Part 1, Chapter 4

Gloria shook me awake and switched on the lamp beside the Murphy bed. She had let herself in with the extra key I kept hidden in the potted geranium on the porch. She had either witnessed Berenice using the key or heard her mention that one was there. I blinked at Gloria in the sudden light, trying to pull myself together. My heart was still fluttering, but the burbling fear of being wakened in the dark was gradually going away.

"I'm sorry, James," Gloria said briskly, "but I knocked and you didn't answer. You really ought to get a doorbell, you know."

"Try phoning next time. I almost always get up to answer the phone, in case it might be something unimportant."

I didn't try to conceal the irritation in my voice. My cigarettes were in my trousers, which were hanging over the back of the straight chair by the coffee table. I slept nude, with just a sheet over me, but because I was angry as well as in need of a smoke, I threw the sheet off, got up and fumbled in the pockets of my trousers for my cigarettes. I lit one and tossed the match into the stoneware ashtray on the coffee table.

"This is important to me, James. Mr. Cassidy came and you weren't there. He asked about you and I told him you had a headache and left early-"

"True."

Gloria wasn't embarrassed by my nakedness, but now I felt self-conscious, standing bare assed in the center of the room, smoking and carrying on a moronic conversation. Gloria was in her late forties, and had been married for about six months to a hardware-store owner in Atlanta, so it wasn't her first time to see a man without any clothes on. Nevertheless, I took a terry-cloth robe out of the closet and slipped into it.

"He wants you to come to supper, James. And here I am, ready to take you."

"What time is it, anyway?"

"About ten forty." She squinted at the tiny hands on her platinum wristwatch. "Not quite ten forty-five."

I felt refreshed and wide-awake, although I had only slept two hours. Being awakened that way, so unexpectedly, had stirred up my adrenalin.

"I think you're overstating the case, Gloria. What, precisely, did Mr. Cassidy say to make you so positive he wanted me--in particular--to come to his little gathering?"

She rubbed her beaky nose with a skinny forefinger and frowned. "He said, 'I hope that Mr. Figueras' headache won't keep him from coming over this evening for a drink.' And I said, 'Oh, no. He asked me to pick him up later at his apartment. James is very anxious to meet you!’"

"I see. You turned a lukewarm chunk of small talk into a big deal. And now I have to go with you to get you off the hook."

"I wouldn't put it that way. He bought a picture from me, James, one of the primitives--the big one with the huge pile of different kinds of fruit. For his colored cook to hang in the kitchen."

"No Westcotts?"

"He didn't like Herb's pictures very well. I could tell, although he didn't say anything one way or another."

"I think he did. Buying a Haitian primitive for his cook says something, don't you think? Do I need another shave?"

She felt my chin with the tips of her fingers. "I don't think so. Brush your teeth, though. Your breath is simply awful."

"That's from the Mexican dinner I had earlier."

I dressed in gray slacks, a white shirt, and brown leather tie, dark brown loafers, and a gray-and-white striped seersucker jacket, resolving to take my soiled dinner jacket to the cleaner's in the morning. I remember how calm I was, and how well my mind seemed to be functioning after only two hours of sleep. All of my muscles were loose and stretchy. There was a spring to my step, as though I were wearing cushioned soles. I was in a pleasant mood, so much so that I pinched old Gloria through her girdle as we left the apartment.

"Oh, for God's sake, James!"

As we drove toward the Royal Palm Towers, a seven-story horror of poured concrete, in Gloria's white Pontiac, I found myself looking forward to meeting Mr. Cassidy and to seeing his paintings. He was bound to have a few pictures in his apartment, although his famous collection was safe in Chicago. I wondered, as well, why he had elected to live in the Royal Palm Towers, which overlooked Lake Worth instead of the Atlantic. He would be able to see the Atlantic from his rooftop patio, but only from a distance, and that wasn't the same as being on the beach.

