Harriet Daimler

Pleasure Thieves

CHAPTER I

Their silent pounding bodies were suddenly accompanied by the jangling of door keys getting closer to the cell. They rushed their pleasure, hoping to cheat the always present, always might-be-present guard.

"Faster, faster, for Christ's sake," the younger man pleaded. And the rattling created by their bodies stopped, replaced by the unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the heavy iron lock. The older man with the wise lined face pulled his body away from the young imploring animal.

"You're insane." The door was swinging open, and his fear made him limp.

"Coward, coward," Harry mocked, and with a graceful arc, his body was off the cot and standing at the sink, his back to the unannounced guard. The jailer looked knowingly at Phillip, stretched out on the cot, lighting a long American cigarette. Then he regarded the shuddering back of the tall blond thief. The young ones needed it a lot. The older ones could do without, but they taught their inexperienced brothers.

Showed them more in a six-month stretch than they learned in ten years on the streets.

The guard humiliated the gasping back by addressing it.

"You've got a visitor, Harry."

That surprised him. Phillip often had callers, but Harry had no connection, no sentimental patchwork outside the prison.

"A visitor?" he turned, buttoning his trousers.

"A woman," the guard announced curtly. "She says she's not your sister." She obviously impressed him. Harry didn't answer. He silently followed the guard out of his cell, not looking at Phillip who was watching the burning tip of his cigarette with scientific intensity.

Harry followed the guard noiselessly to the waiting room. The guard banged his stick against the cell doors as they walked the long corridor, and shouted in, "Stow those burners, do ya hear me? You can smell them in the warden's apartment. Stow them, or there'll be a midnight shakedown."

The two men walked into the large cold waiting room, tables that looked like waiting room tables bordered by chairs that looked like Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 2

waiting room chairs. In one of the chairs was an elegant woman of about twenty seven. She was dressed in a grey suit with a French fit, curving her hips and breasts, the hem ending an immeasurable moment before it would on an American or English skirt. She was sitting straight and unaffected by her surroundings, a woman who created her own atmosphere and rested comfortable and secure in the nimbus of contempt that blessed her. It had been a long time, seven months, since Harry had had a woman, and this one looked as if she'd be a lot of work. Two hours to get the clothes off, and six hours to convince her she'd done the wise thing. And the cool ones only got convinced in their cunts.

"There she is," said the guard bluntly.

The woman pulled tight her blanket of correctness and looked over the guard's head into Harry's eyes. "Mr. Hatch," she said, "may I have a few words with you?" Her tone suggested that Mr. Hatch might now be too busy and his secretary would check his calendar and surely give her an appointment.

"Certainly," agreed Harry, living the scene she had created. He sat down lightly in the free chair across from her and waited for her to speak.

"There will be work for you in New York when you get out." He looked curiously at her. "Work you should enjoy." Neither of them seemed interested in pleasure.

"How?" he finally asked.

"Just call me," her boarding school voice enunciated, "at Plaza 5-7000 — ask for Miss Stoddard."

"Yes Miss Stoddard."

"I'm sorry," she almost blushed, "we haven't been introduced. I'm Carol Stoddard, and I shall wait for your call. I'm leaving two hundred and fifty dollars in the office for you. Will that be enough?"

"That will be quite enough."

"Till next month, Mr. Hatch." She was getting to her feet. There was, except for the brief business, not a human word for them. She put her striped, gloved hand into his, and had removed it before he could experience its pressure. "Good day then," and she walked carefully out of the waiting room, taking with her the breath of civilization.

Harry was being led back to his cell. The guard was saying something about class. The guard's tiny little mind, if you let it in, could irritate.

Back in the cell, Phillip looked up and said, "Who was it?"

It was not intrusive for him to ask. Little happened in the prison and a man shared his experiences, the way he shared his cock. Harry started to explain. He looked down at the shrewd cool man stretched out on the bed, and for a moment he was sinking into the cool eyes of the woman who had sat with him a brief five minutes and given him a strong odor of the world outside.

Phillip had a portable outside world that he carried with him. Maybe that was the attraction. Harry had never been hot for men, not for women either, except when a detached heat would spread through him, and then he'd find a cunt, thin and clinging or wide and comfortable and exhaust his prick. He'd pull it out of them, depleted and eager to leave them.

There were better ways to make it. Not get your prick into anything, just feel it ponderous like an arrow leading you into strange experience.

But that way it had to be without heat, just a cool fucking erection in the head. Phillip was strange enough to be a constant invitation. He never was hot for Phillip, but that was the only place for the cool fuck to go. So his prick never got finished and ready for something else.

Now he was beginning to plan the Llewellyn job; that was where his maleness wanted to be. An immense job, absorbing and satisfying. It would take brains and courage; it would take maleness.

Phillip was watching him, seeing him go off into a world nobody could touch. There was something pathetic and childlike about Harry's dream world, yet it had to be taken seriously. There was no question that the visions, created by a deprived child became the acts of the man.

That was how they all got there, wasn't it?

Even Phillip cared enough about something to get here, and not mind the ten month stretch. He cared about money. How original! The things you could do with money. There was no Midas touch about him, no sensuous thrill in spilling the sheckles through stretched fingers. He put all the money back into gracious living, fantastic expression, something out of a woman's magazine. The one thing, the one raison Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 4

d'etre were the paintings. To line his walls with the brilliance, the most selective vision of all ages. Phillip despised museums, despised the keepers, despised the confused giggling viewers or the awed small town viewers or the arrogant student viewers. A painting had to be lived with, had to be cultivated. There should be a master-slave relationship, sometimes the painting master, sometimes Phillip master.

To keep the thing interesting. Like sex, only better. Museums were like prisons, and he wanted to tear down the precious colors that became barred windows on the long corridor walls.

Phillip felt the attraction of Harry's long relaxed body. Harry was as perfect as a master's etching, perfect and simple without a wasted line or a decorative curve. Phillip lifted himself from his cot, and crossed his arms on the rim of Harry's decker, a layer above his. He ran his fingers across the sharp planes of the upraised face. It should have felt like steel, cold and smooth to the touch. Instead, he was surprised to find his flesh damp, and the bristles of his heavy beard rough against his palm. He moved his fingers down to the what-could-be female flesh of his neck.

Harry lay as if in a dream, musing to himself. His mind's absence allowed Phillip to possess his body freely. To possess him coldly, to watch him as a snake watches a drowsy rabbit in the hypnotic sun.

"Harry," he said, as softly as a woman.

Harry lay immobile, unresponding.

"What will you do when you get out?" Phillip murmured.

"What I've always done."

"Take the pretty diamonds out of the pretty girls' ears?"

"Out of the ugly safes, off the ugly chests."

"Don't you like women, Harry?" Phillip's hands were moving under the rough shirt, down to the leather belt, loose around Harry's waist.

He swung himself up on the bed.

"I like diamonds."

"Why Harry? Because they're so cold and deep, cold and perfect.

Time makes it perfect?"

"A diamond is perfect. Time makes it perfect. Time makes it more beautiful. Flesh decays."

"Diamonds turn to dust. Someday all the diamonds will turn to dust."

"Not before me."

"But Harry," Phillip's hand had edged beneath the buckled belt soft into the hairy field that surrounded the dozing man's lazy prick, "you're so insignificant." The prick gave a responding jump, the face remained immobile.

"More significant than women, less significant than diamonds."

"Is it all a question of what turns to dust first. I'll be dust before you are Harry."

"I'm more significant than you." Harry turned bored grey eyes on Phillip's mocking face.

"Why do you say that, my diamond merchant?" Phillip was speaking as if to a drugged child. "Aren't all men equal?"

Harry coughed a spontaneous laugh, "You have no courage, Phillip.

You have no depth."

"Ahhh," Phillip sighed, "my diamond merchant is also a philosopher.

My hard as a diamond lover," and his fingers were a fist around Harry's cock. He pressed his thumb against the bulging vein. "Hard as a diamond," he approved, and lowered his head to the swaying erection.

"You're so weak Phillip, there's so much you want. A diamond doesn't want anything."

"So you've modeled yourself after a diamond. But no facets, Harry.

Just a rough uncut stone." Harry's prick was supremely erect. He did not move to touch Phillip, but his penis declared his awareness of the male caress. His prick was high and free, curving subtly like an unstrung bow. "You've got a fine cock, Harry." It stretched bigger than Phillip's hand span. He moved his fingers into the hidden valley where the rod and balls joined. "Your cock is the best part of you.

Better than your mind, or your diamonds, or your courage." His fist moved tight over the satiny skin. "Why don't you let me put my inferior member into you, and still hold on to this precious stone?"

Harry nodded like a much used woman. At first he'd resented being buggered. It had been just a game for him to stick his hungry flesh into Phillip and see how much Phillip could hold of him. But Phillip had sucked him all in, absorbed the throbbing erection with the ease of a Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 6

child swallowing a gumdrop. He had used Phillip like a cunt, setting him on his knees and pounding into his unexpressive back. Now he could be a cunt for Phillip, and it was all the same, like faces in the funny papers that you could turn upside down. The beard became the hair, and the chin became the bald head. And the two men were the same backwards or forwards, prick in or prick out, asshole stuffed or empty. They ate together, worked together, came together. Soon they'd be out, Harry in a month, Phillip a week before him. They'd never see each other again. Harry didn't know how Phillip had been pulled into jail. Probably fucked little boys, elegant little boys, elegant little prep-school boys. A man of the finest tastes. But he'd take off to another world and Harry would go back to cracking the biggest safes in the country; for a while they could be cunts for each other.

"Turn around Harry, don't make an old man, I'm almost dust now, do all the work."

Harry was hot now, his mouth open to let the air rush out that was filling the cavity of his chest. He got doglike on all fours. Phillip held on to his immense penis, Harry had to swing his leg over Phillip's head, the only exercise of the day. "We should be in the Olympics." His voice shook.

"We'd win Harry." Phillip was shoving his untouched prick into the raised behind. "We're pretty good at this. We're fucking perfect." He was pumping his body back and forth, seeing it sink into Harry's dark hole, and then come out all the way to the tip, dry and palpitating.

"We'd win, we'd win," his voice mocking the rhythm of his body. He pumped his loaded hand. "Make it this time, make it this time, Harry."

The two bodies were silent and pounding. No footsteps of guards, no jangling of keys. Just the usual uninterrupted before-dinner fuck. The stomach and back slapped urgently, and when Phillip felt the cock grow mutely rigid in his hand, then the first few drops of sperm on his fingertips, he released himself into the swinging ass. The men fell away from each other and lay panting on the narrow cot. As always, Phillip spoke first.

"Was your visitor beautiful?" he asked.

"Yes, she was beautiful."

"Very beautiful?"

"She had eyes like emeralds," and the two men laughed mirthlessly.

CHAPTER II

An elegantly dressed elderly woman sat before a mirror in an exclusive custom jeweler's salon admiring an extravagant pear-shaped necklace placed around her well concealed neck. The thin masculine hands that took the glittering string form the black velvet box belonged to the dapper proprietor, Boris Novak.

"Or," he reached for a white placard on which there was a meticulous representation in India ink of a replica size necklace, "without pendant."

She studied the gems for a second while the jeweler showed a detached, respectful interest in the design. "That is really very nice.

What would the piece come to?"

"With pendant, I should say about forty carats, Madame Rothman."

She smiled and turned to the glass again, "I suppose it might be cheaper to buy a new neck, Monsieur Novak?"

"Madame Rothman, everyone has a neck."

As he spoke, a young man, dressed very much like Monsieur Novak, approached them across the deep-piled carpet. His place in the salon was definitely subservient; with his immaculate tasteful dress, it was hard to imagine that he had another interest besides his duties at the Salon. He hummed softly, to warn Monsieur Novak that he was coming across the room. The dapper proprietor made all his employees hum so that his elegance would not be shattered by a surprise approach across the thick muffled rugs. Neurotic, he admitted, but with the refined tastes and delicate sensibilities that accompanied his character, necessary.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Novak," the young man courteously interrupted, "but you have a very urgent call."

Monsieur Novak looked solicitously at his client and begged to be excused for a moment. Madame Rothman looked dreamily after him as though he were a lover she dared not part with. He charmed this type of rapport into his clientele. "It must always be there," he coached the novices who worked for him. "They must think that they are being presented with a gift such as a King gives to his Queen."

"Richard. Care for Madame Rothman, will you? And oh yes, please change the tune you're humming today." He winked at Madame Rothman, "I suppose you find me a bit eccentric?" He crossed the room briskly, leaving his precious client giggling like a young hen, happily guarded by a little boy blue. When he was gone, she studied the image of the necklace in the glass more intensely, her mouth a colorless smile of greed.

Inside his soundproofed inner office, the face of Monsieur Novak became expressionless. He sat down behind his empty mahogany desk.

Beyond the half-open door, he studied Madame Rothman and Richard gallantry attending to her. He picked up the white receiver.

"Hello."

"Boris, this is Carol."

Carol Stoddard, on the other end, leaned back in the modern precariously balanced chair that matched her blonde woman's desk.

The pastel decor was a woman's dream, exactly what it was supposed to be. Carol edited for Femme Publications, and they were in the business to furnish dreams for unimaginative femmes all over the country.

Every month or so Carol started a minor revolution by explaining "pink is the color this season," or, "ladies, we're dressing formal for the evenings." The office was indeed not an office but a chic woman's boudoir, and all the advertisers felt flattered to be invited there. They remembered to lower their voices to the charming blond woman, pretending to do business behind the white desk. So business, with lowered voices, prospered, and the avid subscribers knew when to wear pink.

The office bedroom had a huge velvet-covered studio couch and soft indirect lights. Sometimes, when all the others had left for the evening Carol would remain to work … she and the night watchman would alone keep life in the glass skyscraper.

On the desk before her were the second phone and three cover layouts, each featuring the word "Femme," and a vase of beautiful long stemmed roses. She plucked one from the vase and held it to her cheek with one hand, the phone in the other. She watched her secretary pin some reproductions on a large wide, hewn-edge, black cork board, studious catch-all crowded with line-drawings, gouaches, a tiny antique petit point evening bag and countless reminder notes pinned afresh each day. There was a note on the board today that was somewhat more special than the rest, an address she had obtained through an unusual source. Her pulse quickened at the remembrance of the address. Carol had a cool, blonde attractiveness. Her speech and gestures, not vivacious, involuntarily held the stamp of good breeding with unconventional prettiness.

At the sound of Boris' voice she tightened her hold on the rose in her hand.

"I think I'll be seeing you soon, Boris."

"That is good news," he said warmly. "It happens I'm having difficulty finding sixteen matched two carat blues. If something could be done about it, that would be particularly advantageous right now."

"No doubt," she replied with a sardonic twinge to her voice. "You know I'll certainly keep it in mind, darling."

"Yes, Carol dear, please do; see you soon."

They said their goodbyes simultaneously. Carol was free to think of her secret address pinned on the cork board. She placed her rose back in the vase and came out from behind the desk. Boris, on the other hand, remained thoughtfully in his chair as he watched Richard come toward him humming a more pleasing tune. "Back in business again,"

he mused. "This should be most interesting."

"Mr. Novak, sorry to disturb you, but Madame Rothman is anxious to keep her luncheon engagement and is wondering if you have a blank check for her to fill out."

Carol looked at her watch. She made the appointment for 1:00

o'clock; it would be all right if she was there a few minutes late, but to avoid any chance of embarrassment, she had better leave now to be sure the same person would take care of her. Things must move along as smoothly as possible, and Carol had a facility for seeing that things were done the simplest, most intelligent way.

Outside the office, the usual lunch hour rush was on — people dashing to their business lunches, some were grabbing for the check, others sat coyly. It made no difference who picked it up. None of them were paying. It was all good old management behind them making it possible for more executives to have more luxurious indigestion at their expense.

Carol waited patiently on the corner of 57th and Madison Avenue.

She hailed a cab. "Who the hell invented the expense account anyway?" she wondered, entering the taxi.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but what did you say?" Carol laughed to herself. "Overwork," she thought, then she reached into her bag for the piece of paper that had been tacked to the cork board for a few days.

Why hadn't she memorized the address by now? She certainly should figure that one out.

The taxi dropped her downtown on the east side of Manhattan — odd twisting little tenement streets, fronted by shabby stores selling candy and cigarettes. Then there was the store that had an exotic floral drape across the window and Gypsies sitting inside, holding babies on their knees, waiting to tell someone's fortune. She found her number.

In the window of this shop were one or two broken porcelain dolls with real hair wigs, a few toy animals with human hair that looked like fur. Everything was badly faded.

The store itself was completely bare, dirty grey shelves filled with colorless boxes, some wrapped in brown paper. Behind the shelves she could hear two people talking, a sewing machine being used. No one came out immediately. As she waited to be noticed, the atmosphere of the place oppressed her. It was indefinable. She had been in some pretty strange environments in her time, but now she wanted to be back in the frantic spin of Madison Avenue, running to the office to meet the deadline.

A man appeared from the rear. He was a bit messy, nondescript except for a smooth glassy bald head.

"Mr. Gasper?" Carol asked hesitatingly.

"Yes."

"Remember me? You came to my office one day and I ordered something from you. I believe today it was to be ready."

"Yes, of course," he said evenly without expression. "I have your merkin right here."

Carol weakened at the mention of that word. The dusty air caught the sound and in her mind, she repeated several times "Merkin, merkin — what an evil sound it has, disgusting, and he dared to say it, and in front of me."

Mr. Gasper disappeared into the back of the shop and quickly came out with a small anonymous brown package.

"I believe you have already paid me, Miss. You could try it on here, only it's not a wise thing to do; if in any way the merkin is not perfectly suited, call me immediately."

She received the package mechanically and stared rather dumbfounded at Mr. Gasper. She wanted to run from the store, but he continued talking to her in his unemotional insurance salesman way.

"Of course, it isn't often I receive calls for this sort of thing. It is a bit rare, particularly in this day and age, but I assure you it is for this reason that I have taken exceptional pains with yours."

"Thank you and good day," Carol said, imitating the monotony of his voice.

She walked swiftly out of the obscure section into a larger thoroughfare and hailed a taxi to get away, just get away to the sterile safety of Femme.

Carol dismissed her secretary for the day. Everyone was finished up and going home. She would stay at the office tonight for several reasons — a pretense of work to be done on the closing issue — and she had to be sure she was entirely alone when she opened the little brown package.

Dinner was sent up to her before the building was closed for the night. Eating the delicacies, a small bottle of excellent dry Riesling, a roast chicken, she felt secure. Calls could not come into the office at this hour. She approved some proofs held before her blind eyes. She walked about the room, stretching languidly. The wine had tasted good and helped to relax her. She switched on the radio. It played softly, corny mood music, but pleasant she thought. In a large square mirror she caught her reflection, walked up close to it and stared at herself.

"Yes, I am attractive. I forget this once in a while; I forget about all my equipment." She put her hands over her breasts, the round softly supple mounds felt good under her touch. The nipples bounced out into her hands, hard and rubbery. She ran her hands down her stomach, turned sideways and gazed at her thighs in the mirror. "I should lose a bit of weight there." Femme disdained heavy thighs. She stood directly in front of the mirror now and pulled off her cashmere sweater and brassiere. She placed her hands on her breasts again. The skin was softer than the cashmere of her sweater, the rouge color of the nipples begging to be licked off.

She put one hand down inside her panties and felt the burning fever of her cunt. She ran her fingers delicately over the moist vaginal mouth, tickling the tip of her clitoris. Her vagina was vibrating with passion, the small tongue between the top of her mound was stiff with desire. She thought, "What I want is someone to lick it for me, soothe it like a cat lapping cream."

She stripped off the rest of her clothing and tried to keep her hands off her body for a second. She stood in front of the mirror, naked, her wavy blond hair perfectly combed, every hair in place. She bent her head like a horse bucking and threw it back, shaking her head furiously, grinding her ass as in a primitive dance. Her hands cupped around the cheeks of her fleshy ass and she moved them deep inside the crack until the tips could play with her pussy, teasingly touching the rim of her opening, and now and again stuck her finger up her throbbing passage that pulsated against it like a worm squirming on the end of a hook.

It was time. She couldn't stand it any longer. She grabbed the little box wrapped in brown paper and ripped it open. There, inside, was a piece of hair, not as silky perhaps as the hair on her head, but almost as soft. She had debated with herself what the color should be and decided upon the exact tone and color of the hair on her head. After all, they couldn't possibly be identical. One area was always exposed to the world and the other never.

She held the small triangular piece of hairy blondness before her and shook it slightly in the air. Carol stood with it in front of the mirror and placed it over her hairless exposed mound, the small suction cups adhering to her skin. It looked wonderfully real. Genuine. No one would suspect that this was not her own pubic hair. It took a great deal of courage to expose herself in this way, but she got what she wanted.

When as a child she had diphtheria and all her hair fell out, everyone was concerned about whether her hair would grow back in, and it had, all except in the one private area. At first she felt great shame in not being like other women, but she certainly was not like other women in many ways. Then, of course, there were those who would be excited by the lack of the curly hairs intimacy. "But now it can be either way, as I choose. Perhaps I shall keep it only for me, although I'm sure it's guaranteed not to be chewed off." She laughed at her pornography, and placed the palm of her hand over her new pussy hairs. She felt the warmth of her flesh come through the hairs of her merkin.

Her head was tousled and wild from her previous abandoned movements. Her newest possession fitted perfectly over her hungry cunt.

