The day Harry got out of prison, he stopped in at the office and picked up the two hundred and fifty dollars that Carol Stoddard had left for him. Then he put on a grey well-tailored suit, a pale blue shirt, paisley tie, hung a raincoat over his arm, took a waiting taxi to the train and got off at Grand Central Station looking like a slightly distracted, young but promising advertising man. The women watched him the way they always did, the prison pallor looked as if it had been achieved in congenially darkened bars. He was fit. Eight months of no drinking, early to bed and early to rise makes a man a better jewel thief, a better lay.
At Grand Central he caught another cab and directed the driver to a bar on Fifty Third Street. The bar was nearly empty. Harry looked at his watch and saw that it was four o'clock, time for afternoon tea. After the first bourbon and water, he went to the telephone and called the number Carol Stoddard had impressed on him. A young debutante voice said, "Good afternoon, Femme."
Harry looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. "Is this Plaza 5-7000?"
"Yes." The young voice was already annoyed. "Plaza 5-7000, Femme."
"I'd like to speak to Miss Stoddard." He felt helpless, a little angry, caught in a bad joke.
"One moment, please," said the voice, considerably more respectful.
It was as if he had said "Open Sesame." He called out for another bourbon from the phone booth, and could hear the buzz of the Femme office. Another young voice, a bit cooler if possible, came on the line.
"Miss Stoddard's office – who is calling please?"
"Mr. Hatch." Another please would make him sick.
"What's that again, please?" the secretary demanded.
"Mr. Hatch," he said deliberately, "is calling to speak to Miss Stoddard. Would you kindly get her to the phone?" Instead of roaring, his voice cut the space between the words into ribbons.
"I'll see if Miss Stoddard is in," the girl warned. The elaborate screening was becoming amusing.
He took a long swallow of bourbon. "You do that little thing," it might have been Midwestern guilelessness, "and I'll wait right here."
There was no time for another drink. A vaguely familiar voice said,
"Mr. Hatch, I'm so glad you called. I thought you might call yesterday."
"I just got into New York today," he explained.
"Where are you staying?"
"I don't know yet. Soon as I hang up, I'll stop over at the Brevoort and see if they have something."
"I'd suggest," she was like silk, "that you try the Netherlands Plaza.
The rooms are extremely comfortable. Many of my friends stay there.
If you mention my name, you'll be very quickly attended to."
"Thanks," he said dryly. "Your name seems to command action all over the city."
"Will you be free for cocktails at 6:30?" She ignored his humor, stuffed it back into his throat like a naughty boy being re-fed a lamb chop.
"I'll be free." He hated to banter anyway.
"Oh, I'm very glad." What the hell was this? "Do drop by at 63 East 63rd Street, penthouse C. We'll look forward to seeing you. Until then, Mr. Hatch."
He had a final drink. The bar was filling up with the advertising and publishing pushers having a late afternoon reprieve. When he looked at his watch again it was 5 o'clock. He was suddenly tired and needed a bath and a fresh shirt. The doorman – surprisingly there was a doorman – hailed his third cab of the day. He sat silent in the leather seat for a moment, and then said, "The Hotel Netherlands Plaza."
"Yes sir." The extent of deference in the outside world was astounding.
In the plush lobby of the hotel, he said, "I'd like a room please."
There he was finally caught up in it again. "For how many evenings sir?" The room-clerk guarded his rooms as he would his virgin sister's honor.
"Not sure. It may be a few weeks." Harry was going to defend her honor too.
"Ah," the room-clerk took out a huge ledger and started to follow a list of numbers with his pencil. "Ahh."
"Miss Stoddard," Harry continued, with the magic formula, "thought you might have something quite comfortable."
"Miss Stoddard, Miss Stoddard of Femme Magazine?" Miss Stoddard the Queen of England. The pencil slowed on its drip down the ledger page. "Well, here's something rather pleasant – room 46.
I'm sure you'll be very comfortable, sir."
He wrote "46" in a small square on the page, and turned the book to Harry. "Just sign there." He tapped the space with his magic wand, offering it to Harry. Harry took a fountain pen from his breast pocket, and wrote "Mr. Harry Hatch" in tiny script. Everyone everywhere wanted to know what you were doing.