The Towers was a formless mixture of rental apartments, condominium apartments, hotel rooms, and rental suites. The corporation that owned the building had overlooked very little in the way of income-producing cells. There were rental offices on the mezzanine (Cassidy also had a suite of offices there), and on the ground floor the corporation leased space for shops of all kinds, including a small art gallery. The coffee shop, the lounge bar, and the dining room were all leased to various entrepreneurs. The corporation itself invested nothing in services and took from everybody. Cassidy probably maintained the penthouse, I decided, because the Royal Palm Towers was one of the few apartment hotels in Palm Beach that remained open all year round.

Many New Yorkers, who didn't like Florida for its climate, loved the state because there was no state income tax. By maintaining a residence for six months and one day in Florida they could beat New York's state income tax. An ignoble but practical motive for moving one's residence and business headquarters to Florida.

"Where," I asked Gloria, "did you get the Haitian primitives?"

"A widow in Lauderdale sold them to me." She giggled. "For a song. Her husband just died, and she sold everything--house, furniture, collection, and all. She was moving back to Indiana to live with her daughter and grandchildren. '

"You priced the Marcel too low, baby. You can get more than fifteen hundred for it."

"I doubt it, and I can't lose anything--not when I only paid twenty-five dollars for it."

"You're a thief and a bitch."

Gloria giggled. "You're a blackguard. What have you done with Berenice?"

"She went back to Minnesota. I don't want to talk about her, Gloria."

"She's an awfully nice girl, James."

"I said I don't want to talk about her, Gloria."

We took the elevator to the penthouse, but the door didn't open automatically. There was a small one-way window on the steel door (a mirror on our side), and the Filipino houseboy checked us out before pressing the door release from his side. There was probably a release button concealed somewhere within the elevator cage. There had to be. Cassidy couldn't keep someone in his penthouse at all times, just to push a button and let him in--or could he? The very rich do a lot of strange things.

The party was not a large one. Seven people counting Mr. Cassidy. Gloria and I brought the total to nine. It was the kind of party where it is assumed that everyone knows one another and therefore no one is introduced. There are many parties like that in Palm Beach. The main idea is to eat first, and then drink as much as possible before the bar is closed or the liquor runs out. If one feels the need to talk to someone, he introduces himself or starts talking to someone without giving his name. It makes very little difference. Mr. Cassidy had to know everyone there--at least slightly--to brief the Filipino houseboy on the person's credentials for admittance.

Sloan, the bartender (he wore a name tag on his white jacket), poured us Cutty Sarks over ice cubes. I trailed Gloria toward the terrace, where Mr. Cassidy was talking to a gray-haired man who was probably a senior officer in some branch of the armed forces. He wore an Oxford gray suit with deeply pleated trousers. The suit was new, indicating that he didn't wear it often. This meant that he wore a uniform most of the time. A suit lasts army and navy officers for eight or nine years. Pleats were long out of fashion and Oxford gray is the favorite suit color for high-ranking officers. They lead dark, gray lives.

"I appreciate that, Tom," Cassidy said, sticking out his hand, and the gray-haired man was dismissed.

I watched the old-timer head for the elevator. I could have confirmed, easily enough, whether the man was in the service by asking, "Isn't that General Smith?" In this case, however, I believed that I was right and didn't feel the need of confirmation.

Joseph Cassidy was short, barely missing squatness, with wide meaty shoulders and a barrel chest. His tattersall vest was a size too small and looked incongruous with his red velvet smoking jacket. He needed the vest for its pockets--pockets for his watch and chain, and the thin gold chain for his Phi Beta Kappa key. He had a tough Irish face, tiny blue eyes, with fully a sixteenth of an inch of white exposed beneath the irises, and square white teeth. His large upper front teeth overlapped, slightly, his full lower lip. His high forehead was flaking from sunburn. He wore a close-cropped black moustache, and his black hair, which was graying at the sides, was combed straight back and slicked down with water. Cassidy was a formidable man in his early fifties. He carried himself with an air of authority, and his confident manner was reinforced by his rich, resonant bass voice. And his gold-rimmed glasses--the same kind that Robert McNamara wore when he was Secretary of Defense--were beautifully suitable for his face.

