The Burnt Orange Heresy

"The scientific study of whales. A cetologist is a man who studies whales, and he can spend an entire lifetime at it, just as I've spent my life, so far, studying art-as have the critics who wrote about Debierue. Now, let's suppose that you pick up a copy of Scientific American and read an article about whales written by a well-known cetologist-"

"Are there any well-known cetologists?"

"There are bound to be. I don't have any names to rattle off for you-that isn't my racket. But I haven't finished yet. All right, you're reading this article by a cetologist in Scientific American and he states that a baby sperm whale is a tail presentation."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that a baby whale, unlike other mammals, is born tail first."

"How do you know that?"

"I read a lot. But the same would hold true even if the cetologist said that it was a cephalic presentation. The point I'm making is this: The article is written by a cetobogist and published in Scientific American, and you will accept an expert's word for it. You aren't going to get yourself a goddamned boat and sail around the seven fucking seas trying to find a pregnant whale, are you?' Just so you can check on whether a baby whale is born head first or tail first?"

Berenice giggled. "You're cute when you're stern. No . . . I guess not, but art, it seems to me, is supposed to be for everybody, not just for those critics you mentioned . .

I put down the spoon and wiped my lips on a paper napkin. "Whales are for everybody, too, sweetheart. But not everybody studies whales as a lifetime occupation. That's the big difference you don't seem to understand."

"All right." She shrugged. "I still think there's something you haven't told me about all this."

I grinned. "There is. In return for Debierue's address I've got to do a favor for Mr. Cassidy-"

"The lawyer who told you about Debierue?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "And what I'm telling you is 'privileged information,' as Cassidy would put it. It's between you and Mr. Cassidy and these ice cream sodas."

"You can trust me, James." Her face softened. "You can trust me with your life."

"I know. And in a way it is my life. Anyway, Mr. Cassidy gave me privileged information-where Debierue is living- and all I have to do in return is to steal a picture for him."

"Steal a picture?' Why can't he buy one?' He's rich enough."

"Debierue doesn't sell his pictures. I explained all that. If Cassidy gets a picture, even one that's been stolen, he'll be the only collector in the world to have one, you see."

"What good will it do him?' If it's a stolen picture, Debierue can get it back by calling the police."

"Debierue won't know he has it, and neither will anyone else-until after Debierue's dead, anyway. Then the picture will be even more valuable."

"How're you going to steal a picture without Debierue knowing it was you?"

"I don't know yet. I'm playing things by ear at the moment. It might not be a picture. If he's working with ceramics, I can slip a piece in my pocket while you distract him. Maybe there are some drawings around. Mr. Cassidy would be satisfied with a drawing. In fact he'd be delighted. But until I find out what Debierue has been doing, I won't know what to do myself."

"But you want me to help you?"

"If you want to, yes. He can't watch both of us at the same time, and he's an old man. So when a chance comes, and it will, I'll give you the high sign and then I'll snatch something."

"It's awfully haphazard, James, the way you say it. Besides, as soon as we leave, he'll know that you're the one who stole it-whatever it is."

"No." I shook my head. "He won't know. He'll suspect that I took it, but he won't be able to prove it. I'll deny everything, if charged, and besides it'll never get that far. Meanwhile, Mr. Cassidy will have the painting, chunk of sculpture, drawing, or whatever, hidden away where Jesus Christ couldn't find it. See?"

"Do you realize, James," she said, rather primly, "that if you ever got caught stealing a painting from anybody that your career would be over?"

"Not really, and not, certainly, from Debierue. His work, as you mentioned before about Van Gogh, belongs to the world-and if I were ever tried for something like that, which I wouldn't be-I'd have a defense fund from art lovers and art magazines that would make me look like a White Panther. Anyway, that's the plan-in addition to somehow getting an interview, of course."

"It isn't much of a plan."

"True. But now that you know what I have to do, you might get an idea once we're on the scene. The important thing is this: don't take anything yourself. I'll take it when the time is propitious. I have to get the interview before anything else is done."

"I understand."

The rain caught us before we reached Lake Worth.