She lay on her back, her legs parted wide on top of the dark green velvet spread of the studio couch, gently moving the hardened point on the top of her clitoris round and round. Her hips rotated automatically beneath her and she was breathing heavily. The mouth of her vagina began to open wider. She wanted to push the Empire State building in there tonight, but what was she to use? Her fingers were not enough, not now. She thought frantically of some object she could thrust into her that her cunt could suck satisfactorily on as she became hotter and closer to that moment when everything inside her would open forth and fall away deep inside, the indescribable sensation shaking her body with tremulous pleasure. Her hands were wet with her juices.

A plaster mannequin stood behind the couch, as naked as Carol. It was used for draping dresses during the day. She stretched behind her and pulled off its arm, smashing it at the elbow, and rammed the forearm up into her in time for the mouth of her cunt to lock stubbornly over it, as she came savagely.

CHAPTER III

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.

CHAPTER IV

They sat together at the old-fashioned, distinctly male bar. Phillip watched Harry in the mirror, and turned once to the maitre d'hotel, who scurried off, joyous at the gentile commands.

"I've an enormous appetite; how about you?" Phillip was being a host.

Harry turned annoyed eyes on him. "We've eaten together before, Phillip. Though of course, the meals were not served in the right spirit.

Did something to the appetite. But I've never been one for food."

Every now and then the echo of Midwestern naivete would come through.

"A man of action, Harry; that's what you should call yourself. Just as I call myself a man of taste. People appreciate being told what you are." He shrugged his shoulders like a titillated schoolgirl. "They get all nervous and jumpy inside if they've got to figure it out themselves."

Harry smiled a bit contemptuously. "You should have been a psychiatrist, Phillip."

"I am, I am," Phillip warmly interrupted. "I listen to people; I find out what's on their minds, what's in their safe, how they spend their sleepless nights, how many Nembutal they take, when the maid is away, if they like big nasty dogs, if they always imagine they hear footsteps on the parlor floor. Then I add up all my bits of information, sacrifice my peace of mind, and one night when they least expect it, I tiptoe into their bedrooms and carry away their most troublesome burdens."

"Their money."

"If it happens to be lying carelessly about."

"Their jewels."

"Always. Always their jewels. I find diamonds are a man's most confusing possessions. To own a diamond, you must be neurotic. First of all, you've taken everybody else's word for it that they're beautiful.

Then you've taken the bespectacled little man's word that they're valuable. Often my clients have offered their sacred virginity for a paltry little diamond that hardly shines in the dark. So they give up their cunts, their youth, for a little row of beads that are so valuable they're too heavy to be worn about the neck. They fire the fingers. A woman must sink under the weight of her diamonds."

"So."

"So, to save them when they've given up any hope of salvation, when they've buried the jewels in a nasty black safe and worn lighter carefree paste that looks just like the real thing (but they hope no one gets confused and shoots at them for the phonies, too), I enter the room like a merciful surgeon and amputate the choking stones."

"Careful, Phillip. I thought you were a psychiatrist."

"A man of taste, Harry. That's all you must remember."

The waiter made frantic little signs to the maitre d'hotel, who made frantic little signs to the bartender, and their great announcement was made that a table was free. They were gallantly escorted to it. Over the antipasto, they decided to remove poor Mrs. Aldrich's weighty neurosis.

"Mrs. Aldrich," Phillip explained, "is one of the most neurotic matrons in Rye."

"Good." The words were coming through to Harry unadorned.

"To calm her nerves, she belongs to the Archer Society, the Town and Country League, and a few other local organizations."

Phillip reached into his thin black briefcase. "Here," he said, laying a paper alongside Harry's plate, "check here."

"Check," his partner commented.

"She is, in short, a busy, fashionable, neurotic woman."

"The kind Carol creates," Harry interjected.

Phillip looked up sharply. "Exactly." The two men forgot about the Aldrich's for a moment, but Harry was the first one to get back to work.

"How long do we have to pull it off?"

"They go to Nassau every year. This month. Never before the 10th, never later than the 25th. We have to know exactly when. She takes the big stuff out of deposit a few days before they leave. That's why we have to know exactly when."

"What's the layout," Harry calmly asked.

"The house has eighteen rooms, three floors. Ours is the second."

"How many servants?"

"A maid, a chauffeur, a cook who goes home evenings."

"When does the maid go home?"

Phillip smiled at Harry. "Find out, my boy."

Harry looked at his watch. It was a nervous gesture, one of the few Phillip had observed. The hour, the minute, the month, the day, the year, all tiny neat numbers in the compact face.

"Today is the 6th; the stuff may already be in the house."

"Find that out too, Harry."

The younger man nodded. "I'll telephone you from Rye tomorrow."

"Good." Phillip was pushing his chair back. "Oh yes," he added the slight oversight, "Carol wondered if you needed the $26,000."

"Minus fifteen percent?"

"Minus fifteen percent."

"Let's go for a walk," Harry suggested. "Let's go look at lots of bright sparkling things."

Phillip signed the check, adding a generous tip, and the two prosperous looking bourgeois left the restaurant. The walk lasted as far as the outside door. When the doorman rushed over saying, "Cab, sir,"

Harry nodded. Phillip looked amused. He followed Harry into the cab and grinned with understanding when Harry gave the West 47th Street address.

In the sheltered upholstery of the car, Harry finally said to Phillip,

"Why didn't you tell me who you were in prison?"

"As it works out," was the reply, "I think I did the wiser thing to not tell you. What's your story, Harry?"

"It's my one story," said Harry. "I made all my money on the Black Market in Europe. What I stole, I brought back. Stashed it in a deposit box. Bundles. Enough for a lifetime. What can they do? I was a paratrooper and it could be true. Your … your Carol was telling me,"

he hesitated, "that you were busted on Income Tax charges."

"Yes," Phillip smiled. "The rich man's disease. It's replacing gout."

He frowned theatrically. "Actually, I got into the cooler," he was going to play it Harry's way, "through an overweening love of art. My inventory of paintings fattened out of all proportions to my sales. The north wall in my study alone represents almost $200,000. You need to sell a lot to make that kind of money and live well too. I mean, you can't say you won it all at the races.

"Yes," his fingers rubbed eyes, "art is my one great weakness. I can't bear not owning a picture I want, when it's only a matter of a little money between me and possession. It's impossible to explain this or account for oneself when a battery of experts descends on you, goes through your books, makes an inventory. I did my penance."

He intoned directly to Harry. "That's my weakness, Harry. What's yours? I've wondered for months, what is Harry's weakness? What's going on behind those eyes staring up at the cell ceiling?"

The cabdriver pulled to the curb and turned around to read off the meter. "That'll be $4."

Harry handed him a $5 bill and opened the door for Phillip, "I don't have a weakness, Phillip. Maybe that's my weakness."

Phillip shook his arm. "Of course, you've got your weakness, Harry.

It's not knowing what your great weakness is." His face was curiously calm. He looked suddenly prophetic, stone-like. "It makes you a dangerous man. And, I admit, a very brave one."

On 47th Street, they charge you for the priceless. The diamond hawkers, in slouch hats and baggy pants, lean against the red brick buildings and sell each other immense, perfect stones. The sweet young things who blushingly accept the two-carat love guarantee never touch the sordid. But the diamond merchants have good clean fun.

They take a black smelly case out of their hip pocket and unroll a 100-faceted, blue-white stone. They appreciate it. They appreciate each other.

Phillip and Harry, strangely elegant, strangely incongruous yet part of the scene, threaded their way through the concentrated activity of the exchange. They found an empty wall space and Harry leaned convivially against it.

"I like it here," he explained.

"It's a good place to do business."

"It's a good place to breathe." Harry surprised Phillip with his comment. Then he took the grey-haired man's arm and drew him aside in mock confidence. Harry's face was transformed, and for a moment he was one of the hawkers. He took out an oversized black wallet.

Phillip watched in amusement as the deft fingers unfolded the traditional white paper and revealed a glittering 42-carat necklace.

"The Meltzer necklace," Phillip whispered with respect.

"Tell Carol to treat it with love."

Phillip laughed. "Carol treats objects with intelligence. Doesn't bother with love."

Harry had a dreamy, pensive look. He smiled quietly, then asked,

"Tell me, how is your taste in diamonds?"

"What do you mean?" Phillip asked.

"I mean," he sounded like a lover begging for reassurance, "do you ever find it hard to part with a certain diamond? Take a big rock. A perfect Marquise. The cuts like edges of a rainbow, you know. The blue so blue it turns to purple, somewhere just out of sight."

"Well, well," Phillip's voice had hardened. "So we have in you an aesthete."

"It's like another world," Harry looked past Phillip, "inside a jewel."

Phillip spoke firmly. "For us, Harry, a diamond is always on fire.

Never a cold perfect object. It's on fire, do you understand? We can't hold it for too long. We get scarred. Understand this, that bit of carboniferous crystal is precious for me only because of its commercial value. No other. It just happens it's diamonds. If it were bits of coal instead that were so rare, all our lovely neurotics would be wearing coal. Raving about the jagged edges and the dust. The perfect gem, color, cut, size, excited my bank account. That's all. We must keep things in perspective."

"You really don't understand, Phillip."

"What," Phillip demanded caustically, "your weakness? Yes, I understand it very well. It's suicide to want to live inside a jewel, Harry."

"I just want to look into a jewel."

"It's the same thing." Phillip was packing the necklace competently, no caress of the folds that protected it. "Come back to the apartment,"

he directed. "Carol will be waiting. She can have the money by this evening, and we'd better start smoothing out the Aldrich problems."

"Hers or ours," Harry asked good-naturedly. The tense atmosphere broke and the sounds of the surrounding hawkers filtered back in.

"Why, they're the same problems Harry. That's what I've been explaining all afternoon."

Carol was sitting in the large study musing over the

Who's Who in

American Business

, when Phillip and Harry walked in. Phillip kissed her chastely. "Reading my reference books again," he admonished.

"All my students are going to be smarter than teacher." He slipped the package into Carol's hand. She looked into his eyes, then looked at Harry, placed the package neatly into a patent leather hatbox, and soundlessly left with the jewels.

Phillip tapped Harry's chest. "She'll be back soon." And then added with irony, "Can you bear to part with it?"

Harry was expressionless. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

Phillip patted the front of his legs with his open hands; his face was serious. He walked over to the leather chair and sat down.

The first thought Carol had had was Boris. The jewels were blazing in her case. She looked, as always, composed, but felt her heart hammering. She stood at Boris' elevator landing with the familiar model's hatbox hanging almost level with her knees. In her slender black cloth coat and helmet-like hat, she looked like the young ladies who glared disdainfully each month out of the pages of Femme, making all the flesh and blood readers feel vulgarly in touch with the world.

She rested the case against her toes and rang the bell. A maid dressed in traditional French uniform opened the door and said perfunctorily, "Good afternoon, Miss Stoddard." She led Carol past the foyer, past the six-foot Tang Buddha in painted wood. Chinese rugs covered the floor. The living room, where the maid left her, had the smart austerity of a bachelor's apartment. A very busy bachelor.

Before she could put the box down, Boris was walking toward her, arms outstretched.

"Carol, how nice, my dear." He took her by the elbow and escorted her to a low Chinese table. The tea service and sweets were immaculately displayed. "You're in time for tea, and you must be chilled to the bone. Here, take your coat off, dear."

"Thank you, Boris." Her voice was cool. "Your place is wonderful.

It's a joy to be here." He moved to take her coat and gloves, but she gently brushed his hand away and threw the coat over the arm of the deep couch.

"For someone who comes so seldom and stays so briefly that's rather hard to believe." He looked at her inquisitively.

"Oh Boris," she laughed, "not with me too." She looked about the apartment. "This place makes your conquests too easy. I couldn't possibly succumb."

"My dear, I have a perfectly filthy hovel for girls with just that attitude. Let me take you there."

"I could never obliterate the memory of this elegance."

"Ahhh," he signed deeply and swept in the vista with his arm, "to what avail when the fairest sees through it."

"My weary Casanova," she consoled. He handed Carol a cup of tea, and sat quietly. She sipped delicately. "I suppose I should have shopped about a bit before closing with you. But then I liked your offer. It's immediate and…"

"My dear," Boris exclaimed with a restraining smile, "you needn't convince me. Where are they?"

Carol set her cup down and picked up the hatbox. She buried her hand in it, and lifted out the black wallet. As she opened the wallet, Boris got swiftly to his feet and closed a sliding wall door. He walked back and bent over her as she unfolded the Meltzer necklace.

"Here it is." She let the diamonds spill over her palm.

"Ahh," he said softly, and held his hand out. Reluctantly she relinquished the diamonds. Boris was no longer a Don Juan. He was a jeweler, a man with a glass eyepiece. He examined the string slowly, scrupulously. The diamonds sparkled like prisms even against his pale fingers. He removed the eyepiece and sat down, still holding the necklace.

"They're fabulous. Absolutely perfect." He looked at them with open pleasure. "There are even five more than I need." He smiled approvingly. "I always expect and get the finest from you, Carol. I won't even bargain. The offer stands as made. But tell me, whose was it, or shouldn't I ask?"

He didn't expect an answer, but revolved the string of diamonds before his eyes. "Perfect, perfect." With a sigh he put the diamonds on the Chinese table and opened a large safe over the fireplace.

He turned to her. "Very traditional, you know. Jewel thieves never dream of looking for a safe over a mantle. They think they've cracked all of those in existence. Of course," he was pulling a suitcase out of the wall safe, "they do get refilled."

He returned to Carol. The open suitcase revealed stacks of bound paper money. "It's all there as agreed, dear." Carol quickly transferred the bills into the hatbox.

"I'm glad you're so pleased, Boris. If prices hold, we should be able to keep happy right through Spring."

"I'm sure of it, my dear," he agreed rising. He took a small chamois bag from his pocket and dropped the necklace into it. Looking at Carol, he pulled the cord tight. Then he helped her into her coat. She picked up her gloves and hat and the light-heavy box.

"Forgive me for being in a rush, Carol," he said as they walked toward the door, his hand at her elbow. "There's a bit of rearranging to do." He lightly tapped the pocket of his coat.

She offered him her hand. "I understand completely."

Carol walked unannounced into Phillip's study and found the two men sitting quietly before the fire, their papers and things about them.

The room was heavy with smoke and an atmosphere of intense work.

Phillip rushed up to mix her a drink. "How did it go, darling?"

"Great." She walked to Harry and handed him a key. "It's in a safety deposit box at the National City Bank, 43rd and Madison, under the name of Richard Cutter. It's the full count in twenties, fifties, and hundreds."

Phillip handed her the drink, and Harry, dropping the key lightly into his pocket, studied Carol as she nuzzled tiredly against Phillip. She looked like a puppy that has retrieved the rubber ball and wants to be petted.

"Let's have a little celebration," Phillip suggested.

"The treat's on Harry," Carol announced.

"What's on Harry?"

"The treat."

Harry ignored Phillip. "Anything you want Carol, you can put anything you want on me." And the three of them were silent.

CHAPTER V

A huge standing clock in the main hall chimed eleven times. The house was dark except for the subtly lit wall sconces along the staircase. The Albright butler-chauffeur walked noiselessly down the steps. He took a raincoat from the vestibule closet, opened the front door of the house, and marched erectly down the steps to the driveway.

About fifty feet from the house, he illuminated a flashlight and walked steadily, training the beam toward the entrance gateway ahead. There, at a box set in one of the pillars, he deposited the letters he held in his hand, and then he returned hastily to the protection of the great dark mansion. One could measure his receding figure by the trail of the dim lights that blackened as he passed: the flashlight, the porch light, and after two moments, two windows on the second floor. Except for the wall sconces that cast shadows through the windows, the house was now completely dark.

Harry emerged softly from the roadside. He moved quietly and surely toward the mailbox, his figure hatless and dark in a leather pilot's jacket. He rustled a moment before the mailbox, then in a second had it open. He shuffled through the four letters and slid them into the open buttons of his jacket. He looked at the house and strode casually, silently down the tree-lined road.

He stopped when he reached the car parked in the foliage. The evening was black except for the dashboard light and the bright small flame of the burner on the seat of the car. He removed the sealed envelopes from the inside of his jacket and held the first letter tentatively in his hand.

It was addressed to Mrs. John Hotchkiss in Miami, Florida. He moved the sealed envelope slowly over a small steaming cup on top of the burner. The envelope, so fastidiously sealed by Mrs. Aldrich's loving tongue and fingers, slipped open for Harry. He lifted the flap, and with an intense heavy-breathing attitude read all about the weather in Rye. He rewet the mucilage and slipped the letter into his pocket.

He then steamed all the letters rapidly, running his tongue along the tip of the flap when he had finished reading them. He worked with studious attention, resealing the letters with extreme care and with not a wasted motion. When he was finished, and none of Mrs. Aldrich's letters had ever been read with such intense interest, he blew out the burner flame.

He moved swiftly to the mailbox, replaced the letters, and walked back to the road. Standing in the shadows, he stared at the house.

Then he took a small metal tube from his jacket and, placing it to his mouth, blew soundlessly. He listened for a moment, then repeated the gesture. Finally he replaced the tube in his pocket, and stood staring at the house.

It was a bleak, drizzling morning on the road in front of the Albright estate. A thick hedgerow and a low stone wall bordered the two pillars and wrought-iron work at the gateless entrance to the drive. The iron grillwork formed an arch connecting the pillars on which the name Albright, dynasty of Rye, worked prominently into the design.

A mailman, riding a bicycle and wearing a slicker, came rolling along the road. He wheeled by a walking figure in the distance and pumped steadily up to the pillar holding the Albright's mailbox, stopped, took out the letters and put others in. As the mailman disappeared, the walking figure that he had passed in the distance neared the box. Harry, hatless, a raincoat slung over his shoulders, his face fatigued and darkened with a two-day beard, passed the box, passed the drive. He glanced casually toward the house, then doubled back to the mailbox. He lifted the lid, took out the letters, and shuffling through them rapidly, replaced all but three. Then he closed the box and walked off quickly.

That night the phone in Phillip's study rang steadily and an operator's voice piped, "Rye, New York calling Mr. Phillip Johns. Will you accept the call, sir?"

Harry's voice sounded weary and distant. He was calling from a diner. "They leave for Nassau on the 22nd," he said into the receiver.

"That's right." He listened intently to Phillip's directions. "That's right. OK. I'll be there tonight." He hung up the receiver and walked out of the booth. At the counter, he sat down and rested his head in his hands.

The jukebox was playing something very dissonant, very pleasant, very much like the way Harry was feeling, and he found himself listening to Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 40

it. The curious waitress hovered over him. "Make it bacon and eggs,"

he said to her.

That night they met in Phillip's study. Harry lay boneless on the deep couch, the back of his hand resting on his closed eyes. His pilot's jacket was thrown carelessly over one end of the couch. Phillip sat opposite, attentive, dressed in his robe. Harry was holding court.

"The maid spends Thursday with her mother."

"Thursday," Phillip nodded seriously. He waited a moment watching Harry.

"Anything else?" he asked.

Harry shrugged and shook his head in answer. "Not yet."

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.

They left the motor running, swinging both doors as they climbed out. The radio blared through the open door. It was a bleak windy night, and they pulled their coats tight against the cold. They stood before the great entrance door together. Somebody was coming to the ghost party. Harry reached into his coat as Phillip looked behind and around the grounds. With a sharp twisting movement, half obscured by Phillip's body, Harry opened the door. The blaring music accompanied them as they entered the silent house.

Inside, the mansion was frighteningly bright. Every light in the house seemed to be burning. They moved in unison, swiftly up the stairs taking them by two's.

At the landing, they turned abruptly and sprang to a door at the end of the hall. Harry quickly opened it, revealing a master bedroom. He strode across the room and yanked open the door of a huge dressing closet. Phillip started moving about the bedroom as Harry entered the large adjoining dressing room and brutally cleared a chair and a small table from one corner.

In a second, he cased the walls and floors for hidden drops, and then, finding none, turned to the bureau. With one yank, the top drawer was out and clanging against the corner wall. One glance, while going for the next, showed him the scattered contents. In ten seconds the bureau was a gaping hole.

He breathed heavily, sweating profusely. This was his work. There was a wildness and intensity about him, revealing the radical change in his usual, graceful, disinterested motions.

He moved clockwise around the room, overlooking nothing and never touching the same thing twice. Armfuls of clothes, hatboxes and shoe-filled racks were torn from the closet and thrown to the corner.

Systematically, he wrecked the place, panting. "Where are they?

"Where are they?" despising Mrs. Albright's purposeful sadism in hiding her jewels.

Phillip worked like a doctor in a contagious ward. He disturbed nothing, touched as little as possible. He moved through the bedroom opening drawers and fastidiously feeling their contents with outstretched lacquered fingers, going over the walls and floor, looking for the safe. On the dressing table he found the jewel box. Not what they were looking for. Not the real goods. But he dumped the contents on the table top and swept them into his briefcase.

Harry was finished with the closet. He moved like lightening and with an impersonal fury. His motions were monstrous and crude, but thorough. He turned to the last wall and picked up a small bureau.

Holding it face down he dumped all the drawers at once into the near corner. "Good thing, or bad thing," he thought, "that the maid had Thursday off." He wanted to kill, to ravish someone in his frustration.

"Where are they, where are they?" Mrs. Albright was giving them a good game.

He rifled through the contents on the floor. His forearm leaned against the radiator. He automatically withdrew his arm, then, after an instant's pause, touched the radiator in several places. It was cold. He reached behind it and in a second groping, his hand brought out a black steel safety-box.

Lock down, he smashed it open against the radiator in three powerful blows. Phillip entered and stood over him. Harry removed a decorative box of finely inlaid wood. He handed the box to Phillip and buttoned his coat as Phillip looked inside the box and nodded. "The game is over, Mrs. Gypsy."