Gloria introduced us and started toward the indoor fountain to look at the carp. The pool was crowded with these big fish, and I could see their backs, pied with gold and vermilion splotches, from where I stood, some fifteen feet away from the pool. A concrete griffin, on a pedestal in the center of the pool, dribbled water from its eagle beak into the carp-filled pool. It was a poorly designed griffin. The sculptor, who probably knew too much about anatomy, had been unable to come to terms with the idea of a cross between an eagle and a lion. Medieval sculptors, who knew nothing about anatomy, had no trouble at all in visualizing griffins and gargoyles. Cassidy took my arm, grasping my left elbow with a thumb and forefinger.

"Come on, Jim," he said, "I'll show you a couple of pictures. They call you 'Jim,' don't they?"

"No," I replied, hiding my irritation. "I prefer James. My father named me Jaime, but no one ever seemed to pronounce it right, so I changed it to James. Not legally," I added.

"It's the same name." He shrugged his meaty shoulders. "No need for a legal change, James."

I smiled. "I didn't ask for that advice, Mr. Cassidy, so please don't bill me for it,'

"I don't intend to. I was just going to say that you don't look like a man named Jaime Figueras."

"Like the stereotype Puerto Rican, you mean? The peculiar thing is that my blond hair and blue eyes come from my father, not my mother. My mother was Scotch-Irish, with black hair and hazel eyes.'

"You don't have a Spanish accent, either. How long have you lived in the States?"

"Since I was twelve. My father died, and my mother moved back to New York. She never liked Puerto Rico, anyway. She was a milliner, a creative designer of hats for women. You can't sell original hats to Puerto Rican women. All they need is a mantilla--or a piece of pink Kleenex pinned to their hair--to attend mass."

"I've never met a milliner."

"There aren't many left. My mother's dead now, and very few women wear originals nowadays, even when they happen to buy a hat."

"Are hats worth collecting?" he asked suddenly, moistening his upper lip with the tip of his pink tongue. "Original hats, I mean?"

I knew then that Mr. Cassidy was a true collector, and, knowing that, I knew a lot more about him than he thought I knew. In general, collectors can be divided into three categories.

First, the rare patron-collectors who know what they want and order it from artists and artisans. This first category, in the historical past, helped to establish styles. Without the huge demand for portraits in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, for example, there would have been no great school of portrait painters.

Second, the middle-ground people, who buy what is fashionable, but collect fashionable art because they either like it without knowing why (it reflects their times is why) or have been taught to like it.

In the third category are the collectors for economic reasons. They buy and sell to make a profit. That is, in a tautological sense, they are collectors because they are collectors, but they enjoy the works of art they possess at the moment for their present and future value.

The one trait that all three types of collectors have in common is miserliness. They write small, seldom dotting "i's" or crossing "t's" and they are frequently costive. Once they own something, anything, they don't want to give it up.

The collector's role is almost as important to world culture as the critic's. Without collectors there would be precious little art produced in this world, and without critics, collectors would wonder what to collect. Even those few collectors who are knowledgeable about art will not go out on a limb without critical confirmation. Collectors and critics live within this uneasy symbiotic relationship. And artists--the poor bastards--who are caught in the middle, would starve to death without us.

"No." I shook my head. As we crossed through the living room toward his study I explained why. "Hats are too easy to copy. Original hats, during the twenties and thirties, were expensive because they were made specifically for one person and for one occasion. As soon as a new hat was seen on Norma Shearer's head, it was copied and mass-produced. The copy, except perhaps for the materials, looked about the same. Some of the hats worn during the Gilded Age, when egret feathers were popular, might be worth collecting, but I doubt if restoration, storage, and upkeep costs would make it worthwhile to collect even those."

