Free The Art of the Devil by John Altman Page A

Doggie In The Window?’
    Precisely as the wrought-iron clock in the center of Lincoln Square ticked to twelve noon, Elisabeth settled down on the prearranged bench. She had waited no more than thirty seconds before a presence sat beside her. Although she didn’t know her contact’s name, she recognized him immediately based on the description – with his unusually tall frame, he was difficult to miss. After glancing at him briefly, she looked away, waiting to hear the identifying code phrase.
    He looked over at her indifferently. ‘Miss,’ he said, ‘can you recommend a place for lunch?’
    â€˜What are you in the mood for?’
    â€˜I’ll defer to you.’
    â€˜I need a rifle,’ she said, without glancing toward him again. ‘Telescopic sight. Range at least three hundred yards. I won’t be able to zero the scope, so it must shoot straight the first time.’
    Very slightly, Richard Hart nodded.
    â€˜Now, the rub.’ Speaking in a low voice, she explained exactly what she wanted – and then stood, leaving the guitar behind, and walked off without looking back.
    In a small diner on a side street, she found a single-occupancy restroom with a door that locked. Inside, working carefully but quickly, she tested the disguise she had bought at the five-and-dime. Full at the sides and flat at the top, with the hairline far back, the wig lent a new width and roundness to her face. The effect was accentuated by subtle lines of spirit gum applied across the brow and around the mouth. Greasepaint circles beneath the eyes added another few years; smudges below the chin suggested jowls; false eyelashes and cheap stockings provided tackiness. When she had finished, the woman looking back from the mirror was familiar only in a strange, elusive way. Minutes before, an attractive blonde in her mid-twenties had entered the restroom. Now a brunette, puffy and middle-aged, turned her face this way and that, considering her reflection. The illusion might not pass close inspection, but once she was behind the wheel of a moving car, it would suffice.
    One hour later, having removed the disguise, she entered a car dealership across town: ‘RENN/KIRBY, LICENSED SINCE 1933, GUARANTEES YOU WILL RIDE AWAY HAPPY!’ Mr Kirby himself listened attentively as she gave her name – Jennie Tucker – and expressed her desire to buy an inexpensive motorbike for transport between Holland House, where, she explained, she was employed as a waitress, and Gettysburg College, where she was taking classes. As it happened, she was in luck; he just happened to have out back the perfect vehicle, which had belonged to his own daughter. And so Jennie Tucker rode away happy that very afternoon atop a used Huffy Whizzer Model 90, a motorized bicycle originally sold as a kit, for which she paid thirty dollars in cash. Feeling magnanimous, Kirby threw in a full tank of gas for the small engine mounted between seat and handlebars.
    By half-past four, Elisabeth Grant had stowed her disguise and motorized bicycle in the woods to the east of the Eisenhower farm. She then commenced walking back around the perimeter to the west, so that upon arriving again at the gate, she seemed to be coming on foot from town.
    Keeping vigil from his bedroom window, Francis Isherwood absently watched the girl walk up the long driveway.
    Chaining his next cigarette from the butt of the last, he returned his attention to the porch on which Eisenhower stood painting. Moments later, a peremptory knock rattled the door in its frame. ‘No smoking in the house,’ called Miss Dunbarton.
    Sighing, Isherwood pushed out of his chair. He opened the door to find the house matron standing in the hallway, glaring at him accusatorily. ‘A special allowance has been made,’ he lied. ‘To facilitate effective surveillance.’
    â€˜Even if that were true, Mister Isherwood, it would not stand. My house, my rules.