They left the bedroom, glancing at the havoc behind them, and walked swiftly down the hall. They turned at the landing and passed a long table with an oddly shaped, cloth-draped form at the far end.

Phillip paused and raised the cloth. Beneath it, a small hexagonal wire cage held two sleeping love birds. They moved briskly down the staircase, not running. Harry paused before opening the door, and in the silence, Phillip heard his breathing. He pulled open the front door and they were assaulted by the screaming music of the car radio. In a second they were inside the vehicle and swerving away from the lighted house. They sent up a spray of gravel as they drove jet-like down the drive.

They turned onto the tree-lined road. Nothing like living in the country. Their faces were grim. They turned the bend where the Albright limousine had disappeared six minutes before. Phillip reached into the glove compartment for a towel. He passed the towel over his forehead and handed it to Harry. Harry wiped his steaming face. They saw head-lights ahead, and a car swung around the bend. It swished by them and in a brief glimpse, they saw the wheel. Phillip moved his head to watch it in the rear mirror. It relaxed them to see the Albright car heading home. Perfect form, a plump round circle.

"The end of a perfect evening," Harry commented.

"What are you talking about, my boy?" Phillip checked his watch.

"It's only a little past eight o'clock. The night is young."

CHAPTER VI

It got into the morning papers. Carol picked up the Herald-Tribune from her desk and saw the headlines. "JEWEL THEFT IN RYE."

Below was a picture of plump gaily-clad Mrs. Albright standing amidst the wreckage of her dressing room. The caption read "GYPSY GYPPED." Carol was alone in the pastel office. Without taking off her coat, she phoned Boris.

"Yes dear. For cocktails? Of course." He smiled anxiously. "Fine, at five o'clock, then." He hung up, then went into the shower. The hot water eased him, and after a while he began to sing his Russian version of a Flamenco. He bumped his hips, then let himself go and ground his stomach against the heated tiles of the shower. Five o'clock, five o'clock, five o'clock jump.

Then Carol called Phillip. "How did it go?"

"Didn't you read our write-up?"

"There was no mention of the featured performers."

"Good, good," Phillip beamed. "You see it went perfectly."

Carol laughed. "I've got an appointment for cocktails with Boris,"

she said as her secretary came in.

"Good," Phillip approved. "Come here for dinner afterwards."

"Business?" she sounded wistful.

"No, my dear, pleasure," and he hung up.

Carol laughed again. "Here are proof pages 17 and 34," the secretary announced. "The color plates are lousy." She proudly, like a new mother, laid the problem on Carol's desk. Carol's face became serious, and her day went into full swing.

At 5:30, Harry, rested and shaved, arrived at Phillip's apartment.

This time the project was his. He carried a small notebook that Phillip recognized from their prison days. He had watched Harry lying flat on his back, holding the notebook balanced on his chest and writing small legible letters on to the page.

"Recording you past?" Phillip once asked.

"No," Harry was humorless, "my future. I'm recording my future."

This afternoon, Harry put the notebook conspicuously on the table.

He was composed, deliberate. He picked up the U.S. Social Register and started to turn the pages.

"At my reference books again?" Phillip scoffed. But he was nervous at Harry's reserve. Phillip's reserve was of a different kind: conscious, elegant. Harry's was inward, selfless and lost. It was always Phillip who had to break their silences.

"That was a fair score we made last night. I'd say $45,000, at least."

He watched Harry's reaction.

"Forty-five," commented Harry. There was an almost involuntary tone of condescension in his voice. "That was a lark."

Phillip looked at him with repressed anger. "A lark, you say. But that's only one strike. There are four others that need more work. Five larks make an eagle. Or, don't you agree."

Harry said, "Yes, it adds up. But what about one job that's as big as five of those put together?" He looked at Phillip questioningly and then got up and walked about the room smoking.

Phillip spoke when he stopped moving. "One job as big as all of mine. Sounds majestic. What is it Harry?" Harry reached for his notebook. Then he noticed a small, antique, carved-wood stand with a square slate blackboard. It was bordered by a tray of colored chalk. He put the book aside and pulled the table toward him. Phillip watched closely.

"Every hear of Kit's Island?" Harry began. "It's in the Florida Keys.

It's the original Golden Goose."

"It could also be called the Llewellyn's Island." Harry looked up.

"You must know the Llewellyn collection?" He picked up the notebook and fingered through the pages. He came to a list of numbers with items and numbers next to them. The kind of book the ideal accountant would have.

"Mrs. Llewellyn," he ran his forefinger across from one column to the next, "has one pendant that is worth more than all of Mrs. Albright's madness." He picked up a piece of chalk and studied the board for a second.

Then, with incredible dexterity, he drew the outline of a goose with an elongated neck, almost a swan's neck, and thin beak. When he completed the goose, he drew crosshatched directions and meticulously initialed, N. E. S. W.

Lastly he drew an egg-shaped circle and marked an X through its center. "That's the house," he explained.

Phillip watched the controlled deftness. The execution of the drawing had been impressive. In that gesture, Harry had revealed something so essentially himself, carefully hidden, for the first time.

Harry's secrets had nothing to do with his prick. Couldn't devour him that way. Phillip was not going to be destroyed by going all the way, to find out what was really there. Phillip was afraid. The man seated before him was so obviously rational and so completely mad.

Phillip smiled slightly to himself and Harry continued.

"Here's the mainland." He sketched in a waving line. "This is a drawbridge." He took another color and inserted a bar before the crook of the goose's neck. "With armed guard," he added. His eyes did not leave the board. Working with different colors, he was like a painter, absorbed and professional. "There's a short break-water here, and a lagoon with a sixty-foot pier." He gestured a pattern around the island, then sat back for second and observed the drawing. He looked at Phillip for the first time. "Minimum staff at any time is fourteen. Not possible to approach by boat without being observed."

Phillip had been sitting quietly. He smiled and said in his contained voice, "Perhaps a magic carpet?"

Harry gave him a sharp glance. "That's exactly it," he explained.

"They think they're safe. They've probably thought so for fifteen years.

There's never been an attempted strike on any of the islands there."

He walked to the sideboard. He looked down at the decanters and thought of mixing a drink. Then he walked back toward Phillip, saying, "But how the goose is waddling! It's lazy and secure, waddling with age and the weight of all that golden ice." He sat down and looked directly at Phillip. "Do you know how much?"

Phillip got up nervously. At the sideboard, he reached for the gin and vermouth and opened the refrigerator for ice cubes. He appeared completely noncommittal.

Harry was looking at his drawing again. "The touch has to come in broad daylight. The freedom you need can only be that of a guest. You don't happen to be a distant relation or godfather to the Llewellyns?"

For the first time he smiled.

"Of course," said Phillip brushing aside the question, "Of course the guest, the uninvited guest, must carry a gun, right?"

"Right."

Phillip moved toward him with the martini. "You've given this job a lot of thought, haven't you?"

Harry stared back at him. "Too much." He held Phillip's eyes. "It's big. A really big touch."

"That's just it, Harry." His hand almost crushed the glass in his intensity. "For someone fresh out of Sing Sing, it's too big. It seems to me that you would want to cool it for a while. Why take any extra chances at this point?" He looked into his glass. "Don't get me wrong.

I appreciate the suggestion. I admire the plan, but the way I feel is that it just isn't the right time."

He felt he was talking to a frothing maniac, though Harry was sitting coolly, placidly. He wished, for an instant, that they were back in prison, that he could run his hands over Harry's body and feel the tense spots jump at his touch. "My moves…" he tried to get back to his incoherent refusal, "My moves don't require going in heavy. Never go in heavy. My plan, as always, is to keep out of the criminal category.

And we still make out." Phillip's voice, at the end, was imploring.

"I have a little job for us to pull this weekend. I'm catching the midnight flight to Boston. Most of the research is done." He was all business. "What little more there is, I'll take care of tomorrow. Wait here at the apartment for me. I'll telephone exactly one half hour before your flight is due."

Harry was silent, but nodded in accord. At least they'd be moving, that was something. Keep ready for the really big jobs.

"I'll wait for your call," he agreed. "I'll be right here like a good little boy."

They were silent together for a moment. Phillip knew how separate their thoughts were. The door buzzed. He checked his watch and said,

"That must be Carol." They waited as the maid let her in.

"What do you think of Carol?" asked Phillip.

"Think!" Harry seemed amused at the question.

"Yes." Phillip sounded like an offended father. "Isn't she worth thinking about?"

"I never think of women," Harry explained.

"A mistake Harry," Phillip interjected.

"When the time comes to think, it's over. They've had it. I like my women when my mind is empty, vacant, and I don't like to have it filled with 'becauses' and 'ifs' and 'maybes' that women can hand you."

"My boy, it's like a job. When the time comes to think, it begins.

Never cut out just when it starts to get interesting."

"When what gets interesting?" They both looked up at the female voice. Carol was standing at the doorway in a gold leopard coat, collared by her golden hair. Her face was fresh, her mouth covered with a deep cherry lipstick. "What gets interesting?"

"You, my darling," Phillip intoned. "We were just talking about you."

"I had the idea," Carol nuzzled against Phillip, "that Harry never spoke about women."

"I do," Harry explained. "Whenever I'm asked a direct question."

It took a while for Carol to understand. She looked accusingly at Phillip. "What do you mean direct question? Were you two gallant men masturbating with my name?"

"Carol!" there was note of admonition in Phillip's voice. "Really, my dear, we don't all know each other that well yet."

Harry reached for his coat; he was hatless, as always. "I think I'd better go." He turned to Phillip. "If not, I'll start thinking. Can't tell what could happen then, Phillip."

"What is this?" Carol's blush had turned to a flush of anger. "How dare you speak in code to each other! I think it's disgusting." She turned to leave the room. "If you'll just give me the stuff Phillip, I'll be over tomorrow evening after I have seen Boris."

Harry was standing at the doorway, and Phillip realized intensely and jealously that he didn't want them to leave together. "We're not going to have another scene, are we Carol? I mean, you're saying thirty times you must leave, and me saying thirty-one times you must stay, and then we do what we started out to do."

"Phillip," she was really hurt, "don't make everything sound so cheap and predictable."

"It's not cheap because it's predictable, my young beauty. I can tell you exactly what's going to happen between the three of us. It will happen, you know. I don't know who's making it happen, but it will happen. And none of us will be any cheaper for it, or any the wiser.

Just a little older and a little more tired."

"You make everything sound dreadful." She was near tears. It was the second time in his life with Carol that Phillip had seen her near tears. "You kill everything. You ruin everything. I wish there was something that could happen to me that you wouldn't know about long before I do. I wish I could have a little more life of my own and not feel…"

"But, my dear," Phillip interjected. "You'd feel so much more if you had a life of your own! That's what I'm protecting you from."

Suddenly, surprisingly, Harry spoke. "It would be nicer if you used your gun, Phillip. So much cleaner and quicker."

"I think you should leave, Harry," Carol said. Her voice was still and distant. "Have your dinner and then come back. I'll be gone by then and you and Phillip can finish your conversation."

"There are a few things," Phillip said quickly, "that we must talk about."

"Yes," Harry said quickly, "of course. Don't be so outraged." It was shocking to hear his voice, suddenly filled with sympathy and knowledge, "Phillip is no prophet. We know what will happen too. It's just that Phillip's not afraid to say it. He's afraid of a lot of things, but he's not afraid to say what we're thinking. Maybe his paintings give him that courage. I'll be back, Phillip," and he left with the crown jewels.

"You seem to have outlined my entire evening," Phillip's words were bitter.

"Phillip, you say that after you've outlined my entire life."

"An evening," he explained, "is infinitely more important than a life.

It lasts much longer."

Carol laughed. "Mix me a drink, sweetheart. We'll get very dull if we don't have a drink."

"I've never heard you complain of impending boredom before."

"Do you think I'm rebelling, Phillip? Do you think I'm finding new interests in life?"

"I can't imagine why you would." He cupped her pale face and kissed her on the mouth. "I think it's all been very interesting."

She rubbed casually, cat-like against his body. "You're the most interesting man in the world."

"Is that enough for you, Carol?"

"It's always been too much for me, my dear. I'm just beginning to catch up."

"How dreadful," he murmured. "I thought I was miles ahead of you." He had removed her coat and hat and pulled off the gloves that encased her hands, finger by finger. She wore a brown and orange tweed dress. It was beltless and tight on her hips; below, it flared out into a many-gored skirt. There were thirty-two buttons from the neck to the hem. He began methodically and silently to unbutton them. She stood motionless as the mannequin in her office. The slip with the stiff crinoline skirt zippered smartly down the back. He lowered the straps over her stiff arms, and pushed her gently to step over the heap on the floor.

Her brassiere snapped shut in the front, between her small, high, full breasts. His fingers played with the hook. Then he pulled the cloth back, unpeeling her breasts like exotic fruit. He held his four fingers tightly below her armpits and massaged the nipples of her breasts with his thumbs. They became rigid under his caress and Carol was standing, eyes closed, mesmerized, naked except for the thin nylon panties and the garters and stockings they supported. He put his mouth against her neck and ears and the small cavity just above the swell of her breasts.

"Come darling," he guided, "let's get into bed."

"I feel like a bride, Phillip. You make me feel like a bride."

She opened her eyes and saw him standing fully dressed before her.

His dressing gown reached to his knees, and she could see the dark striped pants under it. An ascot covered his throat, and she felt her nudity with a tremor.

"Take off your clothes, Phillip," she begged.

He stood silently studying her. "We usually do it my way, Carol."

"Take off your clothes," she repeated, and at last she found her tears.

She clawed at his scarf until she had it loose, and pulled it off in one long motion. When she had it loose in her hand, she billowed it open and shielded her naked body with the large square.

"Take off your clothes," she screamed again.

Phillip took the scarf out of her hand. He walked to the mirror, fastidiously tied it around his neck, returned to Carol, standing defeated where he had left her, and slapped her powerfully across the face. "We do it my way," he repeated. Picking up her limp body, he carried her into the bedroom and threw her across the enormous satin tufted bed.

He pulled the cane out of his dressing room and struck her across the buttocks. "We do it my way, do you understand?" She was silent and he struck her again, the welts forming beneath the springy wood. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Phillip," she sobbed at last. "Yes, Phillip."

"Weep," he hit her again. "You've been trying to weep for days.

Cry, it's easy." He struck her a final time and threw the cane into the corner of the room. "Don't have me despise you, Carol," he warned.

"It makes me want you too much, and then I'll never let you go free.

Not for a minute of your life. I can have you as long as I want you.

I've made you and I'll have you, and this will be no fairy tale, no Pygmalion. You'll never enchant me and go free."

He knelt over her body and kissed her tenderly on the tear-wet mouth. "If you want me naked, take my clothes off. Just ask nicely, baby, and you can have anything you want." Her hands trembled, afraid to touch him. "It's all right, go ahead," he consoled her.

Once more she undid the scarf, this time gently, as if the patterned silk, too roughly handled, might bruise his flesh, as if it were a child's game, and he might suddenly pound her trembling hands fleshless. He nuzzled his mouth against the small tender depression at the base of her neck. He stretched out muscleless on the huge bed and whispered, exhausted and deeply excited, "Undress me, my angel. Put me to sleep, my angel."

He pulled her body flat on his, naked against his robe and trousers.

She hid her face on his exposed chest. Her body pulsated pain. "My angel is hot," he comforted her. "She wants to be fucked, but she hates her Daddy." He ran his finger along the wet sucking edge of her vagina. The finger traveled carelessly around and around the opening, not touching the feverish inner wall. Finally, almost thoughtlessly, he slipped against the small erect mound of feeling. She moaned with need, "Phillip, Phillip."

He removed his hand and mixed his fingers into her soft yellow hair.

"Maybe there isn't time for me to undress, baby?"

"No, no," she begged, "now." And out of the maze of words, Phillip knew that she wanted him now. His prick was high and urgent and he quickly, wordlessly, forced his arm between their pressed hips and let his rod come free over the folds of his robe and the striped diplomat pants.

He forced the bone of flesh sharp inside her cunt, inside the hungry mouth. She howled and sucked it up. He was motionless under her and she rotated her ass eagerly, feeling him on every side and back to the wall of her womb.

Then he put a hand tightly on her buttocks, and held her stiff and paralyzed above him. She collapsed at his touch and waited, waited.

He moved up and down in her cunt, slowly, surely, all the way. Up and down till his prick was a narcotic, fucking all the way into her brain.

She stretched her arms free on either side of him and rolled on his stomach, fucked coolly and thoroughly into her soul.

The first time she shuddered and came, he kept the speed of his throbbing, penetrating prick unchanged, moving in and out as if he had not felt the trembling, screaming body above him. He kept the steady fuck that she thought could go on all night, that she wanted all her life, in and out of her with monster precision, rubbing the center of feeling with deadly detached accuracy.

The beat inside of her was as irrevocable, as essential as the uncontrolled thumping of her heart. His prick was a heart inside her, or a hand, or a mouth, or a spoon, shoving in food, feeding her poison.

Her second orgasm, hypnotized and uncontrollable, was coming from deep inside, from the well that was spilling her juices on the cover of the bed. Her hips got frantic, her vagina swelled and spread, incredibly wide, as big as the biggest black cave to get him all in, and to get more in.

Then Phillip cried, "My God," and came shooting into her before her time, a second before her time.

She shrieked, "Phillip!" But he was spent, his fingers resting on her back, seemingly asleep. "More, Phillip," she demanded, ready for his mouth or fingers or the wooden bedpost. Anything, but more.

"Not now," he said quietly, but he looked at her strangely. "Why didn't you make it, my dear" You had plenty of time." He was like a punishing father, but Carol knew he was afraid, terrified that she was lying there hot. He would not do with his mouth what couldn't be done with his prick. He buttoned his pants and walked to the adjoining bathroom.

He took a transparent hypodermic out of his medical cabinet and stuck the needle into a rubber corked vial. He walked back into the room, holding the needle straight up to pull up the colorless liquid.

Carol said, "No," her eyes wide and frightened. Phillip sat on the edge of the bed, took her arm nervelessly in his hand and pierced the blue vein with the needle. She watched him, fascinated, as the liquid disappeared into her flesh. Her eyes were wide and hysterical when they met Phillip's, but already she was too tired to speak.

"Go to sleep," he warned, his voice not untender, but still strange.

She was watching him, her green eyes fading into sleep. He returned the questioning gaze. "Go to sleep Carol. Forget about your empty hot cunt. It's good to be hot, gets you close to God."

She was deep asleep when he left the room. He hadn't told her that tonight he'd leave for Boston. She wouldn't be awake when he took off. He poured a drink when he reached the study, still unwilling to think of the unsated plea. But he couldn't fuck her anymore; her cunt felt like a trap, like a swamp.

When he heard the door buzz, he remembered Harry. He walked swiftly to the bedroom, saw Carol deep in a trance, a prick-devouring angel. He locked the door from the outside, and put the key in his pocket. Harry was sitting on the couch in the studio when Phillip reentered. "Harry, did you have a good dinner?" he asked.

CHAPTER VII

Sundown, and Harry was alone in Phillip's study, pacing the room, waiting for his call. It was restlessness again, creeping through him in that old familiar way. "Things could get too involved," he thought.

"Yeah, that girl, there was more to her than just being a woman." She was weird, indefinable. It made him feel lost, a novel sensation for Harry. It made him restless, and he didn't want to upset anything between himself and Phillip. "Not now," Harry knew. "I can't let anything interfere now."

It was almost dark. Harry sank heavily into a large armchair. The always-present cigarette in the corner of his mouth, dangling, looking not smoked at all, just there and getting shorter as though by magic.

The mother-of-pearl chess set on the table before him looked inviting in the dim light. He thoughtfully began to move a few pieces about when the door to the study burst open. Harry sprung up, cat-like.

"You could get killed that way, walking into a room unannounced!"

Carol stood by the door, saying nothing, her eyes catching his angry stare through the twilight. Finally she spoke dryly, ignoring his outburst. "You're going to burn your lips if you don't give up that butt.

You need a better light."

She walked past him in the dark, toward the indirect light. He felt her brush by him; he could smell faintly the more spicy than sweet odor of her perfume. "Yes," he thought, "Carol is definitely in the room."

She turned on the light near the chess set. It was a hot evening, and Carol was dressed for the weather, wearing a short dress made of filmy material, like a little girl's jumper or perhaps more like a nightgown.

Harry remained standing in the same position as when she entered, not talking, not moving, the cigarette butt burning into his lip. He stood staring through her. She spoke softly, "You've been working overtime."

Harry walked back to his chair, and mashed his cigarette in one of the large alabaster ashtrays. He lit another immediately and returned to his chess game. Carol watched the side of his sculptured face, its muscles moving in and out as he concentrated on the board. In the back of her mind she wondered if that face would ever look at her with the same intensity and her heart turned over in between her breasts.

She put her portfolio and purse on another chair and walked back to Harry.

"Who's winning?" she asked toyingly.

Harry looked up at her as though she were a statue that had come to life. "Who do you think?" he replied teasingly. Carol couldn't return his piercing stare. She sensed something else emanating from him.

She was unable to make the usual banter. Rather than melt away under his gaze, she turned her back briefly to him and stood still for a split second. In that moment Harry followed the curve of her ass from the tiny waist to the voluptuous full-blown thighs, then to the bottom of her heart-shaped ass.

His cock bolted upright, uncontrollably, as though it were crying for attention. Carol walked over to the small oak bar and mixed herself a drink. "I played chess often with Phillip," she said. Harry resented the sudden mention of Phillip's name. "Where is he by the way," she added.

