The Art of the Devil

by John Altman

  The trick was in making the right choice.

  SEVENTEEN

  GETTYSBURG: NOVEMBER 21

  At a few minutes before noon on Monday, the more conscientious of Gettysburg’s teenagers sat in class on Old Harrisburg Road, listening for the bell that would signal lunch.

  Joe ‘Buddy’ Buchanan sat in a drugstore on the outskirts of town, nibbling on a hangnail and pressing the soda jerk to add more syrup to his Coke. When his usual charming smile failed to accomplish this goal, Buddy tried a glare, and that did the trick; the pimply jerk’s head must have filled with images of switchblades and brass knuckles, for he reluctantly gave an extra few pumps. ‘Hope you like it sweet,’ he mumbled as he passed over the soda.

  Buddy Buchanan tossed him a pally, but not unthreatening, wink. ‘You know it, nosebleed.’

  He took his time with the Coke, enjoying the jerk’s squirming beneath his gaze. Wandering out to his hopped-up Bel Air a few minutes later, long legs switching beneath pegged jeans, he lit a cigarette and wondered how best to spend the long day stretching out before him. That night he had a race with a screamer over from Abbottstown, so he didn’t want to get too blotto; but that meant a whole dull afternoon to be killed without the benefit of booze. He supposed he could hit the matinee at the Odeon, but he had already seen the James Dean flick playing there nine times. That left the railroad tracks, where he could peg empty cans at rats, always good for an hour or two’s diversion; or maybe Carl’s, where he could flirt with a roller-skated carhop wearing a too-short skirt. Either way, he was bound to run into some friends who would keep him occupied until it came time to head over to Table Rock for the race. It was a plan.

  Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the stranger’s approach until the man addressed him. The stranger was a certified square, wearing a soiled gray suit, which after laundering would not have seemed out of place on Buddy’s father. He was also a gimp, hunching his considerable frame low over a crutch. Drawing close to Buddy’s car, looking around shiftily from beneath the brim of his hat, he said: ‘Hey, kid. Want to make a few bucks?’

  Buddy blinked. He nearly answered, What are you, queer? But crutch or no, this guy looked as if he might mean business. Sometimes you found men like this, who had seen too much in a war, who would now kill you as soon as look at you. And was that the bulge of a gun, beneath the man’s lapel, or just a pack of smokes?

  ‘You deaf?’ asked the man. Rejiggering his crutch to allow more freedom of movement, he removed a pack of cigarettes from a pocket nowhere near the bulge.

  ‘Naw,’ said Buddy, pushing off the fender and making himself stand tall. Despite the effort he still found himself looking up; the stranger, even hunched over the crutch, towered above him. ‘I ain’t deaf.’

  ‘So I’ll ask it again. You want to make a few bucks?’

  ‘Depends.’ Buddy tried to inject a suggestion of threat into his voice. With each passing second, however, he was feeling less intimidating than intimidated. ‘What do I gotta do?’

  When the square reached into another pocket, Buddy nearly flinched. But all the man withdrew was a crisp new portrait of Ulysses S. Grant. Handing it over, he explained his needs with a few simple words. Once it was done, Buddy would be rewarded with a hundred bucks on top of the fifty. Needless to say, the arrangement would remain just between them.

  Buddy grinned. A buck-fifty from nowhere; he could hardly believe his luck. ‘Daddy-O,’ he said, ‘you got yourself a deal.’ Even if you’re crazy as a bedbug, he thought, but diplomatically did not add.

  NEW YORK CITY

  Leading Isherwood to the edge of the dock, the cop named Barlow sent his cigarette pinwheeling into the water.

  ‘Something like this,’ Barlow said, ‘barely raises an eyebrow ’round here any more. We get chunks of people washing up every week or so. Makes you wonder what the world is coming to.’ He lit another cigarette. He was a beefy man, slightly cross-eyed, with a shaving cut on a grizzled throat. ‘But the Captain says we got a standing order from DC to report any floaters, so here we are. Must be important, to send a Fed in person … and take up a dredge crew’s valuable time.’

  Isherwood let the implied complaint pass without acknowledgement. As they came to a stop, he wrinkled his nose. The rotting fish-stink dislodged by overturning the river’s bottom was staggering – or was that just the usual stench of the Hudson? By contrast, the Potomac seemed downright unspoiled.

