The Burnt Orange Heresy

"I send them five bucks a year myself." I grimaced. "It's tax deductible, if I ever make enough money to list it among my many charities."

"Right. That's it. The Paris Amis, through the law firm, send me small sums more or less regularly, and I see that the old man's bills are paid-such as they are-and keep him in pocket money. He doesn't need much. The house is cheap, because of the rotten location. It was built by a man who retired to raise chickens. After six months of trying, and not knowing anything about poultry, he went back to Detroit. He's been trying to sell the house for two years, and was happy as hell to get a year's rent in advance." Cassidy smiled. "I even selected the old man's phony name for him-Eugene V. Debs. How do you like it?"

"Beautiful!"

"Better than beautiful. Debierue never heard of Gene Debs. And that's about it."

"Not quite. How did he get into the States without reporters finding out?"

"No problem. Paris to Madrid, Madrid to Puerto Rico, through the customs at San Juan, then on to Miami-and he came in on a student visa. J. Debierue. Who's going to suspect a man in his nineties on a student visa?' And Debierue is a common enough name in France. There are about sixty flights a day from the Caribbean coming into Miami International on Sundays. It's the busiest airport in the world."

I nodded. "And the ugliest, too. So he's been right here in Florida for eight months?"

"Not exactly. The negotiations started eight months ago, and it took some time to set everything up. The funny thing is, the old man will actually be a student. I mentioned my connections at the University of Chicago-well, starting in September, Debierue will be taking twelve hours of college credit, by correspondence, from Chicago."

"What's his major?"

"Cost accounting and management. I've got a young man working for me who can whip through those correspondence courses with his left hand, and he'll probably get the old man an A average. On a student visa, you see, you have to carry twelve hours a semester to stay in the country. As long as you're making good grades with the college, you can stay as long as you like."

"I know. But why me?' Why don't you steal a picture from Debierue?"

"He'd know it was me, that's why. After I got him settied, he told me he didn't want me to visit him. For the sake of secrecy. I went down a couple of times anyway and pestered him for a painting. He got good and angry the last time, and his studio is kept padlocked. I want one of his paintings. I don't care what it is, or whether anyone knows that I have one. I'll know, and that's enough. For now. Of course, if you manage to get a successful interview-and that's your problem-and you write about his new work-he hasn't got too many years to live-then I can bring my painting out and show it. Can't I?"

"I understand. You'll have pulled off the collector's coup of this decade-but what happens to me?"

"You'll stand still for it, no matter what happens. I've checked you out, I told you. You're ambitious, and you'll be the first, as well as the only, American critic to have an exclusive interview with the great Jacques Debierue. After you steal one of his pictures, he sure as hell won't talk to anyone else."

"What time is it set up for, and when?"

"It isn't. That's up to you." He wrote the address on the yellow pad, and sketched in State Road Seven and the branch road leading into it from Boynton Beach. "If you happen to drive past the turnoff, and you might miss Debierue's road because it's dirt and you can't see the house from the highway, you'll know you missed it when you spot the drive-in movie about a half mile farther on. Turn around and go back."

"Does he know I'm coming?"

"No. That's your problem?"

"Why did he decide to come to Florida?"

"Ask him. You're the writer."

"He might slam the door in my face, then?"

"Who knows. We made a deal, that's all, and we shook hands on it. I know my business, and you should know yours. Any more questions?"

"Not for you."

"Good." He got to his feet, an abrupt signal that the discussion was finished. "When are you driving down?"

"That's my business." I grinned, and stuck out my hand.

We shook hands again, and Cassidy asked kindly if he could telephone for a taxi. Sending me home in a cab at my own expense was his method of "seeing that I got home all right."

I declined, and rode down in the elevator. To clear my head, I preferred to walk the few blocks to my apartment. As I walked the quiet streets through the warm soft night, a Palm Beach police car, staying a discreet block behind, trailed me home. I wasn't suspected of anything. The cops were merely making certain that I would get home all right. Palm Beach is probably, together with Hobe Sound, the best-protected city in the United States.