"Why? Anything important?"

"Not, not really. I brought over the latest issue of Femme to show him. There are reproductions of two paintings Phillip once owned.

Want to see them?"

Carol picked up the copy of Femme and made another drink. She slowly walked back to Harry's chair and sat on the arm. "Want a drink?

I forgot to ask."

"No thanks," Harry answered nervously, hoping she wouldn't sense his sudden uneasiness. Her closeness became near agony for him. He hated himself for responding to her. He kept his eyes glued to the chess board, but her musky smell drove him wild. He thought his balls were blowing up and he would be carried up into the air by them, like those huge old-fashioned balloons.

"Here they are." Carol rested the magazine in her lap as he tilted his head to the side. Her full-pointed nipple softly rubbed his temple.

The paintings were two Rousseaus. "They're strange." He said this in a manner that revealed a certain insight and awe. Then more quickly he said, "Like you, they're strange." Carol hardly breathed; if she were to breathe it would be a wall between them and they would not be able to sense each other's presence so completely.

As Harry lifted his head from the magazine he noticed that Carol was wearing a small velour hat.

"It's warm for a hat, baby." He raised his hand almost as a reflex and ran his finger abstractedly over the crown. Carol felt that touch all the way down, deep into her pussy.

"Do you like it?" she asked dreamily.

"Yeah, it's like the inside of a jewel box." He took the hat off her head, gently placed it beside the chess set, then pushed the table away.

Carol was laughing at what he had said, and he laughed too. They were laughing deliciously together, when Carol stopped abruptly, her eyes filmy as the material of her dress. She looked deep and long at him and, slipping down the arm of the chair, fell on him, saying, "Harry, Harry," over and over again.

She sank down to her knees, opened his pants aggressively and began to passionately suck his cock. It was purple with sensuousness, the mushrooming tip, pink and spongy compared to the steel rod that supported it. She'd never tasted anything so wonderful. His cock was sweet, and she allowed him to plunge his sticky rod of sweetness to the very back of her mouth. Carol tasted the bits of salty sperm that lashed out into her throat. Her mouth pulled in and out on his blazing prick, its veins swollen with fire.

Every once in a while she ran the tip of her tongue around the edges of the vibrating veins of his cock. She moved her viper's tongue down to the delicate hairy valley between his balls, and licked her way up, ever so tenderly, ever so pleasingly, until her lips found the flower of his stem. Then she moved her mouth and lips in such a manner that he thought she was eating him up alive and nothing would be left. Thank Christ he had gotten rid of this flaming torch he was carrying.

Harry glanced down at her smooth blonde head moving fervently over his organ. He began to move his hips with frantic excitement.

Her hands tugged him gently behind his knees, and she pulled him to the floor. She didn't stop sucking his cock, so he was unable to get to her breasts or cunt. She was a woman possessed. To interrupt her would be an insult. The intensity of her mania controlled him and he was too hot to think of anything but what she was thinking of.

She lay flat on her stomach between his beautifully muscled dancer-like legs. Her hands were under his tight-skinned buttocks, pushing the round snake-head deeper … deeper. He thought the soft membrous lining inside her mouth felt the way a Vestal virgin's cunt must feel.

Then something beyond his control pulled all the seeds from his soul out of him. Her teeth closed almost too tightly on his cock as he came and came and came. He couldn't stop gasping, nor could he keep his hips from moving uncontrollably down against her terrible feverish lips.

After what seemed another time span in some other world, he lay silent. All that was left were her fingers plunged deep inside his asshole, as though this would hold him together, keep him from falling apart. He looked down his body to her head turned to the side and resting gently against his sated organ. She barely breathed. The only movement was his sperm running endlessly from the side of her mouth, like blood. "So this is Carol," he thought.

The telephone rang. It sounded like a thousand bells were jangling.

They were lying in the same position on the floor, both half asleep.

Harry was the first to react to the sharp sound. He moved from underneath Carol's head and sprinted to the phone.

"Hello, yeah, yeah, okay. Half an hour, okay."

Carol went into the luxuriously tiled bathroom while he was on the phone. When she came out, she was amazed to find Harry fully dressed. He walked quickly to an adjoining room and started throwing things into an overnight case. She looked on silently, thinking, "He acts as though we've never met."

"Going some place?" She was cool, but she really wanted to run to his arms and say, Remember me? Remember, I was the girl that five minutes ago was so hot for you I was eating you up alive, remember?

But she remained contained.

"It seems that way," Harry answered her indifferently. "I just got a call."

In a minute he was packed and ready to go. He went for his coat in the study. Carol was in the doorway as he exited. "See you in the Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 60

papers," she called after him bitterly. The door made a loud bang as he left.

CHAPTER VIII

Boston was clear, dry, and a bit windy. It was midday and the airport was filled with people. Phillip was waiting behind the railing as Harry's plane made the landing. Harry was the fifth person off, and Phillip probably spotted him before he came to the door of the plane.

Phillip walked eagerly toward Harry and began speaking to him before they were face to face.

"Good to see you. Everything is all set."

They got into a taxi quickly and rode to Phillip's hotel suite.

Immediately, Phillip pulled out a few diagrams. "Your entry is here.

I'll take care of the dog. We have to follow the plan exactly, there's no other way. If one thing fails, we split up as planned and leave it."

Suddenly Harry felt back in the business again. It was like being reborn and nothing counted, nothing else could give him the feeling.

Phillip reached into his pocket. "Here's a list of what we need. Pick them up and go back to your hotel for a short rest. Leave a call for seven o'clock. I'll be by half an hour later."

Phillip waited in a large foyer of Harry's hotel at the appointed time.

There was no sign of Harry. One of the elevators opened and a fat lady walked out; Harry was concealed behind her. Phillip felt annoyed at his partner's slight lateness when he saw him walking closely behind the fat dowager, luminent in paste, phony diamonds. Harry had a slight devil's smile. Then they caught each other's eye. There was a moment when Phillip smiled too. He thought Harry looked good, freshly awakened, dressed in the usual Burberry and crepe-sole shoes. They joined and went out the revolving door and into a black Dodge sedan.

Harry shifted into first, took a package from his coat and handed it to Phillip.

Phillip opened a bottle containing large, clear capsules, raised it to his nose and smelled. Then he took a butcher-like package and unwrapped it, exposing a chunk of raw meat, a little larger than a man's fist. Opening a small knife, Phillip repeatedly plunged the blade into the meat. Then he inserted six or seven of the capsules deep into the cuts. Pinching the openings closed, he rewrapped the meat.

Harry watched him out of the side of his eye. "It looks like that gives you a pleasure of its own."

Phillip said nothing. He put the package back into one of his coat pockets.

"I thought you despised violence?"

"I never said I was against violence," Phillip continued with his penetrating half-artificial smile. "Only unnecessary violence."

Their car moved slowly along the road toward Beacon Hill. Harry slowed to a stop opposite a twelve-foot stone wall. The wall was thinly vined, making strange shadows, giving it a foreboding aspect.

They left the car and walked across the street to the wall. Phillip took a small gadget from his pocket, and squeezed it erratically. It was a child's toy cricket. With the other hand he held the steel tube in his mouth and blew, silently, alternating with the cricket. There was a distant ominous growl, then barking. At a quick nod from Phillip, Harry sped away.

Phillip continued blowing the dog whistle and working the toy cricket. The barking became louder. He unwrapped the package and threw it to the howling animal.

Harry arrived at the outside corner of the medieval style wall. Then deftly, like a seasoned artist, he fitted a small grapple-like hook on the end of a tight coil of thin rope. He heard the furious barking of the dog.

What if it was a wolf and not a dog? In his imagination he saw Phillip torn to pieces by a slobbering wolf.

The barking stopped, utter silence again. Harry came out of his fantasy reflecting, "How the fuck did Phillip get naked anyhow?"

He tossed the hook over the far top of the wall to test the ropes tautness. He was unnerved by his lapse into the unconscious, something he hadn't allowed himself to do since he was a kid. "I hope it isn't an omen, Harry old boy," he said to himself more out of superstition than intuition. "But you never know. You never know."

He grabbed the rope tenaciously and pulled himself up and over.

Freeing the hook as he dropped to the ground, Harry faced a huge sweep of moonlit lawn. He had a sudden desire to masturbate under the huge yellow moon. To make another circle of luminosity on the smooth, close-cropped greenness of the lawn. In his mind's eye he saw himself a lone slender figure, his shadow behind him as he pulled on his penis, rubbing it not frantically, but assuredly. He would turn his head slightly and watch his shadow, like watching someone else jerk off. He would get hotter and hotter that way.

What a macabre idea! Here we are in the midst of the biggest hit yet, and I'm having wet dreams again. It must be the full moon, or my past is catching up with me.

He raced desperately across the lawn, as though running from himself and the thousand dark shadows in his brain. He disappeared around the back of the mansion. Phillip emerged swiftly from the darkness. They moved without noise together, like Indians stalking enemies. Now and then Harry would squeeze Phillip's arm almost passionately. Phillip did not understand this.

They moved toward a particular window. Phillip put the glass cutter to his mouth, and quickly passed his hand over the pane. He scored the glass with two swift, even, eight-inch diagonal strokes. He covered each score-mark with strips of adhesive tape. The sharp end of his cutter loosened the putty in each corner. Prying back slightly, the glass snapped. The diagonals fell out without a sound, hanging by the tape.

The gardener's cottage had a light on, but it was a night light. They were sure of this. However, they were not able to function with absolute impunity. Phillip reached through the broken pane and turned a knob in the wired copper alarm-box. Harry saw the door to the gardener's cottage open and a flood of light fell on the lawn.

When Phillip gently raised the window for expert entry, the gardener's head and shoulders showed in the doorway. They jumped through the window, sunk to the floor and looked over the window sill.

The gardener peered into the darkness, shrugged his shoulders, and closed the door.

Harry was holding a hooded flashlight. They were at the end of a long hallway. Phillip removed a whalebone collar-stay from his shirt.

With it he jiggled the lock of a large, arch-shaped door. Harry swept his flashlight around the room revealing a large library, book lined except for the outside wall, which was heavily draped with a dense vermilion velour. Taking opposite sides of the room, they started to look over and behind the shelves for the safe. Phillip ran his hand systematically along the upper inside corner of the shelves, from waist height to the shelf above his head, while Harry pulled books out in bunches, throwing them on the floor.

Phillip said suddenly, "Here, over here!"

Harry held the flashlight while Phillip reached under a high shelf and pushed a button. "Turn on the main switch, Harry, we need current."

Harry's mind was a blank now, deep in coordination. He threw on the lights. No movement in the gardener's cottage — he'd better be sleeping. The light was blinding for them; when they could focus, they saw an entire section the bookcase swing out. Phillip motioned to Harry to kill the lights as soon as he saw the panel he wanted.

Phillip pushed the panel back and exposed the safe. It was recessed in the wall about six inches. He rubbed his fingers together and began to spin the dial knob.

Harry parted the curtains slightly and looked out at the distant light of the cottage. Phillip's head was as close as it could possible be to the safe, he turned the dial slowly from right to left, pausing here and there.

He was perspiring heavily from the concentration. Harry moved nervously away from the window, lit a cigarette, and said softly, "Open thy portals." Phillip's hands and fingers were contorting with the insistence of a magician bent on amusing his audience.

Harry swallowed the smoke of his cigarette instead of exhaling it.

He did this unconsciously until he began to cough, then he spit the butt onto the carpet and ground it in. A faint ugly burning smell remained.

"OK Phillip! Let's bust it."

Phillip spun the dial impatiently. "Impossible. It's too heavy."

Harry grabbed his drill and pushed Phillip aside. Phillip was shocked at his aggressiveness. He picked up a crowbar and handed it to Harry.

"Use this, not the drill."

Harry took the small crowbar and worked furiously. The bar kept slipping out. On the floor about him were several tools, including a short sledgehammer lying near the smashed dial-knob. The steel punch was broken half off, protruding from the dial-hole of the safe. Harry was obsessed with the crowbar, nothing else appealed to him. He was banging it feverishly when Phillip put his hand on his shoulder hard.

"It's no good Harry. It's too far recessed; it would have to be blown."

After a pause, Harry stood up abruptly. His head lowered, he breathed like a man chased by a mad animal. Phillip spoke this time with authoritative decisiveness, "Come on, forget it. I'm sorry, but it's a bungled job."

Harry looked at the safe with fury. He wasn't going to leave, not now. Not with $200,000 in that box — no, no. "I'm not leaving without it," he shouted, his voice sharply raucous. "Tear down one of the drapes," he commanded Phillip.

Phillip, stunned by Harry's furor, crossed the room mechanically, like a somnambulist, pulled down one of the huge velour drapes and hurled it to him. It fell directly on top of Harry. He looked quite mad, Phillip thought, as he twisted himself out of the cloth.

"Thanks," said Harry bitterly. In a flash, he nailed one end of the drape against the wall with a cold chisel. He pulled the other end over the hold of the safe and proceeded to lash it to the wall with his sledge.

The heavy drape muffled the sound considerably, but it soon began to rip apart where he was pounding.

At this point, Harry threw another command at Phillip. He shouted breathlessly for him to bring the car around to the side gate. "If I'm not there in five minutes Phillip, split!"

Phillip nodded in accordance. He had been watching Harry, strangely fascinated by his tenacity. Phillip was no longer a part of this action, barely an accomplice. His risk was extreme and for what? For the impetuousness of a maniac, a young god-like maniac. The agreement was always to give up if things got dangerous. He never dreamed it would turn out this way. So this was what Harry had all cramped up inside him.

He left Harry in the flickering light of the flashlight, lying askew on the floor. Harry's form was illuminated as he lashed feverishly at the wall, the dulled sounds of his blows thudding like distant drum beats.

When Phillip reached the light-swept lawn before the gardener's cottage, he thought the drums were still there, beating in his ears, dull rhythmic thuds, but he knew he was out of earshot.

The flashlight was now in Harry's mouth. He swung powerfully at a bolt on an iron sidearm, which was set in concrete. The other side of the wall, by the safe, was in shambles with the sidearm sprung loose from the concrete. With a final blow from the sledge, the bolt parted and Harry used the crow-bar to loosen the safe.

Bracing one leg against the wall beneath, he gave an inhuman yank on the supporting strips. The safe moved forward about five inches.

Harry looked as if he had been down in a coal pit for days. Covered with sweaty grime, his face was twisted into a frightful mask. He heaved against the safe again; it came out a trifle more. It was so heavy every muscle in his body swelled until he thought he would rip apart.

But soon the safe plunged to the carpeted floor with a smashing sound.

Harry fell to the floor beside it. Gasping, he got to his feet and with monumental effort and slowly lifted the safe onto a heavy wooden chair. Kneeling, his back to the chair, he took one of the side-arms in each hand and tilted the chair forward. It rested heavily against his back.

Staggering to his feet, though bent double, he struggled toward the door. He left the flashlight burning on the floor, shining on all his evil tools. He made his way slowly down the long hall.

When he finally reached the entry window with the taped diagonals, he allowed himself to slump against the sill. Sick and breathless, he rested for a second, his half-closed eyes taking in the gardener's cottage, the same light glittering forth. He coughed and gagged, and in a flash he raised the safe to the window sill and sent it tumbling to the lawn. He jumped out after it.

He held the safe against his groin and knees and staggered like a hunchback across the lawn. When he neared the cottage, he moved to the left of the fieldstone path, passing onto the left lawn which was bathed in a flood of light. Clearly silhouetted in the moonlight, he progressed toward the wooden gate. The safe brushed the ground. He halted by the gate and let it drop, collapsing against the stone portal.

Harry leaned his head against the cool stone wall. It did not ease his pain. His eyes were closed and his breath came in gasps, like an asthmatic's. His head ached. But soon we'll live happily ever after …

as long as that gardener stays fast asleep…

He reached into his coat pocket and extracted the small sledge hammer. Pushing himself away from the wall with his left hand, he raised the sledge and with one tremendous blow, smashed the cast iron lock and handle. The noise shattered the silence and the heavy door swung creakily open.

He glanced behind himself for an instant. That fucking light in the gardener's cottage never burns out, he thought.

Harry lifted the safe to his knees and propelled himself to the sidewalk. Phillip was at the wheel, the rear door of the car open and welcoming. In three steps Harry had the safe to the car. He dumped it in with a heave and collapsed on top of it saying, "OK Daddy, drive…"

He fell unconscious.

CHAPTER IX

Phillip sat leisurely smoking his cigar and reading the papers on a park bench in the vicinity of the sea-lions at the Central Park Zoo.

Elegantly dressed, he ate a bag of peanuts. It had been so long since he had sat in the sun, he enjoyed it. His New York Post ran a story banner: COPS TIE BOSTON AND CONN. JOBS!

"Fingers" Suspected in Both.

He smiled wryly to himself as he read the article over again. "But they'll never know," he said softly to himself.

Phillip strolled toward Central Park West. Breathing deeply and vigorously, he passed the children's carousel, teeming with tots, some attended by their nurses, others with their mothers taking an hour off before cooking dinner, still others with an older brother or sister to protect them from kidnappers.

"Shabbiness," Phillip thought, "the one thing to be avoided."

Apparently everyone else felt the same way these days. No more being content with modest living. But what was everyone doing with his money?

At least Phillip knew what to do with his money. He had taste and a genuine feeling for art, something few people, wealthy or not, had any more. Yes, he was a superior person, he thought, not snobbishly but factually. It was time to sit back and enjoy his good taste. He wasn't a glutton; he knew when to stop and not begin again. Control, that's what it was. Control was the key to his success.

He threw his shoulders back a bit further, inhaled deeply and came out on the other side of the park. Tonight would be a good time for a sort of celebration, he thought. I'll prepare a perfect dish of squab, sweet crisp, brown little squab, buttered and basted with sherry, exactly the way I like it. Haven't eaten that in a while, seasoned as only I know how … wild rice and nicely chilled Chablis. Then I'll break the news.

Phillip walked quickly into a delicacy food shop.

He arrived at the apartment, trailed by a delivery boy carrying a large brimming cardboard carton. He found Harry standing in the foyer, staring into space, smoking in his usual unconscious manner. Harry looked up surprised. "What's all this?"

Phillip beckoned him into the kitchen. "I want to fix a specialty of mine this evening. Every once in a while when I'm especially relaxed, I like to be a chef, and I must say I do it very well."

Harry raised his eyebrows in affirmation. He looked well today, almost back to normal. He had been forced to rest since the Boston job.

He had overexerted himself. Phillip knew this and was pleased tonight to see the change. Harry looked as handsome as ever in his tight fitting khakis and black cashmere sweater. Phillip tipped the boy, put some of the groceries away, and followed Harry into the living room. "Did you see the papers?"

Harry was busy mixing a drink. "Yeah, Carol brought them over this afternoon."

"Carol was here this afternoon?" Phillip questioned casually. Harry smiled and said flippantly, "We had a little game of chess. She says you taught her everything she knows."

"I have taught her a few things." Phillip made his words oddly precise.

"You're quite a teacher."

Phillip smiled ruefully, "That was the plan, wasn't it?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders disinterestedly.

But Phillip continued, "As far as we're concerned, it doesn't seem to be working out that way, does it?"

Harry looked at Phillip over the top of his glass. "Go ahead, I'm listening."

"Did you ever really listen, Harry?"

Harry, taken aback at the serious note in Phillip's voice, laughed.

"Still think I'm too ambitious?"

"Ambitious." Phillip repeated the word cynically. He studied Harry for a moment, as though he were looking at a stranger. "Let me put it this way, Harry. There are those who are not so ambitious and live very satisfactory lives."

Harry crossed the room and sat down on one of the Empire divans.

Aware of Phillip's seriousness, this time he spoke pensively. "People write books, Phillip, and people read them. Those books are usually about guys like me. I don't say this with conceit. Action belongs to me the way big tits belong to some women. The way I see it, the world is a million and one things to get hooked on. I have to do what I have to do. As you would put it, Phillip, it's a matter of taste."

Phillip listened attentively while he mixed a bourbon and water.

"The difference between you and me, Mr. Johns, is that you're a white-collar man, and I like to work." Harry said this less intensely, trying to keep the conversation from becoming too personal, too revealing.

"So, what does it all mean?" Phillip asked gently.

"It means that we've warmed up, we've had our breather, and now it's time to make something really big."

Phillip waited a few moments and then asked matter-of-factly, "How do you know the Llewellyns are down there now?"

Harry flicked his cigarette impatiently, slightly disturbed that Phillip was being so cool and complacent.

"It's that time of the year," he replied. "They're due there soon."

Phillip looked sternly at Harry and said, "You know you'd have to go in heavy, there isn't any other way."

"So what?" He stood up abruptly, poured himself another drink, and paced around the room several times before saying anything more.

Finally, in a softer and more convincing voice, he said plaintively,

"Listen, we probably won't have to use a gun. I've thought it all out.

Don't you understand? I know exactly how it will come off. Clean and fast. If we…"

"Harry, Harry, don't you understand yet that there is an upper limit for thieves. Goose Island is way out. People can wear one or two hundred thousand dollars worth of diamonds, but when it touches the half-million mark … then it's a collection. Collections are mighty hard to crack!" His voice went from extreme sobriety to near rage. Phillip was consistent, the same in business as in pleasure. He started with a doll's smile and wound up with the grip of an elephant.

Phillip went on persuasively, "If I have a pistol, legally registered, to protect my modest property, think what must be legally registered under Llewellyn's name, to be used in an emergency as they see fit.

Rather a heavy thought, wouldn't you say? It's ridiculous to consider it.

