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
