Harriet Daimler - Pleasure Thieves

"Have you called me here for an art lesson, Phillip?" Harry was still shocked that his urbane host had been his urbane cell-mate. "Brandy, Mr. Hatch?" Carol offered. He refused her with a nod.

"Phillip might be able to give you some valuable lessons in art…"

She paused, "…your art Mr. Hatch." Harry waited for her. "Mr. Phillip Johns," she repeated her schoolgirl lessons, "is a man of many arts, many arts and many names." She looked pensively at Harry. "One that may particularly amuse you, a professional name, of course, is Mr. Fingers."

She looked back at Phillip. Harry stared back as though she had just told a distasteful joke. He laughed finally, and softly said, "That's too much, too much. My roommate and master."

He looked at Phillip jokingly. "Aren't you afraid I'll escape with some of your little secrets, Mr. Johns?"

Phillip turned back to the painting. "I think I'm pretty safe with you, Mr. Hatch." He paused, and then with renewed showmanship indicated the painting. "A compact, limited area made for brilliance of execution that challenges the imagination." His voice relaxed and Harry reached over to a nearby chess set and picked up a knight for a cursory examination. "Let me put it this way, Harry." Phillip was silent until Harry looked up at him. "Imagination lends ease, makes the difficult seem child's play. Hurdles are there so that one can jump. Can leap."

His voice stiffened and he looked intent, "To soar, Mr. Hatch, is another thing. That is for eagles and suicides."

He bent down and took a cigar from a teak box on the table. "For example," he straightened his back, "an ambitious student of ballet is tempted to overstep his limits. He watches. He studies. He memorizes every step, every leap of his master, and then, almost invariably, falls flat on his face." Phillip's voice was hardening. He sat in the armchair.

He pressed the cigar carefully and neatly bit the end looking across at Harry. "I know every big hit you've made Harry."

Harry was trapped by his absolute belief of the claim. The other voice continued. "The Duluth and Milwaukee jobs, that Florida business, the three in Connecticut. You've studied me carefully, every hit, and I must say you're an exceptional student." He laughed softly.

"They even had us confused for awhile, which I didn't consider too unflattering."

Harry watched him and said nothing.

"A brilliant student, Harry." Phillip hesitated, and then with conviction, "Yes, and a foolish one. The Elsworth job. A rather high leap, wasn't it? And a pretty ugly fall." Phillip paused, and then spoke warmly with a quiet incredulity.

"You didn't realize there was a floor-pressure alarm in that room?"

Harry looked at him directly. "There was no way of knowing."

"Then how did I know?" demanded Phillip.

"You're guessing," Harry answered coldly and looked at the floor with a rebuked adolescent's expression.

Phillip cleared his throat. "What do you know about a Specific Pyrostat?"

Harry answered him with a stare of hostility.

He repeated his question. "What do you know about a Specific Pyrostat?"

No answer.

"Then obviously you're not too thorough."

Harry was raging. "Don't play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with me, Mr. Fingers."

"I'm not playing any game with you Harry. A Specific Pyrostat is a fire detecting device. If the temperature of any point in the house indicated a fire, a chemical that puts out the fire is aimed directly at that point, not sprayed about the room, mind you, but directly to the point."

He watched Harry expectantly.

"All right, what the hell's the point?" Harry demanded impatiently.

Drawing a diagrammatic arc with his hand, Phillip explained, "It can concentrate to as low as a one-foot radius. A rather specialized mechanism, wouldn't you say? With interesting fittings on the exteriors of the house, on the roof corners. Perhaps you noticed them?

"No? That's unfortunate, because it's almost a sociological law that anyone with a Specific Pyrostat in the house is fanatical enough to have a floor-pressure alarm as well. Elsworth, as you may or may not know, is a past president of the National Society of Electrical Engineers."

Harry fixed his eyes on the chessman in his hand. "A real nut."

Phillip tapped his forefinger against his forehead. "Exactly my boy, exactly. Obsessed with electrical devices, very fond of using them, very attached to his wife's pretties. An unbeatable combination, Harry.

One to be avoided by men of our calling."

Finished with the body of his address, Phillip offered Harry a cigar, but the young man musingly shook his head. He seemed immeasurably withdrawn.

"I'm still curious," interjected Phillip lighting his cigar, "as to what you've done with all the property you've collected."

Harry came back slowly to their conversation. "That's pretty personal, don't you think?"

Phillip was superbly unperturbed. "I thought that if you were looking to move something, Carol might be of help." Harry remembered, with a shock, that Carol had been sitting quietly on the couch all the while they spoke, covetously observing them and sipping her drink. Phillip turned to her, as did Harry, unwillingly. He found her eyes fixed on his face.

"But I forget myself," declared Phillip expansively. "You've not been properly introduced. This is Miss Stoddard, my runner. All my stuff goes over to Carol. She deals directly with the legitimates.

Highest bidders and tiptop prices." He paused and looked at her.

"Occasionally she knows just what at a certain time will bring an exceptional top price. For example, right now 16 matched two-carat blues, if you could find them, are worth $26,000."

Harry was silently watching them as Phillip asked, "You don't by any chance still happen to have the Meltzer-Arpel necklace tucked away somewhere, do you?"

Harry snorted a laugh and finally looked directly at Phillip. He got up from his chair, walked back to the chess set, opened his hand and dropped the knight into its proper place.

Phillip studied Harry's back. "If you have the necklace, it probably would be the first time you ever managed to get the right price for anything you sold."

Harry concentrated on Carol. "What happens with you?" he asked.

"A flat fifteen percent. The usual brokerage fee," she said.

"You can't beat Carol when it comes to driving a bargain," Phillip interrupted.

Harry smiled at Phillip. "I don't suppose you're telling me all this because you think I still have the Meltzer necklace?"

Phillip seemed genuinely congenial. "I think an association between us would be a profitable one. You'll be needing some kind of legitimate income as long as you're on probation. I thought you might like to be my assistant. You could stand to cultivate your taste, and I need an assistant if I'm to continue indulging mine." He made a modest Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 24

gesture toward his paintings. "My Flemish collection needs filling out, and there are a number of new things I'd like to acquire."

Harry didn't answer, and Carol fidgeted nervously. She seemed annoyed at his indifference. Harry concentrated on Phillip. "And if there's a bust, with my record, I suppose I'll be expected to take it?"

At first it seemed Phillip wouldn't bother to answer. Then he acknowledged the question. "Harry my boy, there can't be a bust working my way."

Harry looked at him closely. Carol was the one who started to break the conference. She mixed them a drink that was a silent pledge of acquiescence, and said casually, "Where are you staying, Harry?"

"The Netherlands Plaza." His smile was sheepish.

"Comfortable?" Comfort was next to Godliness in this bright new world.

"I think I will be."

Harry rose to leave. Carol was getting her hat and gloves together.