And unnecessary."

Carol walked into the room while Phillip was talking. Harry noticed she had changed for the afternoon. She was wearing a pale pink silk dress, shirtwaist in style. The silk clung to her body and fell softly against the inside of her thighs, up high around her pussy.

Harry unconsciously made a gesture of running his hand for a second over his penis. Phillip observed this gesture. Both nodded to her simultaneously and continued talking.

"All that money you've made should have taken away some of that dangerous ambition of yours."

"You've missed the point, Phillip."

"My God, Harry, you've got to know when to stop and learn to cool it!"

"Okay, now you want to sit around and look at your paintings, is that it? I can't make it. I can't live that way."

"Look, I have an idea," Phillip said reflectively, "something that may amuse even you. There's no research necessary on this one. But first, you, Carol and I will eat those squabs as … a sort of hors-d'oeuvre. Is that all right with both of you? I'm not being mysterious, mind you. I always believe that things should be done in the best way possible."

Carol, who had mixed herself a drink and was sitting quietly observing, spoke for the first time. She was not sure of what had ensued, but she knew that things had changed, shifted and would alter even more drastically in the future. She was prepared inwardly for the consequences, for the first time in her life. But like Phillip, she wanted all situations to have some form. Sloppiness destroyed whatever was good to be taken from anything, and for this reason, her approach to life was always with reserve — that is, when conversations were involved.

"First I am most impressed with the fact that you are going to cook us one of your rare specialties. You're really feeling good these days, aren't you Phillip?" She walked across the room and leaned against him, smiling up at his face. Harry was slumped in one of the divans, deep in thought, ignoring both of them. A fire engine careened by, screaming into the night. After the noise came an unreal silence, which awakened Harry. He looked at Phillip and Carol who were immersed in caresses. Not sexy, not just yet, but affectionate. "Well, you both finally relaxed in front of me." Harry walked over to them.

"Come here, Harry darling," Carol said. "I don't want to see you so distant."

Phillip put his other arm around Harry. "Harry, brood no more." His manner of speech imitated the way certain petty hoods spoke. "Like I was saying, I got everything all fixed; you won't be bored, just trust Daddy."

Harry gave him a half smile, then devilishly grabbed his ass. "All right, this time the show is yours. I promise I'll merely follow my part."

Carol smiled charmingly at the two of them. "I suppose it's time for the chef to prepare dinner now," she hinted to Phillip.

Phillip's eyes were fixed on the silky pink folds of her dress around her belly. His voice replied sardonically, "Yes, my dear, it's dinner time indeed." He kicked aside the Persian throw rug they were standing on, revealing the smoothly varnished, blonde parquet floor.

This gesture was like a bell going off in an army barracks, and the sergeant began to give orders. "Take off your silky skin, Carol, my sweet. I want to feel the silk of your flesh, as an aperitif. You," he commanded Harry, "take your fucking finger out of my asshole — only for a moment mind you, and turn off the chandeliers while I light this delightful candelabra for atmosphere. Get to, both of you. Old Phillip gets impatient. Oh yes, Carol, lie down on the floor after you've finished disrobing."

Harry and Carol followed the orders like puppets. Phillip lighted the elaborate candelabra. His face made diabolic from the candlelight, he was now more of a ballet maestro than an army sergeant. His power continued. "Harry, don't stay too long on that side of the room. Come back next to me." Harry walked back to where Phillip was standing in the evil candlelight.

Removing his clothing as he moved toward him, Harry arrived naked at his side. Carol was standing behind them, naked also except for her panties. The shadow of her body enlarged on the bare floor. Harry moved behind Phillip, so that his ass was in front of Carol. Phillip was entirely clothed. Harry stuck his head from the rear of Phillip in between his trouser legs and with his teeth began to unzip Phillip's fly.

Phillip was amused.

As his pants fell, Carol came around to the front of him and started to take off his tie. "Daddy is really getting too old to undress himself.

Put your hands on my breasts while I'm working, it makes it so much more pleasurable."

Harry, still crouching, assisted in the most graceful possible way to remove Phillip's pants. Then he put his head back under Phillip's balls.

The circles of flesh were tight and hard, like those of an athlete. Yes, Phillip had preserved everything. Harry moved his neck slowly from side to side underneath the testicles. Each time Phillip's prick rose hard and heavy. Then it fell like a hand caressing the back of his neck.

When Carol had finished undressing him, she stood flat against his body, his hands over her ass now, her hands moving tenderly up his sides into his armpits. Simultaneously Harry and Phillip began to talk.

"I want to eat you, Carol," said Harry.

"Why aren't you naked?" Phillip asked heavily. He pulled away from them and stood like a commanding general, the muscles of his body taut and expanded as though he were about to lift iron weights.

His cock stood firm and large, like a lance.

Carol looked at him expressionless, not answering. Harry watched Phillip, though his head was lowered like someone ready to kick off a football. Nobody spoke.

"Well," Phillip demanded of Carol, "why aren't they off? Surely at this point you're not ashamed?"

"Ashamed of what, Phillip? Taking off my pants, you mean?" She threw the question back to him.

"Your cunt, you bitch." He came toward her fiercely, repeating,

"Your cunt, your cunt."

"Since when did you become a bitch?" he yelled as he tore her panties off. Harry watched stupefied. "It couldn't be that you don't want Harry to know."

Carol looked terror-stricken at him. As her panties dropped, she fell to the floor and flung her arms around Phillip's ankles. She began to sob. The smooth wooden coolness of the floor refreshed her body.

This is what a grave must feel like, she thought.

Harry moved for the first time. He did not know what was happening. Perhaps something a bit too personal to be made clear to an outsider. Maybe he would find out, but not now. Now all he saw was her beautifully rounded ass staring up into the candlelight, and her legs parted ever so slightly. He imagined how her pussy must feel next to the sweating hardness of the floor.

"I want it next to me," he thought. "I'll figure out the riddle later."

He moved as fast as a gun fighter over to her. Moved up easily behind her, he ignored Phillip, who glared down on them. She was still sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking in hysteria.

Harry sunk his cock deep into her cunt. At first he was tempted to fuck her asshole, but she appeared so feminine, sobbing so helplessly, that his cock instinctively slipped up her vagina. Her cunt was hot and dry.

"That's right, Harry," Phillip cried. "Fuck her; fuck her till her cunt goes dry." Her cushiony but supple buttocks rotated against his stomach, softly pushing against his tightened abdomen. His body arched over her ass like a protective covering. He closed his eyes and it was like dying in quicksand.

Her passion was mixed with sorrow. She moved her cunt ferociously around his cock. As his orgasm blasted her, she twisted over on her back. Harry's prick was still coming, the sperm still bursting from his cock. Carol, no longer sobbing or ashamed, exposed the front of her body.

Her tits heaved up and down, her legs parted and raised, she forgot she was wearing her merkin. Her new cunt hairs were moist with Harry's come. No longer concerned with Phillip's reaction, she pleaded in a hoarse voice, "Phillip, Phillip, eat me. I'm sorry; I'm sorry but eat me." Her eyes were closed and she was in that other world, the world of touch.

Phillip had become so hot watching them that while they were fucking he had masturbated, making sure not to take his eyes off them.

Harry had come more quickly than he would have thought. It wasn't until he saw Carol roll over and Harry's prick still swollen with come that he began to have an orgasm himself. His sperm flooded into his hands.

Ignoring Carol's cry, he jumped on top of Harry, pushing his sticky rod into Harry's waiting mouth as he grabbed Harry's prick with his own lips. They finished each other off masterly. While they consummated their pleasure, their cocks home at last in one another's mouth, they heard Carol's pleas.

Harry opened his eyes and saw her lying, legs pulled back, revealing her open-mouthed cunt. The blond hairs of her pussy looked like lace against the lips of her pussy. The little pink-tongued clitoris pouted out stiff, like a minute penis. His sperm, still fresh, came from her vagina and formed a glaze over her genitals.

She cried for Phillip, but Harry answered, "Will I do?" No sooner had he erupted in Phillip's mouth, when Phillip felt Harry's prick grow up again, hard and strong, like a big boy's. Harry pulled away from under Phillip and crawled to Carol's enfolding legs. His mouth pushed against her pussy and moved around as though it were a food he had been deprived of for years. He licked her until he could no longer taste the sperm he had left in her.

She cried in ecstasy, grinding her cunt frantically against his mouth, crying, "Fuck me with your tongue, baby, please." He slipped his tongue deep inside her and moved it like a cock. His hands were under her ass, so that her pussy was as close to his face as it could possibly be, and he moved her around his mouth like a seal playing with a ball.

Phillip was out of his mind with jealously and excitement, one emotion more intense than the other. My role tonight seems to be relegated to that of the vicarious, he thought. I must prove I am a bit more normal! He caught Harry's silky rod in his hand, stroking it hard.

Then, as Carol sighed out her orgasm into the firm lipped receptacle of Harry's burning mouth, Phillip moved his asshole under and up against Harry's bursting cock.

It caught fast and steely in that well-used area, but tonight it was different. It was harder and it knew what it wanted. It seemed to want to rip his anus in two and that was all right.

When Carol came, Harry placed his fingers gently up her mysterious pussy and felt her vagina vibrate against his hand. He moved his prick deep inside Phillip's ass. He swung it in him like a huge clapper inside a great bell.

Carol heard Phillip groan in passion and crawled to him, sliding her hands under his stomach. Tracing the hair line tenderly down to his fat, rock-like prick, she worked it gently, rhythmically, with the moving of his hips. Harry's fire of flesh made the world's greatest carillon ring.

Carol wanted to be fucked. Perhaps if she hadn't tried to keep her secret from Phillip, it would have worked out differently. She still didn't know if he had observed. She was nervous with passion. Phillip responded to Carol's fingers, and when Harry's stomach lay flat against his ass with exhaustion, Phillip slipped away and came to Carol like an old dog coming home.

He moved her gracefully around so that she was flat on her back, her arms extended, crucifix style. The candles were very low now. Some of the wax had splattered on the shiny floor, and some of it had dripped onto their bodies.

"You look beautiful," Phillip whispered to Carol as he mounted her.

Both their organs were like glue pots. Phillip plunged far and pulled slowly, each thrust made her cry out. Suddenly, in the midst of extremely sensitive fucking, Phillip froze at the fuzzy sensation around the base of his cock. It had been so pleasurable he had lost himself in that sensation. But it was Carol, his darling he was fucking, and he remembered like a bolt of lightning.

His prick became cemented in her cunt. He looked down at her organ and there, as if by magic, she had grown a perfect cunt wig.

Carol's hands dug into his back and down his buttocks into his asshole.

She tried to indicate by pressure for him to continue fucking her, until she realized that it was really Phillip who was on top of her, and that she was really Carol.

Phillip looked hard at her new pussy hairs. She dared not say a word. Each time Phillip ravished her, he felt he was the wolf raping Goldilocks, sucking the purity anew. To her astonishment, his cock didn't diminish within her, she could feel it, eager and sure, ready to spill its milk at any moment.

Then, saying nothing, he withdrew, leaving her soul and her cunt gaping. He prodded Harry's asshole with his large toe. Harry was in a drug-like state, lying where Phillip had left him previously.

"Harry, Harry," Phillip prodded, "go to our young woman and fill her for me. Go now," he directed. Harry rose like a somnambulist and fell on top of Carol. Phillip stood above them. Harry fucked her with Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 77

passion, the kind of passion he would lay anyone with. Carol's eyes were fixed on Phillip's face, while Harry serviced her with professional assurance.

She looks at me, Phillip thought, but if she wears that artifice, it's because she wants him. I am not at all jealous, but she will never know. As though this last thought gave him an extra surge of adrenaline, he crouched over her head and rammed his maleness into her mouth. She sucked on it like a baby taking its meal.

Carol loved the feel of Harry's prick in her. The exotic bird had found its nest. She had always known it would be that way; they fitted without effort. The passion was there before the technique. She wondered if he knew that.

His body was erupting against hers, each movement an explosion.

Phillip pushed Carol's mouth away from his cock, back into the secret darkness of his anus. She ran her tongue around the supple flesh walls and made delicate circles with her tongue in his asshole.

Harry's head bobbed ferociously in front of Phillip's extended, wavering cock. At the point of his orgasm, he caught it in his mouth.

The three of them came as the last candle flickered out. They were in utter darkness, like mighty mountains shooting volcanic fires.

CHAPTER X

Harry wasn't used to surprises. Didn't like surprises. He liked to know just what was happening all the time. Plan a job carefully, cover every detail, and then pray to the god of thieves that there wouldn't be any surprises.

But the night with Phillip and Carol had narcoticized him, had taken him into a strange rarefied atmosphere — not the dense inner life he knew well, but something outside and extremely powerful. They were weird, the two of them, and he'd travel with them. Probably end up in a dark hole and find it was hell. Maybe they were taking him to hell, because they'd both been there. There and back, and there and back.

Probably where Carol got the highest prices for jewels. Went down, down, and sold them to the highest bidder in hell. You could hold onto your money in hell, Harry felt. You could hold onto your beauty and money and youth and never care about anything else. Hell would be to never to lose your hold on what someone else would admire. Harry had never been in that hell, but he had an idea that Phillip was king, and the handmaid Carol would show him the way. Go to hell clinging to a big, flawless, blue-white diamond. It would be worth it. It would make life worth living to have a death worth dying.

Harry felt that surge of strength and meaning that he always got when he was moving into a new job. Usually he knew exactly where he was going, how many nails were in the front door. But it was exhilarating to be able to put faith in Phillip. To be able to say, "I'll go where you're going, Phillip." To feel like a protected boy.

That was what Phillip gave to Carol. Harry didn't really know what was between Phillip and Carol. More than the fucking, though. He'd watched them fuck on the floor. Phillip mounting Carol, and Carol sinking against the hard wood as if the missing piece had just been put back. They were the same, somehow, Phillip and Carol. Two parts of the same puzzle.

And Harry wanted her, but he wanted the diamonds just as much.

They were picking up tickets at La Guardia airport, Phillip and Harry. Carol, ever the female, was late. Phillip had told Harry in the taxi that they were going to Detroit. Plenty of loot in Detroit. Lots of money from putting America on wheels. And he'd roll away with all of it. They stood before the section marked, 'Central West.'

"Detroit, huh," said Harry as they turned away from the counter.

"What's happening there?"

"Anything can happen in Detroit," Phillip smiled. "Do you know the city?"

Harry distractedly stared at a woman, large and shapely and covered with gems. The brooch and earrings of a quality that could interest even him. "Not … intimately," he finally answered.

Phillip glanced at him guardedly. What did not intimately mean?

What did anything about Harry mean? Where was the conscience of the undefined man? What did Harry care about? Did he have a huge bleeding ruby where his heart should be?

Phillip had felt the directness of Harry's taking Carol. Just get in there and pump. Don't complicate things, just unload. That's what it's for. It was more remote, in a way, for Harry to just get in there and fuck than for Phillip to inflict the delicate and gross perversions with which he controlled Carol. It was more controlling to fuck the way Harry did. In the ass, in the cunt, in Phillip's ass, in the mouth, in the ear, in any dark, tight, wet hole. Just let go and have a ball. A kind of insane determination Harry had. Couldn't stop until he was finished.

Phillip certainly discovered that in Boston. Now Harry had started something with Carol, but Phillip had started that a long time ago. He had his hooks in. Carol might fall in love with Harry, probably was in love now, going through some romantic idiocy. But Phillip had his hooks in. And the fish could play.

The jewel-bedecked woman half-turned her back to Harry. She was coquettishly, titillatingly aware of the man's stare, and couldn't find the strength to turn completely away. She bent over her luggage, and her breasts pressed together in the long V neck of her dress. Harry stared at her, detached and intense. Phillip's eyes followed Harry's. He looked long at the glittering woman and then smiled.

"Think she's going to Detroit?" Harry asked plaintively. Then they heard her ask for a California flight. "Maybe we should go to California?" The woman turned around and flirted playfully, like a delicate young elephant.

"Maybe we should," Phillip laughed. Nothing to fear. She wasn't Harry's type. They just had the same tastes in decoration. "But remember Harry, Detroit is the backbone of America."

"Oh?" Harry's eyes left the woman. "Then we must go. Mustn't neglect the country's backbone. Especially when it's held together with platinum."

Phillip didn't answer. He hadn't said one word about the job.

Instead, he looked at his watch, then scanned the waiting room. "Oh, here she is," he said, brightening, as Carol approached, girlish and breathless.

"Last minute things at the office," she said in a rush. "Sorry Phillip darling. Hello Harry." She looked at him briefly. A breathless, girlish, adorable, cool witch. "Good, here come my bags." She wore a back suit and held a big red purse. Harry touched the bag playfully and said,

"Going shopping?"

She looked quickly away, and he realized that it wasn't control that produced her smoothness. It was fear.

Her luggage was the last to be weighed. As it was wheeled toward the scale, the three of them walked out to the field. Harry was upbeat, a new dimension of his usually somber way. He felt good. Proud of Carol for looking so chic and untouched — and probably hot between her thighs right now. Proud of Phillip, too, distinguished in his perfectly fitted suit and homburg. Proud of himself, as a matter of fact

— free and clean and a fit companion for the elegant couple.

"My mother should see me now," he said to them. Phillip cut him short. "Was that the woman you were staring at?" He couldn't tell if Carol had heard or felt the words. They boarded the plane.

Harry walked down the aisle ahead of them and took a seat next to a plump, jeweled dowager. My God, thought Phillip, he's got the magic touch. Carol and Phillip sat behind him. They watched as Harry offered the delighted woman a cigarette and then turned and winked at them. Phillip smiled broadly. Carol hesitated, then said, "Just like Tom Sawyer. How adorable." As the plane took off, she studied Manhattan below them.

In Detroit it was raining heavily. A uniformed chauffeur just outside the gate ran toward them carrying a huge black umbrella.

"Mr. Johns, Mr. Johns," he shouted. Phillip was transformed. He looked like the master come back from the wars. "Good to see you, Sam," he greeted.

Then Sam, protecting them all with the umbrella, himself hatless and soaked, said, "You'd better get to the car, Miss Carol. You'll get all wet."

That would be a tragedy, Harry thought in a rankling of anger and confusion. Imagine Miss Carol all wet. Is Miss Carol ever dry?

Miss Carol said, "Hi Sam," warmly like the gentle princess she was.

It was enough for Sam. They followed him swiftly to the black limousine. In the instant before getting into the car, Phillip paused and said, "Sam, this is Mr. Gregory. Steven Gregory. He'll be our guest for a while."

"Pleased to know you, sir," Sam acknowledged, touching his cap.

Harry nodded. His expression was the same as when he had met Carol in the prison, guarded and half asleep. He was furious, furious.

It was like being denied by Phillip. But he'd have to wait. Phillip might be after a big load. Maybe they were going to be honored guests of Detroit's finest, and then leave with all the gold plumbing. Had to be patient. But Harry felt strange, separate. As if Phillip and Carol had come home and he'd turned down the wrong road.

Phillip sat up front with Sam and Carol, and Harry slipped quickly into the back seat. Phillip and Sam began talking, and Harry tried to piece their conversation into a coherent story. He heard Phillip's voice through the glass cage. "Yes, these past two years in Europe were a gold mine of information. My plans for the gardens are superb. We'll talk about it soon. Ah, to be home at last."

How sweet, how absolutely touching. Carol reached backwards and tapped Harry's arm. "Don't sulk," she mocked. "Everything will be explained to the little boy who hates the dark."

The car arrived at the gate of a huge estate in Grosse Pointe, just outside Detroit. Sam turned into the driveway that formed a huge arc in front of the main house. Another servant hurried down the steps to meet them with an umbrella. When Carol saw him, she exuded, "Dear Wilbur!" Wilbur, undoubtedly the most important of the staff, rushed Miss Carol up the steps, terrified that the honey would melt if she got wet.

"Wilbur, Mr. Gregory. Steven Gregory. He'll be staying with us a while."

After the hurried introduction, they all stood in the front hall of the house. "That's very good, sir," Wilbur approved with an eccentric nod of his head. He gathered up their coats.

The house was like a small chateau. It looked like a house Phillip would live in, retreat to. The front room had a great vaulting ceiling and a curving oak staircase. Phillip looked eagerly about him, rubbing his hands like a chilled squire after the hunt.

"Yes," he said a bit pompously, exaggerating his comfort and relaxation, "home at last. Show Mr. Gregory to the large guest room please, Wilbur. And take care that he has everything he needs."

"Very good sir. This way please, Mr. Gregory." The name sounded phony on the servant's lips. The whole set-up could be a phony.

"You'll excuse me," said Phillip to both Carol and Harry, "while I see to a few things around the place."

Carol smiled at him indulgently and Harry gave him an odd look.

Phillip followed Wilbur up the wide staircase. On the wall of the first landing, he stopped and studied a very large portrait. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, and at first he thought it was a painting of Carol.

The resemblance was striking. He could hear Carol's voice in the still lady.

"Oh, Mr. Gregory, dinner at eight, don't forget," Carol called from below. Harry smiled wanly at the picture and followed Wilbur up the stairs.

Harry walked to the blazing fireplace in the large comfortable room.

His suitcase was open on the chair and he slowly emptied it into the dresser drawer. He was in shirt sleeves, and when he got to a cashmere sweater, he pulled it over his head. He returned nervously to the fire.

On the mantle was a small ornamental stock of long unused tapers. He took one out and, leaning to the fire, lit it, and then with it, his cigarette.

