The Burnt Orange Heresy

"The painters are all a part of art history now-and any of, say, Marc's paintings are expensive. But suppose you had every painting in this particular show?' Every German museum was 'purified.' That was the term they used, 'purified.' And the painters represented by the show, if the museum happened to have any of their work, were removed. Some were destroyed, some were hidden, and some were smuggled out of the country. But to have the original traveling exhibit, and it would be possible to obtain these pictures . . ."

Cassidy drew a line through the two words on his pad and shook his head. "No, I could never swing anything like that by myself. I'd have to get a group together to raise the money, and-no, it wouldn't be worth it to me. Any more ideas?"

"Sure, but you didn't ask me here for my ideas on collecting."

"That's right. Basically, James, you and I are honest men, and, in our own ways, we are equally ambitious. One dishonest act doesn't make a person dishonest, not when it's the only one he ever performs. That is, a slightly dishonest act. A little thing, really. Suppose, James, that you were given the opportunity to interview"-he hesitated, moistened his lips with his tongue-"Jacques Debierue?"

"It would merely set me up with the greatest exclusive there is! But Debierue is in France, and he's only given three interviews in forty years-no, four-and none since his home burned down a year or so ago."

"In other words," he chuckled, "you would be somewhat elated if you could look at his new work and talk to him about it personally?"

"Elated isn't the word. Ecstatic isn't strong enough. Now that Duchamp is dead, Debierue is Mr. Grand Old Man of Modern Art."

"Don't go on, I know. Just listen. Suppose I told you that I could make arrangements for you to see and talk with Debierue?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

"But if it was true-and I am now telling you that it is true-what would you do for me in return?"

My throat and mouth were suddenly dry. I tipped the plastic ice bucket and poured some ice water into my empty glass. I sipped it, and it tasted almost warm. "You have something dishonest in mind. Isn't that what you implied a moment ago?"

"No. Not dishonest for you, dishonest for me. But even so, Debierue is in debt to me, if I want to look at it that way, and I do. I don't want money from him, I want one of his paintings."

I laughed. "Who doesn't?' No individual, and not a single museum, has a Debierue. if you had one, you'd be the only collector in the world to have one! As far as I know, only four critics have been privileged to see any of his work. A servant or two has seen his paintings, probably, I don't know- maybe some of his mistresses a few years back, when he was still young enough to have them. But no one else-"

"I know. And I want one. In return for the interview, I want you to steal a picture for me."

I laughed. "And then, after I steal it, all I have to do is smuggle it back here from France. Right?"

"Wrong. And that's all I'll tell you now until I get a commitment from you. Yes or no. In return for the interview, you will steal a picture from Debierue and give it to me. No picture, no interview. Think about it."

"Hypothetically?"

"Not hypothetical. Actual."

"I'd do it. I will do it. That is, I'll steal one if he has any paintings to steal. Everything he had went up in smoke with his house, according to the reports. And if he hasn't painted anything since, well . . ."

"He has. I know that he has."

"You've got a deal. But I don't have the money for a round-trip air fare to France, not even for a slow freighter."

"Let's shake hands on it."

We got to our feet and shook hands solemnly. The palms of my hands were damp, and so were his, but we both gripped as hard as we could. He got the humidor and offered me a cigar. I shook my head and sat down. I started to pour another drink, but decided I didn't need it. My head was light and close to swimming. My heart was fluttering away as if I had swallowed a half-dozen dexies.

"Debierue," Cassidy laughed. a snort rather than an actual laugh, "is here in Florida, thirty-some-odd miles south, via State Road Seven. And that is my so-called dishonest act, my friend. I have just betrayed a client's confidence. A counselor isn't supposed to do that, you know. But now that I have, I'll tell you the rest of it.

"Arrangements were made for Debierue to come to Florida more than eight months ago, and I was the intermediary here. The emigration was set up by a Paris law firm, who contacted me, and I handled the matter on a no fee basis, which I was glad to do. I rented the house-a one year lease-hired a black woman to come in and clean it for him once a week, bought his art supplies at Rex Art in Coral Gables, and picked him up at the airport. The whole thing. He's a poor man, as you know."

"And you're supporting him now?"

"No, no. The money comes from Les Amis de Debierue. You are-"