The room-clerk slapped on a little bell and a uniformed midget was at his side in a second. "Your bags, sir," his never developed voice piped. Harry had left all his depressing equipment in Ossining. He took a bill out of his billfold and handed it to the attentive bellhop.
"I'll need a few things," he explained.
"Anything sir." Harry looked at him with veiled contempt. Like my cock in your mouth, for instance.
"Pick up a decent shaving brush, straight razor, Yardley lather, toothbrush, toothpaste." He looked at his watch. "Is Mark Cross still open?" The bellhop and manager in simultaneous servility checked their watches. "Oh yes sir, the shop will be open till 6 o'clock."
"Good." Harry was willing to let the world service him. "Then get a traveling case for me, and put everything into it." He turned to the elevator. "Oh yes," he called back, then found the bellhop lurking beneath his elbow. He lowered his voice, "Get me some after-shave."
The room looked very comfortable. Dark brown drapes and a dark brown rug gave the room a warm husky look. Over the immense double studio bed lay a deep blue throw. The walls were an immaculate white. Very comfortable, a tad more comfortable than his recent lodgings.
There were a few Picassos and Matisse reprints on the wall, nothing offensive, plenty of respectable nudity. Harry went up close to a reclining Matisse nude. She had red skin and enormous fleshy thighs.
Her breasts, slightly hidden, looked small and generously nippled. He ran his finger over the bush between her thighs. His prick was gently rising, like a wind filled sail, but the flat paper touch of the painting brought him down. You've gotta keep your hands to yourself to make it in your head, he thought. Mustn't touch, mustn't touch, only your cock, that's all.
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?"
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?
"No? That's unfortunate, because it's almost a sociological law that anyone with a Specific Pyrostat in the house is fanatical enough to have a floor-pressure alarm as well. Elsworth, as you may or may not know, is a past president of the National Society of Electrical Engineers."
Harry fixed his eyes on the chessman in his hand. "A real nut."
Phillip tapped his forefinger against his forehead. "Exactly my boy, exactly. Obsessed with electrical devices, very fond of using them, very attached to his wife's pretties. An unbeatable combination, Harry.
One to be avoided by men of our calling."
Finished with the body of his address, Phillip offered Harry a cigar, but the young man musingly shook his head. He seemed immeasurably withdrawn.
"I'm still curious," interjected Phillip lighting his cigar, "as to what you've done with all the property you've collected."
Harry came back slowly to their conversation. "That's pretty personal, don't you think?"
Phillip was superbly unperturbed. "I thought that if you were looking to move something, Carol might be of help." Harry remembered, with a shock, that Carol had been sitting quietly on the couch all the while they spoke, covetously observing them and sipping her drink. Phillip turned to her, as did Harry, unwillingly. He found her eyes fixed on his face.
"But I forget myself," declared Phillip expansively. "You've not been properly introduced. This is Miss Stoddard, my runner. All my stuff goes over to Carol. She deals directly with the legitimates.
Highest bidders and tiptop prices." He paused and looked at her.
"Occasionally she knows just what at a certain time will bring an exceptional top price. For example, right now 16 matched two-carat blues, if you could find them, are worth $26,000."
Harry was silently watching them as Phillip asked, "You don't by any chance still happen to have the Meltzer-Arpel necklace tucked away somewhere, do you?"
Harry snorted a laugh and finally looked directly at Phillip. He got up from his chair, walked back to the chess set, opened his hand and dropped the knight into its proper place.
Phillip studied Harry's back. "If you have the necklace, it probably would be the first time you ever managed to get the right price for anything you sold."
Harry concentrated on Carol. "What happens with you?" he asked.
"A flat fifteen percent. The usual brokerage fee," she said.
"You can't beat Carol when it comes to driving a bargain," Phillip interrupted.
Harry smiled at Phillip. "I don't suppose you're telling me all this because you think I still have the Meltzer necklace?"
Phillip seemed genuinely congenial. "I think an association between us would be a profitable one. You'll be needing some kind of legitimate income as long as you're on probation. I thought you might like to be my assistant. You could stand to cultivate your taste, and I need an assistant if I'm to continue indulging mine." He made a modest Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 24
gesture toward his paintings. "My Flemish collection needs filling out, and there are a number of new things I'd like to acquire."
