Pleasure Thieves

On 47th Street, they charge you for the priceless. The diamond hawkers, in slouch hats and baggy pants, lean against the red brick buildings and sell each other immense, perfect stones. The sweet young things who blushingly accept the two-carat love guarantee never touch the sordid. But the diamond merchants have good clean fun.

They take a black smelly case out of their hip pocket and unroll a 100-faceted, blue-white stone. They appreciate it. They appreciate each other.

Phillip and Harry, strangely elegant, strangely incongruous yet part of the scene, threaded their way through the concentrated activity of the exchange. They found an empty wall space and Harry leaned convivially against it.

"I like it here," he explained.

"It's a good place to do business."

"It's a good place to breathe." Harry surprised Phillip with his comment. Then he took the grey-haired man's arm and drew him aside in mock confidence. Harry's face was transformed, and for a moment he was one of the hawkers. He took out an oversized black wallet.

Phillip watched in amusement as the deft fingers unfolded the traditional white paper and revealed a glittering 42-carat necklace.

"The Meltzer necklace," Phillip whispered with respect.

"Tell Carol to treat it with love."

Phillip laughed. "Carol treats objects with intelligence. Doesn't bother with love."

Harry had a dreamy, pensive look. He smiled quietly, then asked,

"Tell me, how is your taste in diamonds?"

"What do you mean?" Phillip asked.

"I mean," he sounded like a lover begging for reassurance, "do you ever find it hard to part with a certain diamond? Take a big rock. A perfect Marquise. The cuts like edges of a rainbow, you know. The blue so blue it turns to purple, somewhere just out of sight."

"Well, well," Phillip's voice had hardened. "So we have in you an aesthete."

"It's like another world," Harry looked past Phillip, "inside a jewel."

Phillip spoke firmly. "For us, Harry, a diamond is always on fire.

Never a cold perfect object. It's on fire, do you understand? We can't hold it for too long. We get scarred. Understand this, that bit of carboniferous crystal is precious for me only because of its commercial value. No other. It just happens it's diamonds. If it were bits of coal instead that were so rare, all our lovely neurotics would be wearing coal. Raving about the jagged edges and the dust. The perfect gem, color, cut, size, excited my bank account. That's all. We must keep things in perspective."

"You really don't understand, Phillip."

"What," Phillip demanded caustically, "your weakness? Yes, I understand it very well. It's suicide to want to live inside a jewel, Harry."

"I just want to look into a jewel."

"It's the same thing." Phillip was packing the necklace competently, no caress of the folds that protected it. "Come back to the apartment,"

he directed. "Carol will be waiting. She can have the money by this evening, and we'd better start smoothing out the Aldrich problems."

"Hers or ours," Harry asked good-naturedly. The tense atmosphere broke and the sounds of the surrounding hawkers filtered back in.

"Why, they're the same problems Harry. That's what I've been explaining all afternoon."

***

Carol was sitting in the large study musing over the

Who's Who in

American Business

, when Phillip and Harry walked in. Phillip kissed her chastely. "Reading my reference books again," he admonished.

"All my students are going to be smarter than teacher." He slipped the package into Carol's hand. She looked into his eyes, then looked at Harry, placed the package neatly into a patent leather hatbox, and soundlessly left with the jewels.

Phillip tapped Harry's chest. "She'll be back soon." And then added with irony, "Can you bear to part with it?"

Harry was expressionless. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

Phillip patted the front of his legs with his open hands; his face was serious. He walked over to the leather chair and sat down.

***

The first thought Carol had had was Boris. The jewels were blazing in her case. She looked, as always, composed, but felt her heart hammering. She stood at Boris' elevator landing with the familiar model's hatbox hanging almost level with her knees. In her slender black cloth coat and helmet-like hat, she looked like the young ladies who glared disdainfully each month out of the pages of Femme, making all the flesh and blood readers feel vulgarly in touch with the world.

She rested the case against her toes and rang the bell. A maid dressed in traditional French uniform opened the door and said perfunctorily, "Good afternoon, Miss Stoddard." She led Carol past the foyer, past the six-foot Tang Buddha in painted wood. Chinese rugs covered the floor. The living room, where the maid left her, had the smart austerity of a bachelor's apartment. A very busy bachelor.

Before she could put the box down, Boris was walking toward her, arms outstretched.