Chameleon

He had been watching her for almost an hour. She was absolutely stunning as she moved gracefully through Bloomingdale’s, carefully pondering each gift before buying it, then checking it off her list before moving on to the next department. An elegant and exotic creature, tallish, trim, chic, wonderfully stylish in black Jordache jeans, Lucchese cowboy boots, a pale-blue silk blouse and a poplin jacket lined with rabbit fur.

The clincher was the hat, a black derby, cocked almost arrogantly over one almond-shaped eye with just a trace of black veil covering her face.

He moved with her, a counter or two away, fifty feet or so behind her. She methodically did the store. Her shopping bag was full by the time she reached the first floor, and as she stepped off the escalator, suddenly picking up speed, heading toward the Lexington Avenue entrance. In a few more moments she would be outside. And that would be that. If he was going to make a move, now was the time.

He slipped into his leather coat as he hurried along a row of blinking Christmas trees, past a red and white banner that said:

‘Merry Christmas, from all your friends at Bloomingdale’s’ (and under it, a commercial prod: ‘only 4 more shopping days left’), down the stairs from the mezzanine and below a balcony where a group of timid high school carolers were almost whispering their version of ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ Then he almost lost her. An army of resolute shoppers, fleeing before the wind and wet snow, charged through the revolving doors, forging relentlessly into the store. He was a temporary victim, caught up in the momentum of the rude assault.

He side-stepped and angled his way through the mob, shouldered his way free, lurched forward, and almost ran into her. They were face to face, almost touching, and then, just as suddenly they were apart again. Her move away from him was so graceful he sensed rather than saw it. Before he could apologize, she recovered her composure and quickly appraised him. An older man, forty-five or so, and handsome, although his face was beginning to show the strains of the good life and his brown hair was peppered with gray. His dress was impeccable: tweed jacket, slate-brown wool slacks, a wide- striped shirt and Cardin tie.

He stared straight back at her, smiled, motioned her into the door and gave it a shove when she entered the glass triangle. Was she Oriental? Polynesian? A mixture? Mexican and French, perhaps. She seemed a bit tall to be Japanese.

Outside, cold wet snowflakes raked Lexington Avenue, dancing over the subway grates before the harsh cross-town wind swirled them up Fifty-first Street. They flagged the same cab, dodged the same shower of slush as it pulled up, and since most of the cabs had either vanished or gone to lunch at the first sign of bad, weather, they decided to share it.

That was the start of it.

He suggested a drink. She stared at him for a moment from under the rakish brim of the derby and,, to his surprise, nodded. They stopped at the Pierre and she played it just right. One drink and she was gone. While he was paying the bill, the maître d’ came to the table and handed him a note. Her phone number was scribbled across the slip of paper

Perfect.

They had lunch the next day at La Côte Basque, spent part of the afternoon browsing through a new exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art, had a drink at Charley O’s and went ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza. She went home to change and met him later at the Four Seasons for dinner. She was wearing a severe black suit with a white silk Victorian blouse trimmed in Irish lace, its high collar tucked just under her chin and always a hat, its veil adding a constant touch of mystery. She said very little, and when she did speak, the conversation was impersonal. As it often goes with fledgling love affairs, they skirted personal questions, keeping the mystery alive as long as possible. After dinner, caught up in the spirit of the season, they listened to the Christmas carollers in front of Rockefeller Plaza and they window-shopped along Fifth Avenue.

It began to snow again but the wind had died down and the thick powder began to drift on the sidewalk. Several cabs went by with their ‘Off Duty’ lights on. Then the street was bare except for an errant carriage that had strayed several blocks from the Plaza at Central Park, its horse clopping forlornly through the snow while the driver, a young woman wearing a stovepipe hat with a silk rose in the band, huddled under a blanket. He flagged her down, in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and she agreed to take them to Sixty-third Street.

They huddled under a warm blanket too, and he put his arm around her, drawing her to him, moving her face up toward his with a gentle nudge from the back of his hand and she, responding, kissed him very lightly, the tip of her tongue tracing the edge of his lower lip. They kissed again. And then again, exploring each other’s faces with their fingertips, their tongues flirting, back and forth.

Fifth Avenue was empty when they got to her apartment. The wind had blown itself out and the snow was falling almost straight down, filling the ruts in the street. A gentle hush had settled over everything. He gave the driver three ten-dollar bills, jumped out of the cab and gallantly swept his lady out over the soggy curb and under the apartment awning, and she took his hand and led him into the lobby. Behind them, the crack of the young woman’s whip was swallowed up by the snowdrifts. When they entered her apartment she immediately excused herself and went into the bedroom.

Her apartment, which was on the fourth floor overlooking the Park, was a small but tastefully decorated one-bedroom flat with an open fireplace in the living room. But there was something missing, and it was a few moments before he realized there were no personal effects in the room. No pictures, no mementos. It was almost as if the room were a showcase in a department store.

He stood and appraised the apartment for another moment or two, then stepped into the guest bath and closed the door. He lowered his pants. A leather belt was strapped high on his left thigh with a sheath on the inside of his leg. The handle protruding from the sheath had been planed until it was flat and narrow, and then it had been grooved out to fit his fingers. He wrapped them around the handle and drew out a wood chisel, the kind used by sculptors. He inspected it. The curled edges of its gutterlike shaft gleamed with evil promise. The blade had been cut off about five inches from the handle and honed to a needle point. He tested the point with a forefinger, barely touching it before it broke the skin. Tie sucked a bauble of blood from his fingertip, pulled his pants back up, and reaching around his back, slipped the awl into his belt. He checked himself out in the mirror and returned to the living room.

A radio was playing softly in the bedroom. She called to him and he went in. The lights were out, the only illumination coming from a half-dozen candles flickering in the room. She was seated in the middle of the bed, leaning forward with her head lowered, her long black hair cascading down almost to her lap, a lacy gown thrown over her shoulders. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out details in the dark room.

No mirrors behind him.

Good.

Approaching the bed, he slipped off his jacket and threw it over a chair, unbuttoned his shirt and started to pull out his shirttail, moving his hands around his belt, freeing the shirt.

As his hands moved around to his back, she sat up abruptly and shrugged her shoulders. The gauze gown fell away. The sight startled him and he hesitated for an instant and as he did, she swung her right arm up and held it straight out in front of her.

She moved so fast that he didn’t see the gun, only the brilliant flash from the muzzle, and he felt the awful blast of heat on his face a moment before the bullet blew his brains out.

As Colin Bradley fell, he gasped a single, final word:

‘Chameleon?’