"I see. You have looked into it then?"

"Not exhaustively. Fashion isn't my field--as you know."

We entered his study, which was furnished in black leather, glass, and chrome. Cassidy sank into an audibly cushioned chair while I looked at the three pictures on the apple-green wall. There was an early Lichtenstein (a blown-up Dick Tracy panel), an airbrush Marilyn Monroe, in pale blue, from the Warhol series, and a black-and-white drawing of a girl's head by Matisse. The latter was over the ebony desk, in quiet isolation. The drawing was so bad Matisse must have signed it under duress. I sat across from Cassidy and put my empty glass on the rosewood coffee table. The Filipino houseboy appeared with a fresh drink on a tray, picked up my empty glass, and handed me the drink and a cocktail napkin.

"You wish something to eat, sir?"

"I think so. A turkey sandwich, all white meat, on white toast. With mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, and cut off the crusts, please."

He nodded and left.

"You don't like the drawing, do you?"

I shrugged, and sipped from my glass. "Matisse had a streak of meanness in him that many Americans associate with the French. When he went out to a café--after he became well known--he would often sketch on a pad, or sometimes on a napkin. Then, instead of paying his tab in cash, he'd leave the drawing on the table and walk out. The proprietor, knowing that the drawing was worth a good deal more than the dinner, was always delighted. A man full of rich food and a couple of bottles of wine doesn't always draw very well, Mr. Cassidy."

He nodded, relishing the story, and looked fondly at his Matisse. A bad drawing is a bad drawing, no matter who has drawn it. But my little story--and it was a true one--had merely enhanced the value of the Matisse for Cassidy. An ordinary person, if he had purchased a bad Matisse, would have felt gypped. But Cassidy wasn't an ordinary person. He was a collector, and not an ordinary collector.

"An interesting story." He smiled. "I don't have much here, and I haven't decided what to bring down from Chicago."

Here was a natural opening, and I took it. "I'd like to see the catalogue of your collection some time, Mr. Cassidy."

"Don't have one yet, but I've got a good man at the University of Chicago working on it. Dr. G. B. Lang. D'you know him?"

"Yes, but not personally. He wrote an excellent monograph on Rothko."

"That's Dr. Lang. It isn't costing me a dime, either--except for the printing costs. Dr. Lang teaches at the university, and one of my clients is on the Board of Trustees. Through him, my client, I managed to get Lang a reduced teaching schedule. He teaches two courses, and the rest of his load is research, the research being my catalogue. Dr. Lang's happy because he'll get another publication under his belt and, if he does a bang-up job, the University of Chicago Press will probably publish it"

When Cassidy smiled, exposing his teeth, his canines made little dents in his bottom lip. He stared at me for two long beats. His eyes, behind the gold-rimmed glasses, were flat and slightly magnified. He leaned forward slightly. "When men of good will get together, some sort of deal can be worked out to everyone's satisfaction. Isn't that right, James?"

"If they're 'men of good will,’ yes. But my own experience has led me to believe that there aren't many of them around."

He laughed, as though I had said something funny. The houseboy brought my sandwich. I took a bite and called him back before he got out the door. "Just a minute! This isn't mayonnaise, this is salad dressing."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't you have any mayonnaise?"

"No, sir. May I bring you something else, sir?"

"Never mind."

In his own way, Joseph Cassidy was as famous as Lee Bailey. In court Cassidy was certainly as good a lawyer, but he wasn't as flamboyant with reporters outside of court as Bailey, nor did he take cases for sheer publicity value. He was a cash-in-advance, on-the-line lawyer. No one had written a biography on Cassidy yet, but he had socked away a lot more money than Bailey. His shrewdness in buying the right painters at the right time and at rock-bottom prices had made him another fortune--if he ever decided to put his collection on the market.

The houseboy still hovered about, wanting but unwilling to leave. He was upset because I didn't eat the sandwich.