Harry didn't answer, and Carol fidgeted nervously. She seemed annoyed at his indifference. Harry concentrated on Phillip. "And if there's a bust, with my record, I suppose I'll be expected to take it?"
At first it seemed Phillip wouldn't bother to answer. Then he acknowledged the question. "Harry my boy, there can't be a bust working my way."
Harry looked at him closely. Carol was the one who started to break the conference. She mixed them a drink that was a silent pledge of acquiescence, and said casually, "Where are you staying, Harry?"
"The Netherlands Plaza." His smile was sheepish.
"Comfortable?" Comfort was next to Godliness in this bright new world.
"I think I will be."
Harry rose to leave. Carol was getting her hat and gloves together.
"I'll drop you," she offered.
"Thanks," Harry responded, "but I think I'll just wander about the city awhile." She seemed rebuked, and he added, "It's been a long time."
"Of course," Carol said.
"What about lunch tomorrow?" Phillip asked of Harry as they reached the outer foyer. "Suppose I call you at the hotel tomorrow morning?" Harry turned suddenly to Phillip.
"You're pretty infallible, aren't you?"
"Interested, Mr. Hatch?" questioned Carol.
He glanced at her. "Yes, interested. I'm especially interested to find out how he got in stir." He spoke as though Phillip weren't smiling at his side. Carol glanced amusedly at Phillip. "Well?" Harry insisted.
"Income tax," she said archly. "For having lots and lots of money, Mr. Hatch, all in tens, twenties and fifties." She gave Harry a bittersweet smile. In answer, he held out his hand to Phillip and said,
"Lunch will be fine, Mr. Johns." The door closed behind him, and he left Phillip and Carol standing quietly inside the foyer.
Alone, Carol turned to Phillip and said, "What do you think?"
"I think he'll do magnificently. I think he'll be well worth my ten months in prison."
"You should have told him who you were," she complained poutingly.
"An oversight, my dear." He cupped her delicately molded chin. "I didn't want to clutter his handsome head with details."
"Oh, Phillip. Really darling, you must play straight with him. It has nothing to do with trust or confidence. Just that I hate those deadening moments of feeling stupid."
"It's most stupid of you to feel that way. Most stupid. You are absolutely indispensable to me, Carol. If I neglect to tell an associate something, it's because it seems so immensely complicated to me that I can't find the proper words to communicate."
"Indeed." She started to laugh. "Phillip without words … that's like…"
"Like Carol without a hot cunt."
"Please, Phillip. You switch so fast from the correct to the revoltingly vulgar."
"Revolting … vulgar … what a strange vocabulary my little girl is developing."
"I'm sorry." She leaned tiredly against him. "I'd better go before I get ugly. I have an editorial conference at breakfast tomorrow. We're photographing eighteenth-century New England Saltboxes. It should prove very expensive to devoted husbands."
Phillip reached for her hat. He took it off in one concise motion.
"You mustn't speak of going."
"I had better," she insisted.
"My dear, you begin to sound like a woman with a rendezvous.
Maybe our Mr. Hatch slipped a crumpled urgent note into your hand?"
"Yes, he did," she admitted. "We're to meet at Woolworth's in eighteen minutes. But don't worry, sweetheart, he just wants to talk about you."
Phillip laughed out loud. "Carol, you're good for my soul." He kissed her white neck, and their flesh trembled. "You're good for me in every way."
"Let me go," she whimpered with hidden pain.
"Of course not," he replied gently. "I see you're upset, my sweet.
We must have a nightcap and find out what's the matter." He put her hand to his mouth and vibrated against the palm. "Nothing would be worth anything, Carol, if you were made unhappy. Nothing. I mean that."
"Thank you, Phillip." She ran her free hand lightly over his short-cropped grey hair. "I know your concern. I'm better already. Just a momentary decline." She squeezed the hand that held hers. "Let's have the nightcap."
They walked arm-in-arm back into the study and sat on the wide couch that had hidden Carol all evening. Phillip mixed the drinks.
"Will you pull many jobs, Phillip?"
"No." He looked at her seriously. "There are four major jobs I have in mind. Then we will retire."
"I couldn't bear it," she exclaimed. "Excuse me for being selfish, but I couldn't bear to have you away for another year."