  ‘Hand’s down at the medical examiner’s,’ remarked Barlow casually. ‘But without fingertips, we got nothing. Pretty standard syndicate technique, y’know. They cut off the head and hands, take the fingertips somewhere else – probably to a pit with some lye – and bash in the face so you can’t get an ID or a good dental. Makes us run around in circles. Guess they like to watch us chase our own tails. But when you big Federal boys say jump, we jump. Although I tell you, pal, if we find anything to match the hand, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Sixteen years on this force and not one—’

  A sharp whistle from the river interrupted him. He scowled across the brackish water as a winch raised a prehensile claw. Moments later, the catch broke the surface: a deflated Goodyear tire.

  Barlow turned back to Isherwood. ‘Not one time,’ he finished, ‘have we come up with two parts that match.’

  Again, Isherwood said nothing.

  ‘Hell, don’t think I’m complaining. I get paid the same either way. So gimme a hint, pal. What’s the big deal about some poor sap’s hand?’

  Another whistle cut off the reply: the snagboat bringing up another trophy.

  This time the recovered object was not easily identifiable. Isherwood watched as it was examined, loaded into a low boat, and rowed back to the dock. Only after the find, wrapped in algae, was lugged up onto the planks could Isherwood identify it as part of a human body – a skinny torso with arms and legs, lacking head and hands. His abdominal muscles gave a queasy grind.

  ‘Well, I’ll be dipped in shit and rolled in breadcrumbs,’ said Barlow conversationally. ‘Willya look at that.’

  Isherwood took a knee beside the corpse. Peeling back strips of algae, he found himself regarding a faded tattoo on one hairless, undernourished forearm: a gold Chinese dragon and red acorns, rendered against a blue and white coat of arms.

  BOCA RATON, FLORIDA

  Picking listlessly at her Blue Plate Special, Evelyn Isherwood tuned out her sister’s prattle.

  All through dinner, as Helen talked about Italian mule sandals and poodle cuts, Evy had gone back and forth in her mind over well-trod ground. In sickness and in health; for richer and for poorer. But, of course, there came a time when a girl would be absolved of such promises, she thought. After too many nights spent lying awake, waiting to hear the key in the lock; after too many promises given, too many second chances squandered.

  Nonetheless, a packed bag waited in the bedroom closet back at her sister’s house. At any moment, Evy might decide to hop on a Greyhound. She would do it without providing warning to her sister or to Ish, or even to herself. She would appear in the doorway of the house in Anacostia, taking everybody by surprise, and say, One more chance, Ish. Just like you wanted.

  Closing her eyes for a moment – the better to tune out her sister – she pictured Ish as he’d looked on the day they had met. Handsome, assured, cigarette burning casually between fingertips, hat cocked far back on his head, he had made a dashing figure. She had been a girl of just twenty-two, standing at the crosswalk of a busy DC street, trying to coax her Scottish terrier into motion. But the terrier had other ideas, planting her paws stubbornly. Evy tugged, urged, excoriated, exhaled with frustration. Then Ish appeared beside them, wearing a minimal smile. ‘Got to use a strong hand,’ he advised.

  Evy ignored him. Her days were spent working in her father’s stationery store, her nights cooking and cleaning at home; nothing in her life had prepared her to receive hard-hearted advice from a strange man on a public street. She continued trying, ineffectually, to coax the
dog into crossing the street.

  ‘She’s got all day,’ remarked Isherwood. ‘Do you?’

  At that, Evy turned on him. ‘What do you want me to do, drag her?’

  ‘Or pick her up.’ Isherwood smiled again. ‘And then join me for tea. How about it?’

  For better and for worse. To have and to hold …

  Still: there had to be a limit. There had to be a time when a girl gave up and moved on.

  Back and forth over familiar ground she went; and her sister, careless and blithe, talked now about Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, and how anyone with two eyes in their head could have seen it coming.

  THE TREASURY BUILDING

  Beneath the light of the chandelier, the Chief opened another military personnel file, his mouth forming a judicious crease. ‘Myron Kemper,’ he read.

