Pleasure Thieves

"Sure you don't want me to take you out, Mr. Gregory? The price is the same, but you can see the islands better if I pilot. The boat takes a bit of work," he finished.

"No thanks," Harry said coolly. "I'll take it alone," and he kept walking toward the center of town.

He went back through the narrow streets and turned in at a small hotel. Over the door, in black on whitewash was the name 'Santa Rosa.'

He entered the small lobby and his heels clacked against the tiles. The guests, plump Spanish bourgeois, fanned themselves with the curious skill that is born only in Spanish women.

He picked up his key at the desk, and the pretty woman who always watched him from behind the desk said, "Buenos dias, Senor Gregory."

"Buenos dias," he answered politely, appreciating in a vague way her admiration and getting his party manners in form. He wouldn't want to insult any of the Llewellyn guests. He felt rather fond of them just thinking of them.

He turned away and started up the iron-grilled staircase, and the woman called after him, "There is no message for you, Senor Gregory."

Harry didn't look back. He continued up the stairs and thought, "Not even an invitation, and the party is today; just an oversight, they'll be happy to see me when I get there."

"Thank you," he said.

An hour later, Harry walked down the stairs. He was fastidiously, elegantly dressed in a beige linen suit. He looked casual and comfortable in his clothes, and when he put his key on the desk, the woman saw the brocade vest beneath his jacket.

"Going to a party, Mr. Gregory?" she asked coquettishly.

"You never can tell," he said, and walked smoothly, ignoring her

'buenos tardes', out into the street.

When he got to the dock, he moved methodically past the chain cruisers and other small boats. Nearing the edge, he looked down at the mahogany speed-boat, its engine idling. It was ready to go, humming.

He moved quickly down the wooden staircase to the landing platform.

The pilot was lovingly polishing the wood behind the cockpit. He looked at Harry and, shaking his cloth at the boat, said enthusiastically,

"She's all ready to go, Mr. Gregory."

"Good," Harry approved, and handed the pilot a neat roll of bills.

The man carefully scanned the money, counting it with eyes wide in his sunburned face. Harry pulled on his gloves and got quickly behind the wheel of the boat. He looked back at the luxurious upholstery, checked the chromed instrument panel, and pulled out of the dock with a purposeful roar. He raced the engines and listened as the pilot threw off the lines. Then he throttled down.

Harry thought of nothing but getting into the swimming pool.

Getting out would be nothing. It was unimportant. Just to feel those jewels in the palm of his hand, just to bathe himself in a sea of diamonds. Three years of planning this job; seven years since he had first heard of the Llewellyn collection.

In the curved wake of the boat he saw the receding coast line, and ahead of him the vague outline of the Goose Island. Its long stretched neck connected delicately with the mainland. Closer he could see the huge mansion, its landscaped grounds dotted with umbrellas and tables and people with martinis in their hands and banalities in their heads.

But they had very serious accessories stuck in their earlobes and draped round their necks. The house seemed almost naked, rising long and modern on a slope.

Most of the people were gathered around a rambling free-form swimming pool, the Cadillacs and Rolls parked in a cluster at the side of the mansion. Harry saw most clearly, as the boat neared the island, the white coast road from the house to the drawbridge, dotted with arriving cars. A chauffeured limousine that had just crossed the bridge stopped at a small gatehouse. The uniformed guard accepted the invitation the chauffeur handed him, checked it briefly against the guest list, and waved the car on to the park. No chance for Cinderella to get in without proper credentials. The limousine moved down the drive toward the private harbor. There were several yachts and a scattering of cabin cruisers riding at anchor.

A group of disembarking guests looked up at the approaching speedboat. Harry banked the curve, rounded the goose tail, and swung in toward the breakwater.

He carefully eased the boat into the harbor and nosed it up to a landing platform beside the dock. An attendant in uniform jumped down to assist. This was the moment. Harry took a folded bill out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the attendant. Nice and green and crackling, a universal invitation to have a ball. The attendant slipped the money into his pocket, and Harry walked familiarly to the mansion.

Everything was going to be all right. He could tell.

The eighteen-piece band blared a mambo and Harry walked coolly into the center of the guests. A middle-aged mamboer smiled at him lasciviously, and Harry, completely at ease, accepted the glass of champagne from the munificent butler.

***