The Art of the Devil by John Altman Page A

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.
    â€˜My name’s Josette. What’s yours?’
    â€˜Elisabeth.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you, Elisabeth.’
    Cautiously, Elisabeth nodded again.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I had a good recommendation.’ Elisabeth puffed her tobacco to evenness. ‘I used to work for Senator Bolin.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    For a few moments, both smoked in silence.
    â€˜So what do you think of Dunbarton?’ Elisabeth asked.
    â€˜She’s not bad. Although … Well, I don’t like to complain. You catch more flies with honey, right?’
    â€˜Just between us,’ promised Elisabeth.
    â€˜She can be tough sometimes, that’s all.’
    â€˜For example?’
    â€˜Well.’ Leaning in closer, Josette lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Last year