  ‘The coat of arms belongs to the Fifteenth Regiment.’ Glassy-eyed, Isherwood leaned forward, placing elbows on knees. ‘Their lineage traces back to the Civil War – as indicated by the red acorns. The Chinese dragon reflects service in China during the Boxer Rebellion. Before the Big One they trained in Virginia, where the First Battalion was commanded by none other than Dwight D. Eisenhower.’

  Paging through the file, Spooner glanced up.

  ‘They served in Sicily, Italy, North Africa, France, and Germany. I went straight to the personnel records for Company B – Hart’s company – and then narrowed it down, through platoon level to squads. That gave me twelve names. Four live in Manhattan. Checked those against missing persons reports, but came up blank. But by then the workday was wrapping up, so I started knocking on doors. First man, I found home with his wife. Second man, no answer. Didn’t want to take a chance on the super giving me trouble, so I let myself in.’

  ‘And.’

  ‘The apartment was a workshop, Chief – a gun shop. And there were bloodstains. Still tacky, although someone did a pretty good clean-up job.’

  Spooner’s eyes narrowed. Isherwood nodded. ‘Myron Kemper was killed recently – within the past day, give or take. He was cut up and then sunk, just like the underchef in the country club. He served in the same squad as Richard Hart. And he was a gunsmith.’

  GETTYSBURG

  The rifle is an extension of your body.

  Shivering in the cold, Karl Schnibbe guided her hands with his own. In his ice-blue eyes she saw the setting sun reflected as a line of molten lava. And vice versa: your body, Liebchen, is an extension of the rifle. When taking aim, you feel no cold, discomfort, or pain. When taking aim, you are never hungry or thirsty. You think nothing of the past or the future. When taking aim, there is only target and gun. Target and gun.

  She lowered cheek to stock. One hundred yards away, a majestic buck nosed through frozen branches, oblivious to its impending doom. The world shrank to nothing except buck and rifle, target and gun.

  Haste will be your downfall. Karl’s face was so close that she could feel its warmth, smell its cleanliness. When you act, do so from a still quiet place.

  She nodded, holding her breath, and slowly tightened finger against trigger …

  … and then woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed.

  Her throat was dry. A gust of wind chased outside the house. Dunbarton’s voice carried through the walls, sharp with irritation. Elisabeth sat in bed, listening. After a few minutes, she heard the front door bang open. Dunbarton’s piercing voice receded, replaced by the usual murmurs of the herdsman’s home: eaves creaking, radiators rattling, girls talking and laughing softly.

  Elisabeth left the bed, quietly dressed. By the window, she spent a few seconds watching men work – pacing off security routes, tending livestock, mending a barn’s gate. She searched in vain for a hint of Karl’s high cheekbones and fine blond hair. For a time in Argentina, she had dreamed of him every night, and upon awakening would think she recognized him everywhere – lit by a kerosene lamp in a window across a dusty street, boarding a bus just behind her, fixing a roof on a decrepit cottage. He had survived Berlin after all, she would decide, and then followed her here. And now he wanted revenge. As if the gottverdammt blood-hungry Israelis were not enough to worry about …

  But then she would see that the man in the window across the street was elderly, the one boarding the bus behind her just a boy, the one fixing the roof only a swarthy peasant. Only in her dreams had Karl followed her to Argentina.

  In a way, she had enjoyed the imagined glimpses, frightening though they had been. Seeing him again – even just for a moment, even only in her fancy – had gratified her. But scanning the agents and farmhands outside her window now, she found only dark hair, heavy overfed American faces. This, it seemed, was Karl’s final revenge: he would not show himself to her again, even in her imagination. He did not appreciate the favor she had done him, rescuing him not only from his own dissolution but also from the humiliation of the hangman’s noose at Nuremberg.

  She took a deep breath. The past was the past, and there it must remain.

  In the bathroom she conducted hasty ablutions. She showed her face only briefly in the kitchen, for coffee. By eight a.m. on November twenty-second she was walking down the long driveway, passing through the front gate, and turning east toward town.

  ROUTE 30: NOVEMBER 22

  Francis Isherwood drove west.

  The morning was bright and clear and lovely, and might have passed for early spring instead of late fall. Shadowed mountainside steamed gently with evaporating snow. A foraging deer stood at the edge of the forest, turning its head to watch the Mayfair pass.

