I got there at five minutes past twelve. It had been a long morning. Procane met me at the door and once again ushered me into the office-study. He had a fire going; applewood from the smell.
“You’re the first to arrive,” he said after I took one of the chairs by the fire. He stood in front of it, his hands behind his back, rocking a little on his heels. He wore a dark-gray suit, a white shirt, and a tie with black and white stripes. He looked as if he were headed for a meeting of the board and had some good news for its members. His eyes were bright and twinkling and a jolly smile kept peeping out from underneath his ginger moustache.
“I was about to have a drink, Mr. St. Ives,” he said. “Would you care to join me? I don’t think one will do us any harm while we wait.”
I started to show off and say no, thanks, but common sense prevailed and I said, “Yes, I think I will.”
After we had our drinks he sat in the chair opposite me and twinkled some more. “It must be a big day for you,” I said.
“Yes, I believe it is. I’ve been up since six. You look as though you had a good night’s rest.”
“It was fine.”
“Well,” he said, raising his glass, “to luck.”
We drank to that and then he said, “Of course, luck won’t have very much to do with it.”
“Planning,” I said.
“Careful, exact planning with virtually every minute precisely scheduled.”
“What if your — uh — victims, I suppose — what if they lag a little or move ahead of schedule?”
“Both contingencies are provided for.”
Procane looked happy. There was no other way to describe it. He kept smiling and beaming even when there was nothing to beam about. He also seemed a little nervous. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, but it was the nervousness of anticipation, not apprehension.
I was curious so I asked him, “What do you like better, the planning or the execution?”
He seemed to think about it for a moment. “The execution really, although I’m rather hard pressed to make a choice between them. I hate to keep comparing it with painting but that’s the only other thing that I do at all well. There’s a great amount of pleasure in the selection of a subject, in studying shape and form and color, and in planning my approach, but it never equals the feeling I get when I make that first brush stroke on canvas. After that it goes all too quickly. I paint very fast, Mr. St. Ives.” He paused and twinkled some more. “I steal fast, too.”
“What about afterward?”
“Afterward,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s a quiet time touched in both instances with a kind of melancholy, I think. The aftermath.”
“Guilt?”
“Regret. Never guilt.”
“When?”
“Only after a painting; never after a theft.”
“Why after a painting?”
“I always have the feeling that somehow I should have done it better. I’m never quite sure how I could have done better, but there’s always the nagging feeling that I should have. I never feel that way after a job.”
“No remorse either? After a theft, I mean.”
“I’ve never felt remorse about anything,” Procane said and I found myself believing him. He paused a moment and looked thoughtfully at the fire. “As I’ve said, I’ve felt regret often enough, but never remorse because remorse implies guilt and I’ve never felt that.”
“Did you ever wonder why? Nearly everyone feels guilty about something or other.”
“I’ve thought about it and decided that it’s probably because I’m content to be what I am — a master thief and a tolerable Sunday painter. I don’t aspire to be anything — or anyone — else. I think a lot of guilt comes from people wanting to be what they assuredly aren’t and can’t possibly be. They feel guilty because they can’t, but think that they should.”
“How do you feel when you’re stealing something?” I said. “I mean what are your emotions or do you have any?”
“Is this for the report, Mr. St. Ives?” he said and smiled as if he liked any conversation that was chiefly about him.
“Maybe.”
“When I’m actually engaged in the theft — in the operation — I feel a kind of detached excitement I know that I’m totally involved in what I’m doing and my powers of concentration seem enormously expanded. I’m conscious of almost every detail. And my recall after it’s over is nearly total. I’ve sometimes toyed with the idea of painting a theft from memory. It might be interesting, especially one which involved a confrontation.”
“Like the senator in Washington?”
Procane looked surprised. “Oh, do they know about that?”
“They had some strong suspicions.”
“He was a totally corrupt man. Dead now. But he did look rather pathetic handcuffed to the radiator.”
“I only read a couple of entries,” I said, “but those journals of yours should be fascinating reading.”
“To specialists in criminology or to the general public?”
“Both, I’d think.”
Procane looked interested. “It would have to be done posthumously, of course.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Do you really think there’s a chance?”
“Myron Greene knows some publishers. He could handle it for you.”
Procane’s expression turned shy, almost embarrassed. “If it were published, do you think there’s a chance of it being turned into a film?”
I managed to keep a straight face. “I should think so.”
He was silent for a moment. “What do you think of Steve McQueen for the lead?”
“He’d be fine.”
“Of course, Brando has a little more depth, I think.”
“He’d be good, too.”
The door opened before Procane could do any more mental casting. It was the only time I had seen him slip out of his role as the gentleman thief — poised, urbane, and almost witty. It was something of a shock to discover that he desperately wanted not only to see his journals published, but perhaps even more desperately he also wanted himself portrayed up there on the silver screen by Brando or McQueen or maybe, in a pinch, Lee Marvin.
It was comforting to learn that he had some failings and that they were distinctly human and not the weird kind that might go with the mad master criminal who liked to bake kittens in the oven.
Through the open door came Janet Whistler followed by Miles Wiedstein. I was interested in learning how one dressed for a million-dollar theft and so I was a little disappointed by Wiedstein’s tweed sport coat, gray flannels, and dark-blue shirt open at the throat. At least his desert boots had gummed soles. He carried a thin black attaché case that he placed on the floor after he said hello to Procane and me.
Janet Whistler wore a dark-gray pantsuit and unremarkable black shoes. They both looked as if they had dressed up just enough to cash a small check at the corner liquor store.
They found chairs and Janet Whistler refused a drink from Procane. He didn’t bother to offer Wiedstein one. Procane cleared his throat and said, “I called both of you last night about my visit from the police. I’ve concluded that their interest in me should not prevent us from going ahead with our plans, so we shall continue as scheduled.”
“There’re getting to be a lot of dead bodies lying around,” Wiedstein said.
“We discussed that last night,” Procane said.
“I just thought I’d bring it up again to see if St. Ives has any ideas.”
“None except the obvious one,” I said. “Whoever killed Boykins and Peskoe could also have killed the kid cop, Frann.”
“Yes,” Procane said, “that seems logical on the surface. And it could also mean that they’re the ones who’re going to try to steal the million dollars and then tell the drug merchants to blame us.”