He blew out the taper and put it back with the others, realizing with chilled humor that the stand was merely decorative. He stared at it for a moment, and finally standing confused with the taper in his hand, threw it in the fire. He crossed to the bed and fell back on the pillows, smoking and looking into the fire. Outside, the Michigan rain was pounding.

It was too much … too much to be in a strange house called by a strange name, with everybody else acting like everybody's father.

Harry was getting the short end of Alice in Wonderland. He'd scurried down the hole after Phillip and here he was in Never Never Land, with a nice hot fire that didn't warm him, a picture of Carol painted ten years from now, and Phillip spewing stuff about Europe and gardens.

What the hell were they doing to him? Was this some kind of initiation into hell, or perhaps hell itself. To stay in this big, comfortable, pillow-decked bed and never know what he was doing there, with those creepy servants bringing meals in, and carrying the dirty dishes out and never knowing his right name. What the hell did they think they were doing to him?

What did Phillip want? To stuff him and set him on the piano in the old family manor house? Or shrink his head for the trophy room? The house had to have a trophy room somewhere. Harry got up from the bed, trying to hold onto himself, but feeling uncanny fear creeping into his body.

He stood at the window and looked out, then walked, trapped, around the room and was about to return to the window. What the hell was this? A drink, that would make it normal. A drink. How did you get anything in this damned tomb? Or did the servants train you so well that you didn't want anything until it was time to be served? He rushed out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

The hallway was deserted. Harry went to the nearest door, listened, and then tried the knob. It was locked. He looked desperately around him and ran down the hall. He threw open the door to an empty room.

There was no dust on the unused, obviously untouched furniture. The room lay in its invisible covers, heavy and serious and, for many years, unused by a human. He rushed for another door and found it locked.

He shook it vigorously and finally broke down, shaking the handle and shouting, "Phillip, Phillip for God's sake where are you?"

Wilbur appeared soundlessly at the end of the hall and came toward Harry. He stopped to close the open doors. Harry wanted to crouch protectively against the wall.

"I know this is a rather large house, Mr. Gregory," Wilbur said, "but you'll get used to it. Mr. Johns is in his study, awaiting dinner-call, which has been his habit for years. I suggest you join him there."

He escorted Harry back to his room. At the door he said, "If there is anything you need, Mr. Gregory, don't hesitate to ring for me."

I need to know where I am, who I'm supposed to be, Harry thought.

But to the snide servant he said, "Thank you, I will," and slammed the door. Maybe that's what Wilbur was for. To make you angry and keep you sane. Once in the room, Harry wiped his perspiring face and changed into his dinner jacket. Phillip had better start talking, and none of Phillip's attitudes about life. Just answer a few direct questions.

Harry found Phillip in the library, kneeling over a canvas, a magnifying glass in his hand, scrutinizing a painting. Harry stood silently at the door and looked from one covered wall to the other. In the midst of the magnificence was Phillip.

"When you die, Phillip," Harry said bitterly, "they should put a few painting and a magnifying glass in your pyramid, and the god will withhold his curses."

Phillip got to his feet. "Yes," he agreed, "that's all I want now. It's strange how a man narrows down his needs, his expressions. All I want is a fine new canvas to study and to know it's mine."

Harry couldn't speak; his muteness a residue of the fear that had clutched him in the long hallway. He wanted to hear Phillip speak, to embrace the reality Phillip gave him, and then leave. Get away fast before all the doors were locked and the ghosts came back to the uninhabited rooms.

"That's all I have to say. No man can tell you more than his purpose in living, " Phillip imparted.

"Yes, you can," Harry shouted. "You can tell me what the hell this is all about. What we're doing here, why I am here, what this Mr.

Gregory bit is. I want a lot of pay for playing the fool, Phillip!"

"You're not playing the fool. Why are you and Carol so bitterly concerned about your tiny, insignificant appearances?" He poured a drink for Harry and one for himself. "What's the matter with the younger generation?" he scoffed. "They have to be told everything.

They hate surprises. Why, when I was a boy…" he continued sentimentally.

"Yes Phillip, that's what I want to know about. When you were a boy, in short pants, all the way up to when you were a boy in striped pants, to now. Do you understand? To this minute! To Harry Hatch!

And what the hell I have to do with this masquerade."

"I'll explain everything to you, Harry," Phillip said calmly. "That's why I've brought you here."

"What is this 'that's why I've brought you here' line? Give me my part to read, Phillip. I don't want to fuck up the plot. There must be something for me to say like, 'Thank you Daddy. Please be kind.'"

"Harry, give me a moment."

"Well, you're calling me by my real name. Shall I pinch myself?"

"I thought you had grown to trust me enough that I could bring you here and tell you these things. I'm fond of you Harry, but I'm not fond of these hysterics." Phillip was collected now, the sitting master in his house. "Listen to me Harry; I admire you. I can understand being a man like you, rather than me. I've thought that of very few men.

You're pure, Harry," he laughed softly. "You're a beautiful pure young heathen. But you're pure, an artist in yourself. You should put the art somewhere else, somewhere outside of you, or you're going to become perfect and die. It's all going to lead to your death."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"You're off, Harry, way off. You don't know who I am, or who you are. You're going to kill yourself, my friend. That's going to be the only thing left to do. That's what happens when there's nothing out there, out in the world."

"Have you brought me here," he mocked, "to introduce me to a few hobbies?"

"In a way. I thought I might introduce you to living. Living outside the dream."

"Just finding nice, homey comforts."

"Perhaps."

"Like what?" Harry leaned forward. "Like tennis and chess and fucking Carol?"

Phillip looked serious. "Leave my daughter out of this."

Harry didn't say anything. He drank deeply as if Phillip hadn't spoken. When there was nothing but ice left in the glass he spoke quietly. "Your daughter?"

"I'll let you have it all, Harry, and straight. This is my house. This is where my daughter Carol grew up. I assume by now you've seen the portrait on the first landing? Rather fine, don't you think? My wife, Claire, Carol's mother." He let the slow surprising words reach Harry, and poured two more drinks.

"The house belonged to my wife. It was rather an elevating marriage for me, but not out of the question. I came from a good family and all that. But we were poor and I didn't like that at all. As a matter of fact, I liked my wife very much. At first I liked her for not being poor. That was enough. Then, when I got used to being rich, I liked her for being just like me, just as rich as me. That's when it all began. Wealth can be an oppressive habit, particularly for those who haven't been born with it. Claire thought it might be good sport not to have money. But I knew, knew very well what a bore it actually was."

"You can't stand boredom, can you Phillip?"

"Nor can you, Harry. That's what's attractive about you. Am I boring you now?"

"No, go on."

"When the crash came, I was at more of a loss than she was. After all, she had known wealth all her life. And she hated boredom too. So, to save the day, I stole her jewels. And then, to reassure the insurance boss, to make certain it didn't appear to be one of those proverbial

'inside jobs' that were so popular then, I lifted some jewels belonging to a friendly neighbor as well. It was so simple. And I rather enjoyed it, looking at other people's treasures and then getting a very good price for them. My neighbors would have been proud of how highly I valued their property."

"Of course," Phillip continued, "Claire was terribly upset at first, but when the insurance money came through, we took a trip around the world and she calmed down a bit." He paused and lit a cigarette.

"Anyway, she thought it was as exciting to be married to a thief as to a poor man."

He looked about the study. "I've been collecting pictures for almost thirty years." Then wistful, catching himself up, Phillip smiled.

"Besides, I had responsibility. What would have become of Sam and Wilbur?"

Harry listened with interest, even sympathy. Then he said, "I guess now you are about ready to retire. Is that it?"

"I was hoping you would be too, Harry. Sincerely hoping."

Harry looked at him oddly for a moment, as though caught off-guard. Then his mouth twisted into its cynical smile and he said coldly,

"To be your chess companion or stable boy? No, I guess I'm not ready for that yet. Even though the princess goes with the deal, and I understand the other night now, Phillip. I understand that the golden haired princess is thrown in with the kingdom."

The two men stared at each other in silence. It was broken by a knock at the door. Carol walked in, beautiful in a floor trailing gown.

She studied the two men, and Harry realized that she had known of this talk.

"You look very well tonight, Carol," Phillip said without really transferring his attention from Harry. "Really lovely I might say. I like that pendant with that dress. Sets it off nicely." Carol wore a delicate chain around her neck, heavily burdened between her breasts with a large lovely diamond. She touched the gem and turned finally to Harry.

"Do you like it? I know you have a … feeling for such things."

Harry's eyes were cruel on her face, his voice gross. "The Johns at home," he said. "The Mid-West, the backbone of America."

Carol stood motionless and stared intently at Phillip. She couldn't speak for a few seconds, and they could see her pulse beating fast and frightened in her throat.

"Mystery over?" she asked Phillip.

"Only half of it," he said cruelly.

CHAPTER XI

Carol sat stiff at the table, like a child who's been told to behave.

Her head was held high, and she brought her food delicately and tastefully to her mouth. Harry watched her openly, but made no attempt to eat his own dinner. Phillip bent his head over his plate as he often bent over the painting he fastidiously studied. Harry sat across from Carol thinking disjointedly "…she is my sister … Phillip is somehow above both of us…"

But he felt a curious hate, as if she had made the entire deception, the whole masquerade of Phillip as a squire. That somehow she had offered Phillip a disguise and protection that Harry never could have.

That Phillip and Carol were meshed together.

And where the hell did that leave Harry? Somewhere at the end of the table being a brusque fool who stared and refused to eat. He was an outsider, mainly because they were too much for him. They were a black lacework of intricacy, and he was a rough green thread that looped through the pattern. But he always remained vulgar and somehow outside of it.

Yes, there was even something immaculate about their incest. It left Carol the eternal virgin. She would never really give herself to a man, only to Phillip. And that was some mysterious kind of breast-feeding.

Something Harry couldn't figure out, would never figure out. He just sat there, feeling the anger in his body, watching Phillip wipe the plate clean with a piece of French bread after each course, as Carol sat there like his rebuked child.

"You've really gotten a kick out of life, haven't you Phillip?" he finally said.

"I intend to continue having a 'kick,'" Phillip said, holding the word up like a dirty sock. "That's what I'm trying to impress on you Harry.

Life can be lived very effortlessly, very pleasantly."

"I believe in making an effort," Harry said. His knuckles were white on the edge of the white table cloth. "I don't want to make it in your swamp, Phillip. That's not for me." He turned to Carol. "It disgusts me."

"Harry," Carol spoke in a cool voice, "doesn't like swamps, Phillip.

He prefers jungles. Harry is a kind of Superman, a Tarzan. He likes to swing from tree to tree and pound his chest."

"I see you've inherited your father's wit," Harry said, bitter and dry.

"Phillip's given you everything he has. You're a very lucky girl, Carol."

"Yes," she agreed, "Phillip has given me many things. I've had the most generous daddy a girl can have."

"Let's not throw the paternal dignity around too much," Phillip said, seemingly disinterested at the cruel banter, as if he had told Harry the story and was disappointed in the unnecessary reverberations.

"The younger generation," he murmured, "is considerably more neurotic than mine. You take everything so dramatically. Everything must be a crisis. The only crisis I respect is the one Cezanne created in the nineteenth century. Now Harry, don't you feel unimportant, like some Boy Scout next to that?"

Carol laughed the way Phillip often laughed, turning her head slightly to the side and not opening her mouth. "That's perfect, Phillip, exactly the word. Harry is all confused and indignant. He thinks it's disgusting that you got to my cunt first."

Her boldness sounded hollow, like dying words. "It's not that Harry particularly covets my cunt. It's just an idea he has, something about people in the same family shouldn't touch. Harry, you're a hero, but you're so old-fashioned. There's really nothing for you to do in this world. You missed the Crusades."

Harry pushed his chair back and got up from the table. "I think you've both educated me enough," he said coldly. "Fresh air might undo some of it."

Carol sat still, as though stunned. He was the first man to know of her and Phillip, and the first to matter. And he was going to leave, giving her a dead look over his shoulder. She thought desperately, Phillip, help me. Don't let him despise me. Help me.

Phillip put his napkin next to his plate. "I think we should all have coffee first," he suggested. "That will make us all feel a bit more normal." The last word echoed in the dining room, and he hastily added, "I always find scenes banal. Have some coffee Harry, and we'll try to be civilized."

Harry felt the spider wrap another liquid thread around him. He clung helplessly to the web. Carol had not a said a word, had not seconded Phillip's suggestion. She looked beautiful, really beautiful tonight. The long white gown left her curved shoulders bare, the skin on her breasts and arms and shoulders looker powder soft, and he could smell the spicy perfume that emanated from her. He was sure the odor came from her flesh. Looking at her, he wanted to bury his face in her arms, or hair, or fluffy cunt and breathe deeply. Her profile was marble, chiseled from an inner tension and pain that made her extraordinary. He hated her and wanted to ram his cock into her, to despise her, to rape 'Daddy's little girl' out of her virgin pussy.

Phillip watched his eyes and said, "You look really lovely tonight, Carol. I like the piece with that dress. Sets if off nicely."

"I thought you never wore jewels," Harry said, trying to be calm as well. He was going to be calm until he invaded the marble statue.

Carol sat quietly. What were they doing to her now? What was this round-robin of hate? Suddenly, for the first time, she thought they shouldn't have pricks. They shouldn't have anything but smooth round hairless flesh, like I have. They don't want their pricks. They interfere with the cruelty. With the way he'd like to hate me without ever touching me.

Her mind became a jumble of heat and fear, until it suddenly crystallized and Harry's meaningless words got through to her. She was ready to be meaningless too.

"Do you like it?" She fingered the heavy pendant around her neck.

"I know you have a feeling for such things. It belonged to my mother."

She finished, and got up from the table to lead them to the library.

Sitting in the deep chair in the study, Carol looked casually around her and said, "Daddy has one of these rooms everywhere he goes."

"Well not quite everywhere," Phillip answered her gently. He was talking like an old man, the illustrious head of a distinguished, but modest family. "But I've asked you once, and I repeat, let's not talk about Daddy. Especially after such a delightful dinner. I'm tired. You both make me feel like a bent old patriarch. I'd better go to bed early tonight. Anyway, I have a frightening amount of back-cataloguing to get done tomorrow. I hope you don't mind too much, Harry." He was being the perfect father, polite to the stumbling suitor. "Perhaps you and Carol will take a drive. It's stopped raining, I believe. Carol can show you a little of the country here."

He looked at Carol promptingly. Remember your manners; be nice to our guest. She was relaxed now, self-assured and polite. She replied, "I would like some air. How about it, Harry?"

They were winning. He would get the cunt and they would win.

The fair-haired beauty could be had without the Golden Fleece.

Shaken out of his jungle, Harry looked at her a moment before speaking, and then said, "All right, Princess, show me the kingdom."

They sped along the road in a white Jaguar, the top down and the wind fresh on Carol's hair. "How romantic," he thought sarcastically, as he watched her hands, slim and competent on the wheel. She had thrown a cloak over the gown, looking regal and untouchable.

"You're strange," he said finally.

Carol smiled and said lightly, driving gaily away from the darkened estate, "That's the nicest thing you've said to me since we met."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean for once you've noticed me, instead of looking at me like so much equipment."

Harry laughed. All right, for a change he'd play it her way. "Oh, come on, you know there are those who 'also serve.'"

"Do I?" she asked softly.

"Are you serious? Phillip would be paralyzed without you."

"And you?" She looked straight ahead, driving fast and expertly.

"I work with Phillip."

"You mean you were working with Phillip. It's all over, you know."

"Because of you?" he asked bluntly. "We'll get over that."

She glared at the road, more insulted by his calm than his ugliness at dinner. "Phillip isn't a pig, that's why. Phillip wants to live, for life, for pleasure. He isn't some stupid little boy playing Indian and creeping into other people's windows." She added abstractly, "It's all over."

"You could be wrong," he warned. "It's not so easy to drop off, just like that. You get hooked. It's like some kind of drug habit." He stopped, unwilling to reveal himself to her, making the obvious effort Anonymous The Pleasure Thieves Page 92

not to unburden himself. "And what would you do for excitement, daughter of Phillip?"

"Don't be funny," she said mildly, her face stiffening, contradicting the tone. "He's not like that. Things don't use him, he uses things."

"Like you."

"Don't misunderstand," she said sharply. "Don't draw some convenient portrait about how Phillip's plundered and ruined me. It's not that way. It's never really been that way."

She started suddenly, surprisingly, to cry. Harry felt furious desire for her. Then the feeling changed to sympathy and curiosity.

"I want Phillip. I've always wanted Phillip, since I was a little girl.

To be near him, to listen to him, to love him…"

"Well, you have him," Harry said coldly.

"He's not enough now." She was revealing herself now, telling him what he knew, but had never admitted.

"How did you get into this?"

She tried to respond on his terms. Yes, he wanted form, contours, as much as Phillip. She spoke quietly and sincerely. "Like father, like daughter, you know, that sort of thing. We just naturally like the same things."

"Phillip?"

"Phillip loves me."

"Then why has he let you get involved in everything. Pushing that jewelry can be dangerous, little girl."

"I made him let me. I fought for it. Years ago, when other little girls were discovering the birds and bees, I discovered that my daddy was a jewel thief. Do you know what? I loved the idea … I loved it."

Harry watched her intently as she added, "I overheard a conversation."

"That must have been an interesting scene, when he found out,"

Harry said, looking away from her intent face.

"I didn't tell him until years later, as a matter of fact," she explained pensively.

"But weren't you at school when all this was going on?"

"Yes, I had to go to school," she said softly. "Schools I hated, filled with people who bored me unforgivably." She paused a second, and continued, "When I didn't see Phillip, nothing seemed right."

"Were you with him much?"

"No, not very much then. During vacations I would be left here with the servants. Sometimes he would be here, and those were wonderful times. He would read to me, or explain paintings, talk to me about traveling together when I grew up. Then he would be gone, as quickly as he'd arrived, and I was alone again.

"I started to work myself, on the magazine, that career girl's nightmare, instead of running away or going to schools forever … to be near Phillip I guess. Anyway, he couldn't shake me, so he decided to use me."

Harry watched the side of her face as she spoke. He waited, waited for the rest that she would have to tell him tonight. Waited for the secret he could sense was burning inside her.

"It's really worked out rather well, wouldn't you say … as smooth as a perfect…" Her face became suddenly tense, but somehow beautiful.

She wanted him to take her in his arms, to comfort the rest of the terrible story out of her. He waited still beside her, and Carol realized that it was more important for her to tell the story than for Harry to hear it. Also she knew that his objectivity, his distance enabled her to go on.

She had revealed her secret to no one but Phillip, who was a part of her, and the dirty little man in the tenement shop. Harry was outside all this, she knew.

"You see," her voice was tight as taut rubber again, "it's not that Phillip has perverted me, has made me into some kind of slave. He's made my life possible. Without him, I wouldn't have wanted to live."

Then her voice lost its emotion and became flat, like a bored instructor giving a familiar lecture.

"When I was thirteen, I had diphtheria. The doctors, as usual, didn't know if I could live. But Phillip knew, because Phillip cared. Mother was dead then, and he sat vigil at my bed. He didn't," her words cracked and parted, "he didn't touch me then."

Harry watched the marble shoulders. The pain on her face was reaching him, deeply, from some place far back before his childhood.

He felt the heavy beating of his heart, and knew that in a sense Carol had more courage than he — and that he could not speak now. She continued.

"One of the capital results of diphtheria is often a loss of hair. Well, I was a democratic child, so I lost my hair. All of it, do you understand? I was not a beautiful sight for Phillip to read to and caress, me lying there white and smooth and silent as an egg. Of course, I didn't realize then. The fever raged and I knew nothing. The doctors, however, were afraid the hair would never grow back. But as you can see," — again the pebbles were behind her words — "as you can see, it did. But not all of it." She started to cry again. "Not all of it. Not the most important part. Not the woman's enchanted forest. Do you understand? Am I clear, or shall I spell it out for you? Not my pubic hairs. My cunt stayed white and smooth, like my belly."

Why wouldn't he move? She felt an agony of isolation. Why wouldn't he touch her and say it was all right, and that she was still a woman and beautiful? Because he didn't think so; because he thought now that she was something of a freak, some ugly little assistant that Phillip the magician dragged around the world with him.

"Phillip didn't care," she accused. "Phillip still thought I was wonderful." It was the wail of a frightened child, not the cool Carol, of cool Femme. "He could have me as if I were seven years old. And a father never wants his daughter to grow up, to grow older. That part of me remained a child, except inside. And once he was inside, Phillip didn't care if I was his daughter or son or the gas heater. I'm the same inside, Harry, maybe hotter to compensate for the lie of my cunt. But I'm the same as any woman." Her sobs relaxed her and finally silenced her. She rested her head on the white leather seat and closed her eyes.

She was the Sleeping Beauty for Harry. He looked pensively at her, afraid to awaken her, not sure that the long sleep wasn't the best part of her life. But he was puzzled and still confused.

"Baby." He finally caressed her arm. "Baby, I don't understand. I had you, remember? I had you, and it didn't matter. I didn't notice.

You're bugging yourself and your cunt didn't look any different to me…"

"That wasn't my cunt you felt. Those weren't my soft comforting pussy hairs you rested on. That was my little masquerade, my twentieth century costume."

She turned fully and held his eyes. "It was a wig, a blond patch of hair, the kind vain men wear on their heads. It's a great thing, looks like a dead mouse when you hold it in your hand, but like sweet bristling hair on the cunt."

She pounded the shoulder that would not hold her head. "It's particularly good for lovers. They can take it to bed with them, drape it over a rare chunk of meat or a milk bottle and have a ball. You see,"

she shouted into the quiet dark night, "Phillip is the only man who would have me. Phillip saves my life every time he fucks me."

