Harriet Daimler - Pleasure Thieves

They turned onto the tree-lined road. Nothing like living in the country. Their faces were grim. They turned the bend where the Albright limousine had disappeared six minutes before. Phillip reached into the glove compartment for a towel. He passed the towel over his forehead and handed it to Harry. Harry wiped his steaming face. They saw head-lights ahead, and a car swung around the bend. It swished by them and in a brief glimpse, they saw the wheel. Phillip moved his head to watch it in the rear mirror. It relaxed them to see the Albright car heading home. Perfect form, a plump round circle.

"The end of a perfect evening," Harry commented.

"What are you talking about, my boy?" Phillip checked his watch.

"It's only a little past eight o'clock. The night is young."

It got into the morning papers. Carol picked up the Herald-Tribune from her desk and saw the headlines. "JEWEL THEFT IN RYE."

Below was a picture of plump gaily-clad Mrs. Albright standing amidst the wreckage of her dressing room. The caption read "GYPSY GYPPED." Carol was alone in the pastel office. Without taking off her coat, she phoned Boris.

"Yes dear. For cocktails? Of course." He smiled anxiously. "Fine, at five o'clock, then." He hung up, then went into the shower. The hot water eased him, and after a while he began to sing his Russian version of a Flamenco. He bumped his hips, then let himself go and ground his stomach against the heated tiles of the shower. Five o'clock, five o'clock, five o'clock jump.

Then Carol called Phillip. "How did it go?"

"Didn't you read our write-up?"

"There was no mention of the featured performers."

"Good, good," Phillip beamed. "You see it went perfectly."

Carol laughed. "I've got an appointment for cocktails with Boris,"

she said as her secretary came in.

"Good," Phillip approved. "Come here for dinner afterwards."

"Business?" she sounded wistful.

"No, my dear, pleasure," and he hung up.

Carol laughed again. "Here are proof pages 17 and 34," the secretary announced. "The color plates are lousy." She proudly, like a new mother, laid the problem on Carol's desk. Carol's face became serious, and her day went into full swing.

At 5:30, Harry, rested and shaved, arrived at Phillip's apartment.

This time the project was his. He carried a small notebook that Phillip recognized from their prison days. He had watched Harry lying flat on his back, holding the notebook balanced on his chest and writing small legible letters on to the page.

"Recording you past?" Phillip once asked.

"No," Harry was humorless, "my future. I'm recording my future."

This afternoon, Harry put the notebook conspicuously on the table.

He was composed, deliberate. He picked up the U.S. Social Register and started to turn the pages.

"At my reference books again?" Phillip scoffed. But he was nervous at Harry's reserve. Phillip's reserve was of a different kind: conscious, elegant. Harry's was inward, selfless and lost. It was always Phillip who had to break their silences.

"That was a fair score we made last night. I'd say $45,000, at least."

He watched Harry's reaction.

"Forty-five," commented Harry. There was an almost involuntary tone of condescension in his voice. "That was a lark."

Phillip looked at him with repressed anger. "A lark, you say. But that's only one strike. There are four others that need more work. Five larks make an eagle. Or, don't you agree."

Harry said, "Yes, it adds up. But what about one job that's as big as five of those put together?" He looked at Phillip questioningly and then got up and walked about the room smoking.

Phillip spoke when he stopped moving. "One job as big as all of mine. Sounds majestic. What is it Harry?" Harry reached for his notebook. Then he noticed a small, antique, carved-wood stand with a square slate blackboard. It was bordered by a tray of colored chalk. He put the book aside and pulled the table toward him. Phillip watched closely.

"Every hear of Kit's Island?" Harry began. "It's in the Florida Keys.

It's the original Golden Goose."

"It could also be called the Llewellyn's Island." Harry looked up.

"You must know the Llewellyn collection?" He picked up the notebook and fingered through the pages. He came to a list of numbers with items and numbers next to them. The kind of book the ideal accountant would have.

"Mrs. Llewellyn," he ran his forefinger across from one column to the next, "has one pendant that is worth more than all of Mrs. Albright's madness." He picked up a piece of chalk and studied the board for a second.

Then, with incredible dexterity, he drew the outline of a goose with an elongated neck, almost a swan's neck, and thin beak. When he completed the goose, he drew crosshatched directions and meticulously initialed, N. E. S. W.

Lastly he drew an egg-shaped circle and marked an X through its center. "That's the house," he explained.

Phillip watched the controlled deftness. The execution of the drawing had been impressive. In that gesture, Harry had revealed something so essentially himself, carefully hidden, for the first time.

Harry's secrets had nothing to do with his prick. Couldn't devour him that way. Phillip was not going to be destroyed by going all the way, to find out what was really there. Phillip was afraid. The man seated before him was so obviously rational and so completely mad.

Phillip smiled slightly to himself and Harry continued.

"Here's the mainland." He sketched in a waving line. "This is a drawbridge." He took another color and inserted a bar before the crook of the goose's neck. "With armed guard," he added. His eyes did not leave the board. Working with different colors, he was like a painter, absorbed and professional. "There's a short break-water here, and a lagoon with a sixty-foot pier." He gestured a pattern around the island, then sat back for second and observed the drawing. He looked at Phillip for the first time. "Minimum staff at any time is fourteen. Not possible to approach by boat without being observed."

Phillip had been sitting quietly. He smiled and said in his contained voice, "Perhaps a magic carpet?"

Harry gave him a sharp glance. "That's exactly it," he explained.

"They think they're safe. They've probably thought so for fifteen years.

There's never been an attempted strike on any of the islands there."

He walked to the sideboard. He looked down at the decanters and thought of mixing a drink. Then he walked back toward Phillip, saying, "But how the goose is waddling! It's lazy and secure, waddling with age and the weight of all that golden ice." He sat down and looked directly at Phillip. "Do you know how much?"

Phillip got up nervously. At the sideboard, he reached for the gin and vermouth and opened the refrigerator for ice cubes. He appeared completely noncommittal.

Harry was looking at his drawing again. "The touch has to come in broad daylight. The freedom you need can only be that of a guest. You don't happen to be a distant relation or godfather to the Llewellyns?"

For the first time he smiled.

"Of course," said Phillip brushing aside the question, "Of course the guest, the uninvited guest, must carry a gun, right?"

"Right."

Phillip moved toward him with the martini. "You've given this job a lot of thought, haven't you?"

Harry stared back at him. "Too much." He held Phillip's eyes. "It's big. A really big touch."

"That's just it, Harry." His hand almost crushed the glass in his intensity. "For someone fresh out of Sing Sing, it's too big. It seems to me that you would want to cool it for a while. Why take any extra chances at this point?" He looked into his glass. "Don't get me wrong.

I appreciate the suggestion. I admire the plan, but the way I feel is that it just isn't the right time."