Pleasure Thieves

Phillip beamed at him like a proud problem child and sat in a deep armchair. He motioned Harry to a similar chair. They could look at each other easily, side by side, facing a modern fireplace with a blazing old-fashioned fire. Harry paused, unable to look at his host. He scrutinized the oddly shaped, immense room. The walls, from ceiling to carpets, were covered with paintings. From where he sat, the old masters all looked a dull brown. The lamps, casting their glare down to the rugs, cut any light away from the paintings. Phillip, studying him with a wry smile, walked to one of the canvases and snapped on a small light hidden in the frame of the painting. The colors, still muted, jumped out.

"Do you like painting?" he asked the younger man.

"I haven't thought much about it."

Phillip turned from the painting and walked to the mantle. "That's honest," he responded, and choosing his words carefully, he continued.

"In painting, it's the plan that counts. The plan of execution. That's what you'll learn from a great artist … any great artist."

"Have you called me here for an art lesson, Phillip?" Harry was still shocked that his urbane host had been his urbane cell-mate. "Brandy, Mr. Hatch?" Carol offered. He refused her with a nod.

"Phillip might be able to give you some valuable lessons in art…"

She paused, "…your art Mr. Hatch." Harry waited for her. "Mr. Phillip Johns," she repeated her schoolgirl lessons, "is a man of many arts, many arts and many names." She looked pensively at Harry. "One that may particularly amuse you, a professional name, of course, is Mr. Fingers."

She looked back at Phillip. Harry stared back as though she had just told a distasteful joke. He laughed finally, and softly said, "That's too much, too much. My roommate and master."

He looked at Phillip jokingly. "Aren't you afraid I'll escape with some of your little secrets, Mr. Johns?"

Phillip turned back to the painting. "I think I'm pretty safe with you, Mr. Hatch." He paused, and then with renewed showmanship indicated the painting. "A compact, limited area made for brilliance of execution that challenges the imagination." His voice relaxed and Harry reached over to a nearby chess set and picked up a knight for a cursory examination. "Let me put it this way, Harry." Phillip was silent until Harry looked up at him. "Imagination lends ease, makes the difficult seem child's play. Hurdles are there so that one can jump. Can leap."

His voice stiffened and he looked intent, "To soar, Mr. Hatch, is another thing. That is for eagles and suicides."

He bent down and took a cigar from a teak box on the table. "For example," he straightened his back, "an ambitious student of ballet is tempted to overstep his limits. He watches. He studies. He memorizes every step, every leap of his master, and then, almost invariably, falls flat on his face." Phillip's voice was hardening. He sat in the armchair.

He pressed the cigar carefully and neatly bit the end looking across at Harry. "I know every big hit you've made Harry."

Harry was trapped by his absolute belief of the claim. The other voice continued. "The Duluth and Milwaukee jobs, that Florida business, the three in Connecticut. You've studied me carefully, every hit, and I must say you're an exceptional student." He laughed softly.

"They even had us confused for awhile, which I didn't consider too unflattering."

Harry watched him and said nothing.

"A brilliant student, Harry." Phillip hesitated, and then with conviction, "Yes, and a foolish one. The Elsworth job. A rather high leap, wasn't it? And a pretty ugly fall." Phillip paused, and then spoke warmly with a quiet incredulity.

"You didn't realize there was a floor-pressure alarm in that room?"

Harry looked at him directly. "There was no way of knowing."

"Then how did I know?" demanded Phillip.

"You're guessing," Harry answered coldly and looked at the floor with a rebuked adolescent's expression.

Phillip cleared his throat. "What do you know about a Specific Pyrostat?"

Harry answered him with a stare of hostility.

He repeated his question. "What do you know about a Specific Pyrostat?"

No answer.

"Then obviously you're not too thorough."

Harry was raging. "Don't play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with me, Mr. Fingers."

"I'm not playing any game with you Harry. A Specific Pyrostat is a fire detecting device. If the temperature of any point in the house indicated a fire, a chemical that puts out the fire is aimed directly at that point, not sprayed about the room, mind you, but directly to the point."

He watched Harry expectantly.

"All right, what the hell's the point?" Harry demanded impatiently.

Drawing a diagrammatic arc with his hand, Phillip explained, "It can concentrate to as low as a one-foot radius. A rather specialized mechanism, wouldn't you say? With interesting fittings on the exteriors of the house, on the roof corners. Perhaps you noticed them?