Harry reached out to hold her close, to transfuse her fear into his body. He felt so empty, like a god sent to wander on the earth and hear these stories, these hidden nightmares.

"Carol, baby." He let her cling to his chest. "Carol, why are you torturing yourself? We can make it both ways; we can have a ball."

We! He spoke of them as two things that equaled one. "Baby, we can fuck and pretend you're Little Orphan Annie, all naked and beautiful and untouched. Or you can put it on, or hold it in your hand, or stick it over your mouth. Baby there's a thousand ways to make it, and we can find a way. There's always a way. Phillip should have taught you that.

It'll be crazy. I can have a little girl or have you hot and hairy."

She sobbed, hearing the words she'd waited so long for, hearing them echo around them in the still night. She was already hot between her thighs from hearing that he wanted her. She wanted to leave the car and stretch out in the black night and let him fuck her into nothing. She was out of the nightmare, entering the dream.

He lifted the long white gown and moved up along her thighs and hips until he reached the immature pussy. He pressed his palm flat down on the exposed flesh, and felt the hot inner liquids. "Cry, baby,"

he consoled. "Cry into Harry's hand." And she let the passion that had been Phillip's trickle onto his open palm. "It feels wonderful. You feel wonderful to me." He felt the pain pouring into his hand, and watched her face clearing and growing calm and beautiful and passionate in the subtle moonlight.

He released the rod pressing out of his pants. His prick came up urgent to be devoured by the starving cunt. He lifted the billowing skirt up to her hips, and she threw her head back. He buried his head in her lap, kissing her thighs and belly and then the smooth vaginal lips. He narrowed his tongue into the running slit and chewed until she screamed, "I want you to fuck me!"

He lifted her high into the air, and sat her hard on the throbbing cock.

She sank over him, her cunt opening and absorbing him like a giant mouth. She moved up and down on the stiff, maddening, soothing bone. He clung to her hips and pulled her down after each free thrust.

Her head was high in the cool, secret evening, and they fucked until the dawn defined the surrounding trees.

CHAPTER XII

Harry stood in the warm sunshine, waiting at the convertible. He wore white flannels and felt like one of the college boys — a good disguise until there was something more important to do. Carol came running eagerly toward him, looking like the queen of the campus. The white tight-fitting shorts revealed her legs, long and slim and muscled.

She carried two tennis rackets, one in each hand and waved them cheerfully at Harry. When she reached him, she kissed his cheek like a chaste white virgin, and said, "Shall we make it doubles or singles? I think it's better if we play alone."

He smiled at her. "We must learn to be with other people," he said, and with mock domesticity, helped her into the car.

"I thought you'd never get up," said Carol. She got in behind the wheel and they took off quickly.

"What a way to get up. Someone shouting a phony name."

"Just because you didn't make it up."

They drove on more leisurely now, taking in the luxurious mansions that rested pompously in properly planted and seeded landscapes.

"Harry…" She sounded eager, and strangely nervous. He thought of the way her voice had trembled when she'd revealed her time-locked secret last night. "Who would have thought, two weeks ago, that we'd be here like this on our way to the courts?"

He waited for the real statement. Carol raced the car past the limit.

Harry gazed ahead, lazy, not resisting the scenery, letting it sift into him, his cigarette at home between his lips.

"See that monster over there," she spoke finally, pointing to a large estate on the crest of a hill. "That's where we're all going tonight. A very chic privilege."

"Why?"

"Well, that hovel belongs to the Llewellyns. Your Llewellyns, aren't they?" The truth sank mockingly into him. "They're hardly about any more," she continued conversationally. "They spend most of their time on their island now, or rather, your island." Her words trailed off. It was impossible to know that the man had heard her. But he had, she knew that, knew that these were words he'd waited to hear for a long time.

"The Llewellyns," he whispered, between a prayer and an obscenity.

"That's very interesting for you, isn't it, Harry? You see, I've got hundreds of delicious little secrets. You should just sit and listen to me all the time."

"I could almost believe that, Carol." He was bitter. Of course he was bitter. The angry little boy who found out that Mama knew who Santa Claus was all the time. Carol had feared this moment since Phillip told her, "Harry is after our neighbor's baubles."

"Which ones?"

"The Llewellyns."

"Are you going to help him?"

"My dear, I've never heard of the Llewellyns before."

"But when he finds out…"

"We may educate him by then."

But a man can't be educated to forget a dream.

Harry said nothing for a few moments. Carol gripped the wheel tight. Maybe he was finished with the dream. That was the chance, but she had had to tell him. The Llewellyns stood between them more mountainous than a jealous wife.

"Stop the car." His voice burned like dry ice.

Carol pulled blindly over to the side of the road and left the motor purring. She sat immobile, waiting to be sentenced. His hand was a steel band around her arm. The pain awakened her and she turned her face slowly toward him, her expression a mingling of tearful irony.

"Harry, I had to tell you."

"You know the Llewellyns?" He stared at her incredulously.

"How should I have handled this?" Her voice was desperate, pleading for compassion. "It's like loading the gun for a suicide," she cried freely. "Yes, we know them, we know them. They're bosom pals, they're equals, they're neighbors…"

"Turn the car around," he interrupted brusquely. "I want to talk to your dear father."

Carol pulled the car up to the house. She tried to stop him, clinging for a moment to his arm. Her tears fell on his hand, and he wiped them crudely against his trousers, as if a disease had touched him. He jumped out quickly, his face a frozen mask. He turned insultingly to her from the mansion steps. "Anyway, I play a lousy game of tennis."

Carol didn't wait for him to finish. She raced the car down the path until the white streak looked like a frightened rabbit.

Harry burst wide the library doors. Phillip stood motionless at the window, as if he had watched the brief scene before the house. He was cool and contained, the way old matadors are before the angry bull charges.

"Is there anything you ought to tell me, Phillip?" Harry stood fierce, fists clenched like a boxer's.

"About Carol?'

"Phillip, stop treating me like the village idiot."

"For a change, you're puzzling me, Harry," Phillip said coldly.

"You'll have to speak in complete sentences."

"You lied to me Phillip. You've been pulling your psychiatrist bit on me. You've known all about the Llewellyns, about their island, their ice. We're supposed to be working together. Or we were working together. Then you turn into a gentleman farmer. Crude Mr. Hatch even has to have a different name or he'll offend the servants. But this goes too far. The Llewellyns are mine. You should have told me, Phillip, it was the one time you should have played it straight."

"Harry," Phillip interrupted, "I will never help you with the Llewellyns. Never covet your neighbor's possessions, you know. Got to keep things at home clean, especially when to mess them up is suicide, insanity. You don't understand leisure. I am a man of leisure.

That means I have friends. Among them are the Llewellyns. So what?

What does that have to do with you? You're young, you're new.

They're an old part of me. I've known them as long as I've been in this house. They're a part of my life I don't wish to sully."

Phillip stared relentlessly at Harry. "If I had told you this immediately, we would never have accomplished anything. As it stands now we are fairly comfortable men, even wealthy. Yes, I can be a gentleman farmer and be equal to the Llewellyns. I'm not interested in their jewels when I can lead their lives. I can't help you if you don't know what to do with your life."

"Phillip, you know my story. You had to level with me."

"Level with you! Level! Do you know what the word means?

You're obsessed. You have fantasies; you steal for kicks. I'm a businessman, Harry. I've explained that before."

"Analyze all you want, Phillip. Have fun, twist some words about.

You have no trouble speaking in sentences, but you're a liar, a deceiver."

"I might have tried to show you discipline, but I don't think I've deceived you."

"Why did you bring me to this fucking country club? So I could learn to be as convincing a phony as you?"

"Okay, Harry, I lose. I didn't call this one right. I thought — I actually thought you might have changed."

"You're really sentimental, aren't you Phillip? Just know one thing.

You haven't come home to retire, my perfect gentleman. You've come here to die."

Harry walked out of the study leaving the door open behind him.

Phillip didn't look after him. He just listened to Harry's heels echoing in the marble hall.

CHAPTER XIII

Carol and Phillip did not speak much to one another that evening.

They had a brief cocktail together in the study before they left for the Llewellyns' farewell party. They weren't too interested in going.

Particularly Carol, who had been unusually withdrawn all day.

Phillip knew where her thoughts were, living or dying. Perhaps that was why he insisted so much that she go with him tonight. Yes, Phillip could come through wonderfully sometimes and he did pretty much always. It was a warm night, with a warm breeze, a delightful summer evening, ideal for a wonderful party. And Mrs. Llewellyn was as famous for her parties as she was for her diamonds.

They pulled up in front of the huge Llewellyn mansion. Masked guests were arriving, as was commanded in the invitations. As the gatekeeper took the car from Phillip, he reached into the glove compartment for his small black mask.

The ballroom blazed. The many-tiered chandeliers and ornate sconces were ablaze with soft pink lights. The white-covered buffet tables were sumptuously filled, eager to oblige the slightest appetite.

French provincial divans were scattered about the ballroom, but the luxurious scarlet carpet was piled so thick it was not necessary to sit or lie on anything else. A Spanish orchestra played softly at one end of the room behind an ornate screen. The music seemed to come from nowhere. Guests sat about in groups, talking, drinking, dancing.

Everyone was dressed in evening wear and masks. The effect was truly extraordinary.

A young man meticulously dressed in tails wore the head of an old shriveled bird. A buxom, rather middle-aged woman, had a rubber mask with the face of Betty Boop. The combinations were bizarre, but the guests never forgot their manners, as though they had frequently gone to balls with grotesque heads.

Carol was drinking with a group of people. She had managed to start drinking the instant she arrived. Instead of a mask, she had made her eyes up to look Egyptian, the lids covered heavily with blue-green shadow. Thick black lines exaggerated the almond shape of her eyes, and by contrast they looked silver, violet. Directly under her eyes, she wore a black lace veil, dotted with tiny sapphire sequins. Her hair was combed straight back from her forehead and fell down her shoulders.

She wore metallic dust in it, so that it shone silver and gold. Carol knew she looked good tonight.

Not far from her group was the diamond-loaded Mrs. Llewellyn and Phillip, standing together, engaged in an exchange of banalities, which Phillip charmingly tolerated. Mrs. Llewellyn wore a black half-mask, studded with diamonds.

"And so we're off for the tropical south, Phillip darling. I'm so glad we have this chance to be together after all." She pursed her lips and giggled.

Phillip looked across at Carol's exotic and remote eyes. Beneath the make-up, he sensed detachment. He beckoned her frivolously, like an indulgent father fighting his daughter's shyness, toward them.

"And here's the career girl! Carol, you look marvelous; how exotic tonight!" extolled Lady Llewellyn.

"Tell Carol what you've been saying about me, Margaret dear."

Phillip excused himself with a slight bow, winked at Carol with an expression in his eye that said, "She's all yours now, baby." Carol's eyes appeared even more mysterious as they accused Phillip of his betrayal.

"Carol darling, I was telling your wonderful father what a dreadful snob he is." She started to giggle again fitfully, when her eyes were diverted by the pendant Carol wore.

"Carol, I thought you never wore more than a pair of little pearl earring! How lovely!"

"Thank you, it's very old. I wear it sometimes."

"It's just right for you, darling."

Margaret Llewellyn touched her own heavy necklace tenderly, in a reflex movement. "It's an actual feat to keep one's objects close to one these days. You have to be smarter than the crook! Helen Braithwaite lost her every stone, my dear."

Carol was already slightly drunk and a bit bored. She looked distractedly past the babbling mouth. She watched Phillip manipulate his virulent charm. He knew she was watching him. Yes, Phillip

always amused her. His imagination was so ingenious. She was curious to see how he would be now that he was going to retire.

The one person she knew would not come out of the shadows, because he wasn't there to emerge, was Harry. No matter how diverted she became by Phillip's frolicking, by her own appearance, which everyone marveled at, by the splendor of the ball and the potential surprises it would offer, behind it all was her nagging preoccupation with Harry. If he came, it would show he cared for her. How could she even think in those terms? She was not even sure he was still at the house.

Yes, everyone was decidedly enjoying the party. Mrs. Llewellyn's voice floated back to her. It was like coming up from under water.

"And it's exactly what I said to her at the time: 'You have to be smarter than the crooks.'" The relentless babble continued, and Carol was locked in like a bubble that doesn't burst. "Now that we're on the island most of the time, I keep my precious possessions there. I wouldn't have them here for the world. Thank goodness we've been spared the island!" She paused and put her little pig paw to her mouth and giggled for the hundredth time. "You'd never guess where!"

At her last remark, Carol looked at her with mild curiosity. Mrs.

Llewellyn leaned forward and whispered with a bobbing of her head.

The bubble burst. Carol gave Mrs. Llewellyn an odd smile. "That is unique," she said.

"Smarter than the crook," Mrs. Llewellyn gaily bragged.

As the ball went on, the atmosphere became more frenetic and drunken. The frolicking was rampant, and in a sense it was a part reminiscent of the old days. Mrs. Llewellyn went behind the exotic screen where the orchestra played, took the microphone and announced that the servants were to be dismissed, and for everyone to gather in the main room as there was to be a choosing of the best masks, and of course, the surprise, the highlight of the evening.

Mrs. Llewellyn was famous for her surprises. This is what usually made her one of the strongest figures socially. Hubert, her husband, was an incurable alcoholic with a lovable disposition. He usually had to be carried away long before the party ended. While his wife was setting up the surprise, he was busy forcing one of their tiny toy Pomeranians to drink a glass of champagne. Hubert had lasted long this evening. Even he was affected by the element of anticipation in the air.

The lights went out, except for the candles in the sconces and the one elaborately tiered crystal chandelier that threatened everyone. Hanging tenuously from the middle of the high ceiling, it burned sensuously.

The orchestra played very softly, but loud enough to be noticed, going from tangos to slow rumbas. Margaret Llewellyn was holding her black half-mask as a pince nez, to facilitate her organizing the surprise. After she had collected a goodly amount of people, things started to break out like fireworks.

A giant of a man, the kind found only in the circus or on some basketball team, came forth. The large muscles of his well-proportioned body were painted a gleaming bronze, and a silver loincloth encased his genitals, the size of which no one dared to guess.

Mrs. Llewellyn drew him forth from the shadows like a genie from Aladdin's Lamp. She came up to his thigh bone. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we are going to have a new kind of 'pin the tail on the donkey.' Only after we have all had a few drags from this hashish hookah in front of me — and it is large enough to give all of you a new sensation — while you are inhaling this divine smoke, we shall watch a dance."

The light thrown from the chandelier turned a pale violet and green.

The giant helped arrange the long tubes of the Indian hookah.

A man and a woman, dressed in reddish gauze, came dancing out from behind the screen. They did a slow, sensual, Latin dance. It was exciting to watch, their olive-skinned bodies shone through the transparent material of their costumes. His face was sculptural, with black shiny eyes and long sideburns. Her hair was as short as his, but her face was delicately featured and heavily painted. Her body had the voluptuousness of an East Indian sculpture. Breasts extended directly out, but enormously round, the waist so tiny it was impossible to imagine how it supported them. The black curly hairs of her pussy were sprinkled with golden dust that sparkled beneath her costume.

They moved sensuously together, their bodies eager to be more intimately joined.

The dancing was only a sort of play in which they came very close to touching one another, but always missed. At one point the man caught her by her delightfully decorated pussy; his hand came masterfully underneath her and raised her high into the air. While suspended she removed all of her costume except for the lower half, out of which she leaped rather magically, leaving him holding it in his hand like an exotic flag, as she gracefully fell to the floor and lay on her back.

He danced a slow rumba up to where she lay. Then he danced around her, glaring greedily down at her body. Her eyes were closed, and her voluptuous body breathed heavily up and down. Somehow, as he danced around her, she caught him with her leg, and he fell softly on top of her eager cunt and began to fuck her.

No one could figure out how in that instant his cock had thrust itself into her. She smiled with her eyes closed and moved her hips rhythmically around his cock. Then, with his prick tight in her pussy, they rolled together all over the floor, and when they stopped, he was completely naked. Some of the gold dust from her cunt had caught on his pubic hairs, and they were like two nymphs cavorting in the fields.

Their audience, a bit subdued from the hashish, had allowed themselves to be taken up by the sensual movements, and though nothing extraordinary had occurred as yet, it acted upon them as a powerful aphrodisiac. They reclined on the thick, pillowy carpet, and allowed themselves to be influenced. One of the masked men reached lecherously to his partner and pulled her strapless gown brutally to her waist. The huge beautiful breasts popped fruitfully into his grasping hands.

The hashish thickened the air. The women stared at the half-naked girl. Soon, in a feverish rush of naked competition, they had stripped themselves to reveal their luscious gleaming bodies. Mrs. Llewellyn, in her evening wear, slipped about with the giant, her prize, taking care of things. Indeed, the show was just beginning.

Now the young couple had become a bit more erotic. They were lavishly eating each other for all to see. The light on them was violet.

Despite the intricacies of sex the guests were quietly involved with, this action excited them more than the fucking act, and certainly more than what they were doing themselves. Everyone watched the two soulfully.

The music had ceased except for the distant chant of a bongo drum.

They tongued each other noiselessly, her cunt moving much the same way against his ready mouth as it had against his prick.

As she simulated an orgasm, the audience oohed and ahed, and he came directly after her. The instant he started to come, what looked like a little girl dressed in a Bo Peep outfit, but who was really a forty year old midget, came tip-toeing quickly out onto the floor carrying a gold Henry VIII goblet, and caught his overflowing sperm into the ornate antique receptacle. Then she disappeared, having captured all of his release.

When they had finished with their orgasms, they rolled over on their backs for a second, and jumped up and bowed. While the audience clapped softly and assuredly, the beautiful man unstrapped something from around his waist, and in the delicate light, he was seen to be removing his cock and balls, very gracefully. The beautiful woman loosened something behind her back, and the perfectly moulded breasts fell away.

They exchanged equipment and undressed, this time completely, to the roaring beat of drums. When completed, the beautifully painted woman was a young boy, and the flamenco type man was a very sensual girl, whose small round breasts had been successfully flattened by the elasticity of her costume. The painted woman now transformed into a lovely boy, strapped the dildo over his listless organs and proceeded to bugger the newly discovered woman in the ass.

They did this comically, and as they both pretended to exchange ejaculations, the Bo Peep midget waited impatiently at their side, holding the golden goblet ready. The giant came into the middle of the floor and picked up the midget with his little finger, like King Kong and Fay Wray, and lowered her in between the couple to catch the simulated come that was flowing forth from the dildo. The giant held her patiently, and when she grandly handed him the goblet, he drank the fake come down in a gulp and licked his lips. The lights became brighter, the dual couple disappeared and people spoke for the first time. The band was playing a slow mambo.

Carol had stood in the shadows by the deserted bar. Drinking all through the exhibition and managing to stay clear of any private gang bangs, she sat quietly in the distance, not moving except to smoke the hashish. She was mildly curious to see what role the giant would play.

All this was forced interest. Actually, she never ceased to think of Harry. Where was he? she wondered. She didn't bother to be with Phillip or look for him at the ball. She hadn't seen him all evening, not since he left her holding the bag. A young man with a blonde crew-cut came up to her from out of the shadows. He, too, was fully clothed, but without his mask. "Hello," he said.

Carol turned and tried to focus her eyes on him. "Harry," she cried, expectantly, but knew immediately it was not him. "That was close in a way," he said. "My name is Tom, and I think you are higher than I am, if that's possible! We met earlier."

Mrs. Llewellyn stopped the music and announced that Gustav, the giant, kept a fabulous souvenir beneath his silver loin cloth.

Unfortunately, this could only be presented to a woman, but there was something else later on in store for the gentlemen.

Gustav came out and stood smilingly beside Mrs. Llewellyn. His face had romantic Mexican features, a slight gigolo expression, but because of his extreme proportions, he became more of a statue than a human. Mrs. Llewellyn spoke very softly. Imbedded in the end of Gustav's prick was a perfectly faceted blue-white diamond, the size of which was to be discovered. Whoever he came in would get the diamond prize.

Mrs. Llewellyn removed Gustav's loin cloth with glee. It was like slipping an enormous table cloth from the banquet table. "Now ladies, come forth. Gustav awaits you." There were many inebriated throaty giggles. The men were extremely amused, and when no one seemed to be stepping forward, several gentlemen urged their companions on.

Gustav stood smiling in the ruby firelight, his majestic prick jutting forth, enormous like the trunk of an elephant. Several women came toward him to look, to touch and, perchance, to fuck.

Carol looked up at the young man standing beside her. "Well, aren't you amused? Who do you think will win? Or doesn't this sort of thing attract you?" She said this bitterly as though talking to herself. "Yeah, why aren't you doing something obscene?"

"Let's get out of here," he said anxiously.

"Oh, you want to get out of here. Now that you're hot, you want to go off somewhere and make your own private scene. It's purer that way, huh? Less guilt, huh? Look Tom, Dick, and whatever your name is, I'm going to do one of two things right now. I am either going up there and let that fucking freak split me in two, or I'm leaving alone.

And guess what? I've already made up my mind. I'm going."

She spoke rapidly. He couldn't have said a word. She downed a large tumbler of Scotch. As she left the room, Gustav was whirling a completely naked girl around on the end of his cock, still smiling, still holding his prize.

He waved the frail girl on his prick like a banner of surrender. She screamed hysterically, "Get it in," but only the tip of his cock pierced her tiny blond cunt. Eager for the hidden award, eager to be split in half, she clutched his stiff rod with her doll hands. He jerked his hips around, his face a contortion of frustration. She clung pathetically to his majestic pole, and her body twirled like a burlesque queen's tit.

