend by the elbow. Tolson departed more reluctantly, only after an expressive nod from Hoover, and only after pausing to snag a shrimp from a cocktail at his place.

  America’s Top Cop then regarded Nixon with such a flat and unapologetic stare that the Vice President fidgeted in his seat.

  ‘John,’ started Nixon. ‘There’s a matter I want to discuss. But it’s … delicate.’

  Hoover’s gaze was hardly sympathetic. Consider
ing their history together, this was unsurprising. Although Nixon had been careful to speak only admiringly of the Director in public, they had not always been allies behind the scenes. The defining moment of their relationship had come seven years before, after the discovery of top-secret government documents inside a hollowed-out pumpkin in a Westminster field. Whittaker Chambers, the ex-communist who had led investigators to the pumpkin, had identified a former State Department official named Alger Hiss as their source. In the feeding frenzy which followed, Nixon and Hoover had jockeyed ruthlessly for the honor of crucifying Hiss. Only when Truman’s Justice Department had tried to quash the case had Nixon and Hoover grudgingly joined forces, resulting in two convictions of perjury against a man who had been one of FDR’s closest confidantes. To this day, each resented having shared his prize with the other.

  ‘Few days ago,’ Nixon went on after a brief pause, ‘I had lunch with Joe. And he was talking about Clay and Hoffman and those fellows. And he says, you know, that they’ll drop me like a hot potato, if only they can find a reason.’

  Hoover’s dark eyes betrayed nothing. Again, Nixon was unsurprised. Secrets were what got J. Edgar Hoover out of bed each morning, what he thought about as he drifted off to sleep each night. They were his raison d’être, and he bartered them carefully, lovingly, and always to his own advantage.

  ‘But Clay and Hoffman,’ Nixon continued, ‘aren’t my concern. In fact, it’s the flip side that’s got me worried – the patriots, Joe calls them. The men, and I quote, who “won’t let Ike get away with this”.’

  Hoover’s bulldog face revealed nothing.

  ‘So.’ Nixon shot his cuff, fiddled with the link. If Hoover was going to make him come right out with it, they would never get anywhere. That the Club was wired – by Hoover, by Winchell, by Billingsley – was an open secret. Sensible men took care what they said within these bugged walls. He decided to try another approach. ‘I’m here because you know what goes on, John, better than anybody. A man can’t take a number off a restroom stall without you hearing about it. And so I’m wondering if you’ve, er … heard anything. Which you, uh, might care to share.’