"Close the bar, Rizal," Cassidy ordered quietly, "and tell Mrs. Bentham that I'll see that Mr. Figueras gets home all right." He exposed his toothy smile. "You don't mind sticking around for a while, do you, James?"

"Of course not, Mr. Cassidy."

Because of my upbringing, which has been on the formal side--insofar as observing the amenities was concerned--I resented the easy use of my first name by Mr. Cassidy without my permission or invitation. But I knew that he wasn't trying to patronize me. He was attempting to put me at my ease. Nevertheless, although I considered the idea, I couldn't drop to his level and call him Joe. There's too much informality in America as it is, and in Palm Beach, during the season, it is often carried to ridiculous lengths.

Rizal left to close the bar, which meant that the party was over. The guests would depart without saying good-bye to their host, and that would be that. Not out of rudeness, but out of deference. If Cassidy had gone out for a series of formal good-nights they would have adjusted to that kind of leave-taking just as easily.

After Rizal closed the door, Cassidy took a cigar out of his desk humidor, lighted it, and sat down again. He didn't offer me one.

"James," Cassidy said earnestly, "I know a lot more about you than you think I do. I rarely miss one of your critical articles, and I think you write about art with a good deal of insight and perception."

"Thank you."

"This is all straight talk, James. I'm not in the habit of handing out fulsome praise. A second-rate critic doesn't deserve it, and a first-rate critic doesn't need it. In my opinion, you're well on the way to becoming one of our best young American critics. And, according to my investigations, you're ambitious enough to be the best."

"By investigations, if you mean you've been talking to Gloria about me, she isn't the most reliable witness, you know. We've been friends for several years now, and she's prejudiced in my favor."

"No, not only Gloria, James, although I've talked to her, too. I've talked to dealers, to some of my fellow collectors, and even to Dr. Lang. You might be interested to know that Dr. Lang's highly impressed with your work, and he knows more about art history and criticism than I'll ever know."

"I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Cassidy."

"He should. That's his business--and yours. I'm an attorney, not an art historian. I don't even intend to write a foreword to my catalogue--although Lang suggested it to me."

"Most collectors do."

He nodded, and waved his right hand slowly so the ash wouldn't fall off the end of his cigar. "In the art world, you happen to have a reputation for integrity. And I've been informed that you're incorruptible."

"I'm not getting rich as an art critic, if that's what you mean."

"I know. I also know how to make inquiries. That's my business. The law is ninety-five percent preparation, and if a man does his homework, it's easy to look good in the courtroom. To return to corruption for a moment, let me say that I respect your so-called incorruptibility."

"The way you say it makes me feel as if I've missed some opportunity to make a pile of dough or something and turned it down. If I have missed out on something, I sure don't know about it."

"If you want to play dumb, I'll spell it out for you. Number one--free pictures. That kid's show this evening, ah, Westcott. Suppose you had said to Gloria that you would give Westcott a nice buildup in return for a couple of free pictures, what would have happened?"

"In Westcott's case, she'd have given all of them to me." I grinned. "But you aren't talking about integrity now, Mr. Cassidy, you're talking about my profession. I've never taken a free picture. The walls of my apartment in the Village are bare except for chance patterns of flaking paint. But if I ever took one picture, just one, that I could resell for two or three hundred bucks, the word would be out that I was on the take. From that moment on I would be dead as a critic. And a good review for pay, which is still being done in Paris, has damned near ruined serious art criticism in France.

"There are some exceptions, naturally, and those of us in the trade know who they are. So the way things are, I can't even afford to take legitimate art gifts from friends, even when I know that there are no strings attached. The strings would be there inadvertently. The mere fact that I took the gift might influence my opinion if I ever had to cover the man's show. By the same token, I don't buy anything either. And I've had some chances to buy some things that even I could afford. But if I owned a painting, you see, there might be a temptation on my part to push the artist beyond his worth—possibly--I don't know that I would--in order to increase the value of my own painting. I don't mean that I am completely objective either. That's impossible. I merely try to be most of the time, and that allows me to go overboard and be subjective as hell when I see something I really flip over."