Her grasp loosened — and she flew across the room, crumbling on the thick piled rug. A young man kicked her buttock with disdain and revealed his stiff tiny prick. He shoved it into her, and she cried aloud,

"No, no, I've had that. I'm tired of that."

Mrs. Llewellyn tittered onto the stage. She patted and soothed Gustav's swollen cock.

"Now girls, who's got lots of courage and space. We don't want the diamond to lodge in some gentlemen's ass." She covered her face and coughed delicately. "If nobody else will, I will," she threatened. "After all, it isn't right for me to win my own prize."

Gustav looked hopeful. He had traveled leisurely in Mrs.

Llewellyn's pussy many times. But a sweet husky voice interrupted, "I want to try!"

A thin-hipped brunette walked to the stage. She weighed Gustav's staff in her palm. She balanced the huge balls, soft skinned and leaden to the touch. She knelt before the giant. "From behind," she directed.

"But be careful, get it in my cunt."

He lunged against her. Her red mouth was pouting open, but she remained silent. He pushed deeper. She shouted, "Wait," and rested her head on her arms. But Gustav was too near, and he pounded senselessly into her. Finally she screamed at every thrust, but stayed rigid on her knees.

The great voice thundered in the room — and Gustav shot his river into the stunned, bleeding girl.

She fell inert on her side and lay panting. Mrs. Llewellyn was having a good time. Her party game was a success. She waddled over to the panting girl.

"Darling, show me your surprise."

The girl whimpered and stuck her fingers in her cunt. A huge glittering diamond in a sea of milling sperm and blood rested in her palm.

She moaned, "Oh, how lovely," and pressed the bloody award to her breasts.

Carol careened up to the house. She was not sure this car belonged to her. The house was dark except for a light in Phillip's study and the night lights in the halls. She ran from the car into the house. Maybe Phillip had left the party. Maybe it was Phillip in his study and not who she wanted, since Phillip had disappeared. She was breathless as she reached the door of the library. Please God, let there be someone in there, and let it be Harry. She tore her veil off, and crumpled it in her hand. For an instant she leaned up against the door. Then she quietly opened it and walked in.

Harry sat in Phillip's heavy leather armchair, reading. When he saw her come through the door, he thought she was a stranger. Could this be Carol, dead drunk and playing games? It was hard to believe. She stood in the middle of the floor, her breasts forward and her hands on her shoulders as though she was stretching.

"There's the hermit," she teased. "Any particular reason you didn't come to your long-admired friend's going away party?"

She lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the carpet. Harry proceeded to read, ignoring her entirely.

A thousand sparks were erupting inside of her. She wanted to throw herself at him and tell him of her love, beg him to take her away, to make some decision — as long as it included her, she didn't care what.

His passivity was overpowering, however. Even in her drunken stupor, she could keep herself from being aggressive with him at least for the moment. She crossed over to the side board and poured herself a glass of scotch.

"Do you think you should have that drink?"

"What makes you think I think, honey?"

She twirled about in the middle of the room, paused, and swallowed her drink. "Would you get me another drink like a gentleman, like the gentleman I met at the ball — who didn't even have his clothes off?"

"Go to bed, Carol." Harry didn't raise his eyes from his book.

"Please pour me a drink, Harry." Carol bent slowly to the floor and rolled her empty glass toward him, like a little girl playing a game. She whimpered, "If you pick it up, it means you love me."

The glass stopped directly at his feet. Carol laughed. Harry looked at the glass at his feet for a split second, then kicked it across the room.

It smashed against the wall. He went over to Carol. Her drunken laugh was now a startled scowl. He stood directly in front of her.

"Don't say it, Harry. I know you think I'm a drunken fool, playing games. Completely out of character, isn't it?" She circled his neck with her arms.

"Isn't it shocking," she continued. "What would Phillip think about dear Carol slobbering over cool, cool Harry?"

Harry was a robot next to Carol's caresses. "I think you're afraid of me," she went on. "I think you're terrified that you might feel something. Phillip's wrong, you're not even an animal."

Harry slapped her across the face. It was like the gun going off at the races. She started to sob hysterically. He picked her up roughly and carried her to her bedroom, threw her on the bed like a rubber ball, and started to walk out of the room. She called after him in an unreal voice.

"Mrs. Llewellyn keeps her jewels in her swimming pool!"

Harry stopped cold in his tracks. "What?"

Carol had sobered up slightly. Her sobbing changed into a rasp. She shouted, "In her little swimming pool."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's true. She told me tonight at the party. It just slipped out." Half laughing and half crying, she was beside herself. "She hides her jewels in her little black swimming pool."

Harry took hold of her arm hard. "You cunt, what's your story? All this mystery for what? Keep it for Phillip. He's the one who likes to believe he is the wolf fucking Goldilocks. What an egomaniac to think his cock is the only substitute in the world for a little girl's doll. And you're a very little girl, Carol."

Harry let her arm go loose. Carol was wooden, staring blankly at him as he spoke.

"You don't really have any pride, do you? After all that efficiency has melted away, there isn't even pride."

This time Carol spoke as though she had just come out of shock, with a curious softness. "All I can say, Harry, is that if I can say I love you, if this means I haven't any pride, then I haven't. But you can't admit you love. This affair was an accident, a miracle, whatever affairs between people are. No matter how strange they become, one still finds love in them.

"I know you are going to leave. And alone. You're like a priest Harry. Your parish might be anywhere, and your flock will always be made out of the same stuff." Carol turned her head away from him and closed her eyes, trying to keep her pain from showing. She was quiet now.

"Okay, Carol." He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and blew the smoke in her direction. "Later."

He went out the door. A blue circle of smoke floated in the air above Carol's head.

CHAPTER XIV

Carol lay in the bed as Harry had left her. The house was quiet. It had been quiet for six days. Phillip stayed carefully out of the room, letting his daughter digest the terrible pain of Harry's disappearance.

But Phillip knew where he was, and Carol knew it too. They were both afraid of the big thing Harry had to do, afraid that somehow his act of defiance was a final act, and he would be forever out of their lives.

Harry wanted a white elephant, and he wanted the Llewellyn jewels as a gesture. When a thief becomes an artist, he is finished. His art has to be tragic art, and he has to be his victim's victim. It was to Carol as if a genius, hardly more than an idea, had slipped through her fingers, had escaped her. But Harry didn't belong to himself. She couldn't have him because he couldn't have himself. He was too big for her, and too small for her, because he really wasn't there. But he had left her and she was depleted, her flesh crying. He had left her hot for a phantom, and emptied by what? By something in her own head. In hers and Phillip's head.

When Wilbur came to the door and knocked gently, she said, "Come in," firmly, wanting her voice to ring in the still room. He entered with a tray of coffee and thin buttered toast. She sat up in the bed, pale and weak.

"How are you feeling today, Miss Carol?" Wilbur said.

"Is Mr. Johns awake?" she asked.

"Oh yes." Wilbur was genuinely perturbed. "He's hardly slept at all since you've been ill."

"I'm much better now," she assured him. "Tell Mr. Johns I'm better."

"Are you sure you won't see a doctor?" His voice was pleading, the prerogative of the oldest slave on the plantation. "It might be that you have a vitamin deficiency."

So that's what the kitchen talk was about. Vitamins. They'd probably read an article about vitamins in one of the issues of Femme.

Get some Park Avenue doctor to talk about B complexes, and all kinds of complexes. The ladies liked to read about complexes.

A clear blue-grey light filled the room. Carol lay back on the pillows, much as Harry had left her, her eyes half open, staring toward the open window.

Phillip walked into the room. He was dressed in robe and pajamas.

He was clean shaven, but his eyes looked haggard, his skin sick and dull. It had been a difficult wait for Carol. Without looking at Phillip she said monotonously, "Where did he come from anyway?"

Phillip walked to the window and looked out at the dense garden.

The light outside was bleak.

"Where he comes from doesn't interest me now," he said softly, a strange softness. "I know where he's gone."

Carol looked directly at him, then looked away.

"Will he come back?"

"I don't know, baby." Phillip stood over the bed, serious and tired.

"Do you want him to come back?"

"I don't know." She was trying to reach out to Phillip. "Maybe I don't want him to come back. Maybe he's done everything to me that can be done. Maybe he's finished and there's no point in his coming back." She started crying. "Maybe that's why he left. Because he finished me, and there was nothing more to be done."

Phillip sat at the edge of the bed and took her delicate wrist between his thumb and forefinger. "He took my gun," he explained, "and the sedan."

She was silent. "Then if he makes it, he'll be back."

Phillip bent his head and kissed the crook of her arm. She trembled in subtle response. "If he makes it."

"I bet he makes it," she said half aloud and half defiantly, fighting for her life.

Phillip's head was down on the pillow, beside hers. It would all go on, wouldn't it, as if another man had never touched her. It would all go on, and nothing would go on.

"Let's hope he makes it," Phillip said in a hollow voice. Carol's body felt mummified. He reached under the covers and began to rub her body, like an exorcist fighting with the devil. He rubbed her belly and thighs, kneading the flesh between his strong fingers.

"You feel wonderful darling," he whispered. "Your flesh is very strong and firm."

She laughed, "Not terribly weak! I've lain sick in this bed for a week, wanting another man, and now you're going to command my cunt. Yes, you're going to fuck me and everything will be back to normal."

"No, baby," he patiently explained, his hand traveling to the naked vagina. "Baby, that's strong. We have to be resilient. We've got to be able to come back to ourselves, always. Harry isn't one of us," he continued. "Harry is possessed. Harry is a genius." His finger moved into the dry crevice. "And we can't fit geniuses into our lives. We'd have to change too much for that."

He ran his mouth over her hair and eyes and neck and soft breathing breasts. "We don't want to change completely. We love the familiar, the comfortable… We're normal people," he further intoned. "We have little time to give to geniuses."

"I want him," Carol said finally. "I want to change. If he comes back, Phillip, if he wants me, I'm his."

"You're mine, Carol," Phillip warned. "I haven't educated you for another man. You can want another man; that just gives you another dimension. But you're mine. You and the other man become mine.

Now I have two of you, Carol — you and your little fantasy that there's something in you separate and apart for Harry. Now I have the part of you I shall always have, and the part you reserve for Harry."

He covered her soft nipple with his mouth. She sank deep into the pillows.

"Harry will save me," she warned. "Harry will take me away from you." His teeth were shaping tiny bites on the tightening, stiffening tit.

His hand wandered to the other breast. He pinched the hungry flesh.

He brushed the hairless mound of her cunt, and then lifted his hot face to look at her. "No disguise," he murmured, tracing her belly and smooth pussy. "No disguise for me, Carol. I always see you. I always see my daughter, my sick little girl, behind all the disguises. You need that, don't you? You need to be seen occasionally.

"Harry doesn't see anything, because Harry doesn't care. He's a dedicated man. He's got a habit. He'd leave you in a second, without a thought, without an idea that there was an alternative act — just for a diamond that glittered on the horizon. He'd leave you again and again to get to the end of his rainbow. And you know where the end is, Carol. You're a smart girl. You know Harry's going to be all alone when he gets there."

She started to answer, to plead, to say anything. She couldn't say, "It isn't true, Phillip. He'll come back and take me with him." And that was the only thing worth saying, the only thing that had meaning for either of them. Phillip brushed the thin nightgown aside, and stuck his hot mouth to her cunt. He sucked deeply, until he had pulled the hidden, tamed clitoris erect into his mouth. Then, when her hips jerked mechanically and uncontrollably, he sank his tongue deep into her musty sex, and ate her.

Harry said, "A hamburger and a black coffee."

The short-order cook threw the raw meat on the grill. "Relish, sir?"

"No." He knew he wasn't going to eat it anyway. He hadn't been able to eat or sleep in the hot little Cuban town, waiting for the Llewellyn garden party. Somehow, Mrs. Llewellyn had overlooked extending an invitation to Harry, but he'd be there. No one had traveled further, or planned more carefully to mingle with the Llewellyn guests.

Then a brief swim in the dry pool, and he'd get back to Carol. But that was so far away. He could only think as far as having the magnificent jewels in his hands.

He took a few bites out of the decorated hamburger, and suddenly impatient, dropped a dollar bill on the counter and walked through the swinging doors. He marched swiftly down the narrow street of the crowded native section of the town. The Keys seemed completely Spanish today, puff-white in an azure sky. There were sounds of folk guitars and rapid sibilant Spanish voices, high and eager. Some shops were boarded up for the four-hour siesta. Harry kept moving till he reached the old piers on the far end of the village.

On the pier he looked at his watch, bent forward, and shouted to the pilot so that he could be heard over the roar of the racing engine. "I'll want the boat sometime before three o'clock."

"All right, Mr. Gregory," the pilot called back. He'd clung to the convenient anonymity Phillip had given him.

"The boat's in great shape. She'll be ready to run anytime this afternoon."

"Thanks," Phillip said, and started to walk away from the pier. The pilot jumped nimbly onto the wooden dock and came swiftly to Phillip, his espadrilles silent and soft on the sun dried boards.

"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.

Carol said, "Phillip, I want something to drink."

"Not now, darling," Phillip murmured.

"My mouth is dry," she whimpered.

He covered her mouth with his, and moved his cunt-coated tongue on hers. She sucked timidly at his tongue, unwilling to concede the growing heat in her pussy.

"Drink, baby, quench your thirst. Suck me, darling, I'll give you something to drink."

"Yes," she said, slowly coming back to life in Phillip's arms, wanting to touch and smell and taste. "Yes, Phillip." Carol lay flat on the bed and Phillip straddled her head with his knees. His forehead rested on the satin-covered backboard of the bed. Looking straight up, Carol could see the dense hairs that surrounded his hanging balls. His prick was rigidly pointing at her mouth. He lowered his buttocks to her chest, and his cock pressed against her closed lips.

"Open up, Carol," he commanded.

She parted her lips slightly, and his penis popped against the fleshy inner lining of her mouth. She nibbled, almost daintily, at the swollen head of his erection. It tasted good, familiar and filled with life. Her mouth clung hungrily to his prick, and her tongue was pointed at the pinpoint hole hidden in the crown of his cock.

She opened her throat wide and let the cock sink deep, deep inside her head. She wanted more, and she lifted her head to swallow the sacks that swung smotheringly over her face. She gagged and choked on the bone, but wouldn't give it up.

Phillip moved up and down, using her throat like a cunt, not caring that she was gasping beneath him, just feeling the come swelling inside his prick. "Faster, deeper," he ordered.

She sank into the pillows and opened her throat wider. She gave herself up completely to the blinding body sitting on her breasts. He pounded against her chest, mashing the creature beneath him, getting it out of his swollen rod. Her tongue and mouth were wet and nervous around the cock.

Then he shouted, "Drink, Carol, drink," and poured the hot white fluid into her mute throat.

Harry walked, glass in hand, past the admiring women, toward the rear terrace of the mansion. He crossed the terrace to the open French doors leading into the high, thick-beamed ceiling. He studied the room, the position of servants, the doors and windows. He walked past a group of people lunching quietly and talking, remembering the last Llewellyn festival.

Maybe something would happen. Mrs. Llewellyn hated tea parties.

Harry looked vague and abstract, and somebody named Freely walked over, bubbling words and offering a limp hand. Harry said, "A pleasure. Please excuse me," and crossed the room.

He went beyond a tremendous jutting fireplace that broke the room's contours, and finally was alone. The tension was mounting inside him.

He put down the drink, wiped the glass with his handkerchief, and slipped through the door into a long hall.

He moved swiftly up two short flights of steps which angled down from a broad and luxurious landing. He crossed silently to a door, pulling on his gloves. It was silent in this part of the house. Nothing, not even the distant guests could be heard. He hesitated, studying the doors on the landing and then sprinted quickly and noiselessly to a door diagonally across the hall. It cracked open imperceptibly and he looked in. Then he swung it open decisively, entered, and closed it behind him in a single motion.

The room, a spacious, fussily decorated bedroom, opening onto a terrace, was empty. There were two closed doors on the wall to the left. He swung open the first, to a large, windowless dressing room.

He crossed swiftly to the other and threw it open.

There it was. Mrs. Llewellyn's little black swimming pool. A huge, semi-sunken, roman, black-tiled bath. The bath was eight feet long and six feet wide, big enough for Mrs. Llewellyn to wash her pretty toes, or for Mr. Llewellyn to wash any of the guests' backs.

On three sides of the bath were leaded mirror-mosaic panels which cast Harry's image — broken and distorted as he searched desperately for the safe. He fingered the drain, the knobs and the mirrored squares of the wall.

Standing inside the black-tiled pool, he swept the towels from the rack. He pulled open the drawers that receded behind the rack. The first held a conglomerate of jars and lotions, the next a display of manicuring tools and powders. The first drawer wouldn't open. He closed the others and pulled tenaciously at the top rack. It felt cemented deep into the wall, impossible to move. Leaning forward, he studied the tiles behind it closely, searching for a crack or joint that would mean another drawer, another hiding place.

He caught his reflection in the mirrors, sweating and intense. There was something obscene about the room, black and shining, and too voluptuous for plump giggling Mrs. Llewellyn. What the hell did she do there, besides hide her jewels and come to admire them every Ascension Day.

He pulled frantically at the top rack. That had to be the place. The walls were flat and expressionless. They told him nothing. He fingered the tiles. That had to be the safe, and there had to be a lock release. None of the tiles moved against the pressure of his fingers.

His hand moved up into the recessed niche over the leveled squares of mirror that lined it.

Suddenly, miraculously, one tilted inward and the rack pulled out from the wall. Against a blue-black velvet lining rested the fabulous Llewellyn collection.

Carol said, "Phillip, fuck me, get into me. I feel empty. I'm scared.

Fuck me, fuck me."

Phillip paused for a second, stared at her cunt and then thrust his brand new shiny erection into the center of her terror.

Harry froze for a second, reverently staring at the sparkling display.

He reached in for them, eagerly and big-eyed, like a child in a penny-candy shop. He gathered up handfuls of the precious gems, stuffing them into an inner pocket of his jacket. He had them. The drawer was emptied in a few seconds. He adjusted the weight inside his coat and smoothed it flat.

Then he stared a long time into the mirror, a long, dangerous time.

He turned on one of the taps and wiped his face. He was exhausted. It was almost too much to for him to think of moving quickly to the boat.

The diamonds were heavy — heavy and comforting on his chest. He closed the bathroom door behind him and swiftly retraced his steps to the terrace.

Mrs. Llewellyn smiled curiously at him as he crossed the garden to the dock. Surely she had seen the exquisite man before? How nice that she'd invited him to her party. She moved to greet him, but Harry was already at the harbor.

It all began to break down, with his heart pressing against the diamonds, when he saw the cabin blocking the exit of his boat. Mrs.

Llewellyn was still looking after him. He stared hopelessly from the boats to the parked cars, from the harbor to the cars. He glanced back at Mrs. Llewellyn, feeling the diamonds like a dying child on his breast.

He peeled off his gloves, and in a few swift movements was over the terrace railing. He dropped to the ground below, landing quickly on his feet. He crouched there, half unconscious with his hysterical pulse.

The attendant, with a large muscled Doberman on a leash, rounded the corner. The dog was on him in a flash, making deep guttural sounds — much like those Mrs. Llewellyn would make when she found the bathroom cleaned out. Harry stared rigidly and wildly at the attendant.

"What are you doing here? What's wrong?" the attendant demanded.

Harry pointed desperately in the direction of the harbor and yelled,

"Get that dog out of here! Get him off me! I've lost my poodle," he shouted, his words surreal but effective for the confused attendant.

The guard tugged the dog away in the direction of the harbor and turned to question Harry. In that instant, Harry ran toward the cars parked in the area below. He passed a Lincoln Capri, hesitated and then climbed into the white Jaguar convertible sitting next to it. He roared the motor and took off.

The car shot down the palm-lined road. He handled it deftly.

Another curve and he came into view of the bridge.

It should have been perfect. What happened? What happened? It should have been perfect.

The car moved onto the straightway. A guard ran from the tollhouse near the bridge onto the roadside, waving frantically for Harry to stop.

His eyes followed the direction of the guard's gesture and he saw the large yacht approaching the draw-bridge. He looked steadily at the bridge span, as it almost imperceptibly started to rise. The bridge split in two and separated like a fantastic exotic flower. The two parts, like waving dancer's arms, split above the white boat.

It should have been perfect. He floored the throttle and the car shot ahead toward the bridge with a roar. The guard spun around and looked on stupefied as the Jag plummeted to the rising bridge.

Carol screamed, "I'm coming, Phillip, I'm coming. Let me come."

"Not yet," he said, "Not yet."

The speedometer touched 90 and then 105, dead ahead on the level straightway. He was up to 120 when he hit the tilted span.

The people on the yacht below heard the roar of the car. They looked up to see the white Jaguar sail gracefully off the raised bridge in a wide-climbing arc. It plunged like a shell into the sea.

"I must Phillip," she screamed. "Let me," and she moaned and ground out the orgasm. "Phillip, Phillip." Clinging to him, she screamed sharply, "Harry," and she fell, cunt throbbing, back on the pillows.

A geyser rose where the car hit the water and settled in a jewel-like spray. The white car sank like an elaborate coffin through the clear blue water. Harry's pockets emptied in the quiet descent. The diamonds floated coquettishly about him, covering the head and throat of his jammed body. A thin ribbon of blood snaked out from the corner of Harry's mouth and diffused in a small watery cloud. Above him, the surface returned to its glass-like calm.

Content

Harriet Daimler
Pleasure Thieves

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV