Pleasure Thieves

There was time for a shower, then he'd have to go downstairs for a shave. You'll be a new man, Harry. He'd have to put the same clothes back on. Tomorrow he'd buy a suitcase and fill it with goodies from Brook Brothers. When had he learned to dress? Oh a long time ago, and he wore perfect clothes like a perfect disguise. Nobody thought of questioning his right to steal a few baubles when they saw his striped tie and unpadded shoulders.

Only that last judge seemed to be above it all. A black robe, the best disguise of all. The whole Elsworth job had been worked out to the letter, the way he always planned them. He had known the family's habits better than their psychiatrists. And then, boom, he puts his crepe soles on the Elsworth's precious floor, and the floor alarm starts sounding like something hysterical.

The judge had been impressed with his poise, but forced to suggest a year's rest, with time off for being such a proper looking chap.

There should be more where the $250 came from. He'd need a complete wardrobe, at least for the next few weeks. Then there was always the Meltzer necklace. It might be cool enough to fence now.

He came out of the shower completely refreshed. Harry could come to life a thousand times a day. Only one thing could set him back in his head, back to his brooding. That was a jewel that was out of reach. A sleek stone on a pudgy neck. He'd never seen a woman really beautiful enough to wear diamonds. Their faces looked like hell next to the crystalline perfection. He rubbed himself with vigor, put on the clothes that were still fresh, and, seeing it was almost time for his appointment rushed down to the barber.

The Giants were in first place, Adlai Stevenson in second, Marilyn Monroe didn't wear a brassiere, Theda Bara was dead, and the barber had killed a heavy half hour. He had a scotch, and at 6:15 he was climbing into yet another taxi heading for 63rd Street.

The apartment building was a huge, terraced affair with thick swinging glass doors that were like beautiful cubes guarding the hushed lobby. He said "Penthouse C," to the elevator boy, who smiled conspiratorially at him, and then picked up a telephone in the elevator and buzzed the apartment. A woman must have answered, because he said, "I'm bringing up a guest ma'am." He turned to Harry, "Your name, sir?"

"Mr. Hatch." Harry didn't say another word, and the boy whispered or cooed his name into the instrument. By the time he'd put the receiver down, the doors of the elevator were swooshing open. Having been made welcome, the boy almost bowed Harry out of the cage. If he had owned a Rembrandt hat instead of a cap, he would have whirled it in an arc of deference.

The elevator doors swooshed shut. Without hearing a sound, Harry knew the boy was sinking fast to the lobby. Harry was standing on a parquet floor, and at his feet in a huge blue diamond was the letter "J."

There was a narrow door with a buzzer in front of him. He pressed the button with mounting curiosity.

The door was open in an instant … come all ye faithful … and the blonde girl he didn't think he'd recognize was saying with a huge unnecessary smile, "Welcome Mr. Hatch; you're very prompt I see."

He didn't think to answer, just stood waiting to be led to the inner chambers. She walked before him and turned her head once to say, "Is it getting colder out?"

"I'm afraid I really didn't notice," he answered after a moment.

They stopped before a carved wood door and Carol pointed to a gilt-bronze coat rack just outside the door.

"Why don't you put your coat over there?"

Harry studied it briefly, then took off his coat and gloves. He put the gloves in the coat pocket and threw the shoulder over the protrusion that looked like a bull's balls. The girl fastidiously rearranged the coat on the chain hook hidden in its collar, and then knocked lightly on the closed door.

"May we come in?" she called.

"Yes, of course," answered a muffled voice. "I'm waiting for you."

They entered and found the man bent over a large unframed painting on his desk. With a huge magnifying glass, he pensively studied one tiny area at a time. He looked up expectantly at them.

"Phillip," Carol unnecessarily announced, "Mr. Hatch is here."

The two men studied each other. Then Harry broke into an unselfconscious laugh, rankling with irony.

"I think we've met before," Harry said bitterly. "Is this a joke, Phillip?"