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sembles dried blood （the sexiest shade of red ever made； and so Germanic thirtiesish that Visconti made Ingrid Thulin wear it in The Damned）； and she had painted her lips to match。 During her six weeks in Palm Beach； Beremce had learned some peculiar things about fashion； but the schoolteacher from Duluth had not disappeared。
She giggled and pointed to the tray on the coffee table。 〃These are supposed to be Gibsons！〃
There were two miniatures of Gilbey's gin and another of Stock dry vermouth （two tenths of gin； an eighth of vermouth）； a glass pitcher with chunks； not cubes； of ice； and a tiny glass bowl containing several cocktail onions。
I shrugged。 〃I don't think they're allowed to serve mixed drinks in this Georgia county； although the waiter would've mixed them for you if you'd tipped him。 Actually〃 …I twisted the metal caps off the two gin miniatures… 〃it's better this way。 Most bartenders overuse vermouth in Gibsons； and I'd rather make my own anyway。〃
〃It just struck me funny； that's all；〃 Berenice said。
While I mixed the Gibsons； I tried to work out a simple plan and a way of presenting it to Berenice to keep her away from my room until we were ready to leave。
〃Did you go to a movie this afternoon？〃
She shook her head； and sipped her cocktail。 〃I wouldn't go to a movie alone back home； much less in a strange town。 I'm not the scary type； you know that； James； but there are some things a woman shouldn't do alone； and that's one of them。〃
〃At any rate； you got through the day。〃
〃I slept like the dead。 How's the article ing？〃
〃That's what I wanted to talk to you about。 I finished it。〃
〃Already？ That's wonderful； James！〃
〃It's a good rough draft；〃 I admitted； 〃but it'll need a few things filled in up in New York…〃
〃Am I in it？ Can I read it？〃
〃No。 It's an article about Debierue and his art； not about you and me。 When did you bee interested in art criticism？〃 I grinned。
〃When I met Mr。 Debierue； that's when。〃 She smiled。 〃He's the nicest； sweetest old gentleman I ever met。〃
〃I'd rather you'd wait tifi I have the final draft； if you don't mind。 I want to get back to New York as soon as possible to finish it。 So after dinner； I'll take a short nap until midnight； and then we can check out of here and get rolling。 If we trade off on the driving； we can reach the city in about thirty hours。〃
〃You won't get much sleep if we leave at midnight 。 。 。〃
〃I don't need much； and you've already had enough。 You wouldn't be able to sleep much tonight anyway； not after being in the sack all day。〃
〃I'm not arguing； James； I was just worried about you…〃
〃In that case； let's go downstairs to dinner； so I can e back up and get some sleep before midnight。〃
During dinner； Berenice asked me if she could see Debierue's picture； but I put her off by telling her it was all wrapped up securely in the trunk of the car； and that it wouldn't be a good idea for anyone to see us looking at a painting in the basement garage。 I reminded her conspiratorially that it was a 〃hot〃 picture； and we didn't want anyone suspecting us and making inquiries。 Because I halfwhispered this explanation； she nodded solemnly and accepted it。
The food was excellent…medium…rare sirloins； corn on the cob； okra and tomatoes； creamed scalloped potatoes； a cucumber and onion salad； with a chocolate pudding dessert topped with real whipped cream； not sprayed from a can…and I ate every bit of it； including four hot biscuits with butter （my two； and Berenice's two）。 I felt somewhat logy following the heavy meal； but after drinking two cups of black coffee； although I was unfortably stuffed； I still wasn't sleepy。
I signed the check and penciled in my room number。 〃After all that food； I'm sleepy；〃 I said。
Berenice took my arm as we left the dining room to cross the lobby to the elevators。 〃Wouldn't you like a little nightcap；〃 she squeezed my arm； 〃to make you sleep better…in my room？〃
〃No；〃 I replied； 〃and when I say No to an offer like that you know I'm sleepy enough already。〃
I took her room key； opened the door； and kissed her good night。 〃I'll leave a call for eleven thirty； and then I'll knock on your door。 Try and get some more sleep。〃
〃If I can；〃 she replied； 〃and if not； I'll watch television。 Let me have another one of those good…night kisses。 。 。〃
My room was musty and close again； although I had not turned off the overhead fan。 I didn't want to go through the too…hot…too…cold routine with the reverse…cycle airconditioner…which had far too many BTUs for the size of the small room…so I cracked the door again and clamped it open with the brass hook…and…eye attachment。 I stripped down to my shorts and T…shirt； took the art materials out of the closet； and got busy with the picture。
I mixed Prussian blue； adding zinc white a dollop at a time； until I had a color the shade of an Air Force uniform。 I thinned it slightly with turpentine and brushed a patch on the bottom of the canvas。 It was still too dark； and I added white until the blue became much bolder。 I then mixed enough of the diluted blue to paint a slightly ragged border； not less than an inch in width； nor more than three inches； around the four sides of the rectangle。 To fill the remaining white space with burnt orange was simple enough； once I was able to get the exact shade I wanted； but it took me much longer than I expected to mix it； because it wasn't easy to match a color that I could see in my mind； but not in front of me。
But the color was rich when I achieved it to my satisfaction。 Not quite brown； not quite mustardy； but a kind of burnished burnt orange with a felt； rather than an observable； sense of yellow。 I mixed more of the paint than I would need； to be sure that I would have enough； and thinned the glowing pile with enough linseed oil and turpentine to spread it smoothly on the canvas。 Using the largest brush； I filled in the center of the canvas almost to the blue border； and then changed to a smaller brush to carefully fill in the narrow ring of white space that remained。
I backed to the wall for a long view of the pleted painting； and decided that the blue border was not quite ragged enough。 This was remedied in a few minutes； and the painting was as good as my description of it in my article。 In fact； the picture was so bright and shining under the floor lamp； it looked even better than I had expected。
All it needed was Debierue's signature。
I had a sharp debate with myself whether to sign it or not； wondering whether it was in keeping with the philosophy of the 〃American Harvest〃 period for him to put his name on one of the pictures。 But inasmuch as the burnt orange； blue…bordered painting represented the 〃self〃 of Debierue； I concluded that if he ever signed a painting； this was one he would have to sign。 I made a mental note to add this information to my article…that this was the first picture Debierue had ever signed （it would certainly raise the value for Mr。 Cassidy to possess a signed painting！）。
Debierue's letter to the manager of the French clipping service was still in my jumpsuit。 I took it out and studied Debierue's cramp