  His foot leaned heavier on the gas. He would have been on this road sooner had Emil Spooner not waited until first light to make his executive decision. But years of black-tie dinners and political maneuvering had left the man overcautious, unsure of his own instincts. At last, however, the Chief had pulled the trigger. Hart had murdered the gunsmith; now he would somehow smuggle a customized weapon onto the farm, attempting to finish what he had started eight weeks earlier at the Cherry Hills Country Club. But Isherwood would be waiting at the front gate. He would recognize Hart, no matter his subterfuge, and end this once and for all.

  He passed the very ridge from which Richard Hart had taken his shot, six days before. A frown gathered between his eyes. His foot rode still heavier on the accelerator. The road before him descended into the steep pass; instead of slowing he downshifted, buying traction, and drove faster.

  EIGHTEEN

  GETTYSBURG

  The young man answered the door on the second knock.

  His breath smelled of eggs and onions. A rolled-up copy of Photoplay had been jammed carelessly into his hip pocket. He seemed eager to complete the transaction with a minimum of fuss; he must have learned from an appraiser that just one of the diamonds was worth as much as the car. By quarter past ten Elisabeth had traded the last of her gems for the pink slip and key to the Rocket 88. After bidding the young man good day, she slipped behind the walnut-finished steering wheel. When she started the engine the V8 thrummed beneath her, straining to be unleashed.

  She smiled with satisfaction. She would murder their President, the vaunted architect of the Fuehrer’s defeat, right beneath their noses. Then she would flee the farm on foot; minutes later, having donned her disguise and been carried into town by motorized bicycle, she would slip behind the wheel of the Olds. And then an old woman would drive out of Gettysburg, gliding easily through any net they managed to cast. After crossing into the next state, she would change her identity again and find a new car. Then would come New York, and the passage overseas, and the numbered account … and, sometime in the future, ballroom gowns and handsome dancing partners and luxurious Mitropa railroad cars.

  But she was getting ahead of herself.

  Driving into town, she chose an inconspicuous side street where she could leave the car safely parked for the next twenty-four hours. After locking up, she strolled toward Lincoln Square, smiling vacantly: a pretty, if not too bright, young girl enjoying t
he fine weather on her day off.

  Sitting on a bench in Lincoln Square, waiting to deliver a guitar to a girl he’d never even met, Buddy Buchanan thought: Strange days.

  One hundred and fifty bucks, simply to pick up a guitar and then hand it off – but that was only the start of the strangeness. There was the suspicious way the gimp carried himself: shiftily, jumping at shadows. There was the shady way he had made his approach, and the oddly specific conditions to be met, and the stipulation that no one else could know anything. Strangest of all was the feeling the man conjured inside Buddy, that if something were to go wrong, blood would be spilled. It was the way Buddy felt whenever his dad unstrapped his belt, but magnified tenfold.

  By the time Buddy thought twice about accepting the deal, however, it had been too late; he had already followed the man back to his motor court (strangely, all the way outside the edge of town) and accepted the instrument. Then he had been stuck. Still, he had considered stiffing the old duck, keeping the fifty and the guitar for himself. After losing the race at Table Rock – Buddy had jigged instead of jagged when he tried to shift into fourth, leaving the Bel Air’s customized bent eight revving throatily but impotently – he had gone alone to the railroad tracks, where he had put down twelve of Milwaukee’s Best without pausing for breath, pegging each empty can at a rat (and missing every time) in an effort to drown his sorrows. The indignity of losing the race was bad enough. Did he really want to top it off by being some weirdo flitty gimp’s errand boy?

  This morning, not wanting to show his face in town after the disgrace of losing the race, but not wanting to stay around his accursed keepers either, and definitely not wanting to go to school, he had caught the day’s first show at the Odeon. Kicking up his legs inside their pegged jeans, inhaling the theater’s stale scents of hot dogs and day-old popcorn, laughing nastily when an usher asked him to take his feet off the seat back, he had suffered through the newsreels (somewhat redeemed by a mention of President Eisenhower’s successful ongoing recuperation outside the town of Gettysburg, which elicited a cheer laced with a few catcalls from the thin crowd), and tried to lose himself in the familiar story. By then, having drawn self-pity around himself as tightly as a rainslicker, he had decided to shaft the old gimp and take his chances. Nobody told Buddy Buchanan what to do. Buddy Buchanan made his own goddamned rules.