Pleasure Thieves

About fifty feet from the house, he illuminated a flashlight and walked steadily, training the beam toward the entrance gateway ahead. There, at a box set in one of the pillars, he deposited the letters he held in his hand, and then he returned hastily to the protection of the great dark mansion. One could measure his receding figure by the trail of the dim lights that blackened as he passed: the flashlight, the porch light, and after two moments, two windows on the second floor. Except for the wall sconces that cast shadows through the windows, the house was now completely dark.

Harry emerged softly from the roadside. He moved quietly and surely toward the mailbox, his figure hatless and dark in a leather pilot's jacket. He rustled a moment before the mailbox, then in a second had it open. He shuffled through the four letters and slid them into the open buttons of his jacket. He looked at the house and strode casually, silently down the tree-lined road.

He stopped when he reached the car parked in the foliage. The evening was black except for the dashboard light and the bright small flame of the burner on the seat of the car. He removed the sealed envelopes from the inside of his jacket and held the first letter tentatively in his hand.

It was addressed to Mrs. John Hotchkiss in Miami, Florida. He moved the sealed envelope slowly over a small steaming cup on top of the burner. The envelope, so fastidiously sealed by Mrs. Aldrich's loving tongue and fingers, slipped open for Harry. He lifted the flap, and with an intense heavy-breathing attitude read all about the weather in Rye. He rewet the mucilage and slipped the letter into his pocket.

He then steamed all the letters rapidly, running his tongue along the tip of the flap when he had finished reading them. He worked with studious attention, resealing the letters with extreme care and with not a wasted motion. When he was finished, and none of Mrs. Aldrich's letters had ever been read with such intense interest, he blew out the burner flame.

He moved swiftly to the mailbox, replaced the letters, and walked back to the road. Standing in the shadows, he stared at the house.

Then he took a small metal tube from his jacket and, placing it to his mouth, blew soundlessly. He listened for a moment, then repeated the gesture. Finally he replaced the tube in his pocket, and stood staring at the house.

It was a bleak, drizzling morning on the road in front of the Albright estate. A thick hedgerow and a low stone wall bordered the two pillars and wrought-iron work at the gateless entrance to the drive. The iron grillwork formed an arch connecting the pillars on which the name Albright, dynasty of Rye, worked prominently into the design.

A mailman, riding a bicycle and wearing a slicker, came rolling along the road. He wheeled by a walking figure in the distance and pumped steadily up to the pillar holding the Albright's mailbox, stopped, took out the letters and put others in. As the mailman disappeared, the walking figure that he had passed in the distance neared the box. Harry, hatless, a raincoat slung over his shoulders, his face fatigued and darkened with a two-day beard, passed the box, passed the drive. He glanced casually toward the house, then doubled back to the mailbox. He lifted the lid, took out the letters, and shuffling through them rapidly, replaced all but three. Then he closed the box and walked off quickly.

That night the phone in Phillip's study rang steadily and an operator's voice piped, "Rye, New York calling Mr. Phillip Johns. Will you accept the call, sir?"

Harry's voice sounded weary and distant. He was calling from a diner. "They leave for Nassau on the 22nd," he said into the receiver.

"That's right." He listened intently to Phillip's directions. "That's right. OK. I'll be there tonight." He hung up the receiver and walked out of the booth. At the counter, he sat down and rested his head in his hands.

The jukebox was playing something very dissonant, very pleasant, very much like the way Harry was feeling, and he found himself listening to Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 40

it. The curious waitress hovered over him. "Make it bacon and eggs,"

he said to her.

That night they met in Phillip's study. Harry lay boneless on the deep couch, the back of his hand resting on his closed eyes. His pilot's jacket was thrown carelessly over one end of the couch. Phillip sat opposite, attentive, dressed in his robe. Harry was holding court.

"The maid spends Thursday with her mother."

"Thursday," Phillip nodded seriously. He waited a moment watching Harry.

"Anything else?" he asked.

Harry shrugged and shook his head in answer. "Not yet."