"Nor could I, my dear," he agreed in a lighter voice.
"I thought I would die of loneliness." She put her head into her hands.
Phillip looked down at her and frowned. "I've never heard you speak like this, Carol."
Her head was thrown back on the couch. "Don't you know, darling,"
she lilted in a tear-stained gay voice, "that it's very hard for me to adapt to other men. You broke me in very uniquely. I don't think any of them could possibly service me."
"I don't want them to." His voice was light with hidden flecks of metal. "I don't want another man to touch you."
"And women?"
"That's disgusting."
"Didn't you have Harry in prison, Phillip? You can be honest with me."
"What is this, third degree? Words like 'have' and 'have not,'" he winced.
"I notice," her mouth was cruel, "that since your return, you have had an almost incessant desire to put your remarkable cock in me from the rear."
He stared at her brazened face. "Your cunt and ass are remarkably similar, my sweet."
Her eyes closed with pain. "How could you," she murmured.
He sat down beside her. "And I love both equally. You must know that. I think of your cunt every time I look at you. I can't watch your mouth without wanting to push myself into it. Forgive me if I think of you as a creature with numerous convenient openings. But you don't know how a prick aches sometimes. You can't imagine. Right now it's throbbing with misery. What will you open for me tonight, my sweet?"
"Nothing." She was panting. "Nowhere. Stay away from me, Phillip. Maybe it's time I found another man. First lovers often become masters. I'm not your slave, Phillip. I'm a woman. A grown woman. I'm not the little girl you used to lull to sleep with your fingers and cock. I'm not, I'm not, and I'm tired." From her voice, she could have been weeping.
"Beautiful little Carol, she doesn't know how to cry," he consoled.
"And doesn't have to. As long as Daddy is here, she doesn't have to.
I'll scare all the nasty demons away, Carol."
"You're a monster." She reached over and put her mouth against his ear. "You're a monster, Phillip. An aberration, a sensual tyrant." Her mouth was shaping the words against his flat ear.
"You've helped me to be one, dearest," he conceded as he scrupulously unbuttoned her close-fitting shirt. "You've helped me in every way." He pulled the shirt apart and ran his hands over the flimsy cloth of her brassiere. "But they're all hard, darling." He sounded disapproving. "You've been sitting and chatting away, and your tits have been getting harder and harder and ready to the point of bursting.
Why don't you just tell me when you feel that way. My little girl never has to be hot when this hungry prick is always ready for her." He removed the shirt and studiously undid the brassiere. She was sitting on the couch, naked to her slender waist, her exposed skin a shocking white.
He ran his fingers over the naked bosoms. "You're lovely, darling, lovely." He sank his mouth over her nipple and sucked with infant hunger.
Her head thrown back, she smiled and caressed his neck and hair.
"Yes, do that, I do need that Phillip." She reached into his pants and found the trigger. Her body moved in a sensual delirium. She wanted to suck his cock, but would not sacrifice the caress of her breasts.
Phillip, sensing her luxury, moved his head away and got down on his knees before her. Knowing her role perfectly, she pulled her slender legs apart. He stuck his head under her skirt and his tongue felt the child-smooth mound of her cunt. His head, hidden in her skirt, moved frantically. The hairless hill of her sex always excited him, revealing the innocent, the pathetically unprotected slit of her vagina. He was running his tongue up and down the long crack, and it burst into the warm inner lining. He bit and gobbled at the insides and her heart dank down to her cunt.
"Eat me up, Phillip. Eat my heart, too."
With his head still buried, he grabbed the hem of her skirt with his two hands and lifted it straight over her head. Her face was hidden, and she was now in the dark as he had been. She did not dare expose her face, to watch him drop his pants and stand eager before her. There were a few seconds of nothing, of her body all wired and taut and left without his caress. She clawed the air in desperation.
"My baby," Phillip consoled, patting her hips, and waiting yet another moment. "Baby is always so anxious to be fed."
Then he shoved his cock deeply and silently into her cunt, standing before her blinded body. "That's where she wants it, in her precious cunt." He beat severely against her white body, white belly, white thighs, white cunt. Then he paused a moment, and with an emotionless voice said, "Come." Like a robot, her body contorted in released, anguished orgasm as he poured his sperm into the naked, convulsing flesh.