Pleasure Thieves

Phillip sat a moment, then turned in his chair and opened a drawer of his desk. He took out a small calendar and looked at it. "The 22nd is on a Monday. That gives us six days. The jewels must be in the house." He sounded like a policeman making a report. "It would be better for us to pull the job on Thursday. Fewer people in the house, nobody hurt. I don't like to work with too much company."

Harry swung his legs around to a sitting position. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small crumbled package of Lucky Strikes. The metal whistle clung to the folds of the package. Phillip looked swiftly at the whistle.

"No dogs?" he asked.

"No dogs," Harry repeated.

Phillip dropped the whistle into a drawer. Coming closer, Harry saw the Luger pistol lying cushioned at the bottom of it.

"You've got a gun, Phillip," he said with feigned innocence.

"Yes," Phillip spoke sharply, "to protect my property, a very proper purpose for a gun. I also have a permit to use it for that one proper purpose."

Harry balanced the heavy gun in his palm. "Nice," he hummed.

"Guns sure frighten people, don't they?" He tilted the pistol back and forth in his hand, pleased with the weight.

"We don't need to go in heavy, Harry."

"Sure," the younger man agreed. He handed the gun butt-first to Phillip. "Sure."

Harry bent sideways in the front seat of the car, the just-steamed envelopes at his side. There were three letters, all from the educated hand of Mrs. Albright. The capital letters were formed with the flourish of a matron who likes jewels. They were all dull. It should really spark her life to have the house cleaned out. She'd probably write seventy-five special deliveries the day after the robbery. But Harry wouldn't be reading her mail anymore. The third letter, in the flamboyant back-hand script said:

Henry and I are thrilled at the idea of a costume party. Positively enchanting. I can hardly wait. I promise I'll come as something extravagant. I must say I'm glad you live so near. It would be so embarrassing if someone saw us. We'll see you on the 18th, at 8

o'clock. You'll just never recognize us.

Affectionately,

Julia.

Harry reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small calendar.

His finger traced the row, 16 … 17 … 18…, and then up to the day. It was Thursday.

***

Early that evening they girded themselves for battles. Harry wore trim-fitting denims and a cotton shirt. He tightened the laces on crepe-soled shoes. Phillip bent over his desk, an open bottle of transparent nail lacquer at hand. From the bottle he applied the final coat of liquid to the underside of his fingertips, holding them under the lamp to dry.

Harry, slipping into tight black gloves and flexing his fingers with pleasure, turned to Phillip and watched the female act of putting nail polish on the wrong side of the fingers. "Progress," he scoffed.

Phillip was absorbed in gingerly touching his fingertips against his thumb to test the dryness of the lacquer. "Yes, there's been some progress, my boy," he said, glancing with good-natured disdain at the gloves on Harry's hand.

They were ready to go. Phillip, wearing a long sleeved cotton shirt and ascot, slipped into his coat. Harry picked up a wide webbed-cloth belt from the couch – a do-it-yourself kit, fitted compactly with short thick tools. He took off the dark Burberry, spread it on the couch and attached the belt inside. Then he put the coat on. He walked to the telephone and his gloved finger dialed a number. A trained recorded voice announced, "At the tone, the time will be … seven thirty one … exactly." The two men checked their watches. Then Harry, with school-boy enthusiasm, clapped his sheathed hands together. Phillip snapped off the light and the two men left the house.

They walked swiftly to the Oldsmobile parked a few doors away.

Phillip wore a fedora and carried a black briefcase under one arm.

Harry got behind the wheel and the two bourgeois gentlemen took off for the suburbs.

In the car, Phillip commented, "If she goes as something extravagant, she'll wear copper." Harry staring straight ahead into the dark, smiled wryly.

They parked the Olds about one hundred yards from the mansion gateway. At six minutes to eight, a chauffeured limousine slowed at the entrance gate of the Albright estate to check for oncoming cars.

The chauffeur was dressed in cap and dark uniform. In the back of the car, sitting as though on stuffed cushions, were the two extravagant Albrights: she a kerchiefed Gypsy, he a cigar-smoking pirate.

"Copper," Harry said. They both watched the moving car soberly.

"What speed do you make it?" Phillip asked.

"Thirty-five," said Harry.

"That gives us seven minutes." As the Albright's car disappeared along the bend, Harry lunged the car ahead into the gravel drive. He roared up to the entrance. The house, for the first time, was ablaze with lights. It gave the feeling of a ghostly party, the silence screaming against the brightness.