I finished the last of my drink and set the glass down a little harder than I had intended. When I looked up, there was a smile on Cassidy's Irish face. Perhaps he had been baiting me, but I had been through this kind of probing before. It was natural, in America, for people to think that a critic had been paid off when he gave some artist a rave write-up, especially when they didn't know anything about art. But Cassidy knew better.

"You know all this, Mr. Cassidy, so don't give me any undeserved credit for integrity. I like money as much as anyone, and I made more money when I taught art history at CCNY than I do now. I'm ambitious, yes, but for a reputation, not for money. When I have a big enough reputation as a critic, then I'll make more money, but never a huge amount. That isn't the game. The trick--and it's a hard one--is to earn a living as an art critic, or, if you prefer, art expert. If you want me to authenticate a painting for you, I'll charge you a fee. Gladly. If you want to ask my advice on what to buy next for your collection, I'll give you suggestions free of charge." I held up my empty glass. "Except for another drink. Or is the bar closed for me, too?"

"I'll get the bottle." Cassidy left the room and returned almost immediately with an open bottle of Cutty Sark and a plastic bucket of cubes. I poured a double shot over two ice cubes and lit a cigarette. Cassidy picked up a yellow legal pad from his desk, sat down with it, and unscrewed the top from a fountain pen.

"I don't have any pictures for you to authenticate, James. And I didn't intend to ask you for any advice on collecting, but since you made the offer, what do you have in mind?"

I decided to tell him about my pet project.

"Entartete Kunst. Degenerate art.'

"How do you spell that?"

I told him and he wrote it on the pad. "It's a term that was used by Hitler's party to condemn modern art. At the time, Hitler was on an ethnic kick, and the official line was folk, or people's, art. Modern art, with its subjective individualistic viewpoint, was considered political and cultural anarchy, and Hitler ordered it suppressed. Even ruthlessly. Then, as now, no one was quite sure what modern art was, and it became necessary to make up a show of 'degenerate art' so that party men throughout Germany would know what in the hell they were supposed to prevent. So, in July 1937, they opened an exhibit of modern art in Munich. It was for adults only, so no children would be corrupted, and the exhibit was called Entartete Kunst. It was supposed to be an example, a warning to artists, and to people who might find such art attractive. After the Munich showing, it traveled all over Germany."

I leaned forward. "Listen to the names of the painters represented--Otto Dix, Emil Nolde, Franz Marc, Paul Klee, Kandinsky, Max Beckmann, and many more. I have a copy of the original catalogue in New York, locked away in the bottom drawer of my desk at the office.'

"Those paintings would be worth a fortune today."

"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 Modem 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 airfare 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-"

"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 settled, 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.

Now that I was alone, I was so filled with excitement I could hardly think straight. Dada, first, and Surrealism, second, were my favorite periods in art history. And because of my interest in these movements when I had been in Paris, I knew the Paris art scene of the twenties better, in many respects, than most of the people who had participated in it. And Debierue--Jacques Debierue! Debierue was the key figure, the symbol of the dividing line, if a line could be delineated, in the split between Dada and Surrealism! In my exhilarated state, I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. I was going to put on a pot of coffee and jot down notes on Debierue from memory in preparation for the interview. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow!

I turned the key in the door and opened it to unexpected light. The soft light streamed in from the bathroom. Silhouetted in the bathroom doorway, wearing a gray-blue shorty nightgown, was my tawny-maned schoolteacher. Her long, swordlike legs trembled at the knees.

"I--I came back, James," Berenice said tearfully. I nodded, dumbly, and lifted my arms so she could rush into them. After she calms down, I thought, I'll have her make the coffee. Berenice makes much better coffee than I do…