No amount of familiarity with misadventure, however, could have prepared Pauline for the shock of the early morning telephone call that aroused Jules and sent him flying out of their house at such an ungodly hour.
“But what is it, Jules?” she asked from their bed, seeing the haste with which he hung up the telephone, after an indecipherable conversation, and leapt from the bed and dressed, without either bathing or shaving. She feared, of course, for her son, who had returned unexpectedly the night before, having abandoned his clinic in France months before the time the doctors had prescribed as necessary for his treatment.
Standing at the door of their room, ready to go, Jules said to her, “It’s Hector.”
“Hector!” said Pauline, nearly collapsing with relief. “Oh, thank God. For a moment I thought it was Kippie again.”
“He’s dead,” said Jules.
“Hector?” whispered Pauline, aghast. “How? What happened?”
“I don’t know anything. I’ll call you when I get there.”
“Was it an automobile accident? What? How?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Pauline,” he replied again.
“Where are you going?”
“To his house.”
“Oh, Jules, should I do anything about Camilla?”
“No.”
“Of course, if they called you, they undoubtedly called her.”
Jules nodded. “Do you have much on your agenda for today?”
“Whatever it is, I’ll clear it.”
“Good. Stand by.”
Outside, a moment later, she could hear the frenzied barking of the police dogs that patrolled the grounds at night, as they rushed around Jules on his way across the courtyard to the garage. “Hi, boy, hi, boy, down, down,” she could hear Jules say to the dogs. However fierce the dogs were to other people, they responded totally to the commands of Jules Mendelson. “Call them off, will you, Smitty. It’s me.”
“Anything wrong, Mr. Mendelson?” asked Smitty, the night guard, who had been with the Mendelsons for fifteen years.
“Apparently,” answered Jules, without elaborating further. “I have to get up to Humming Bird Way. Remind me how to get there. I can’t remember.”
“Off the Strip, up Doheny, turn right on Oriole, and it turns into Humming Bird,” said Smitty.
“I’ll know it when I see it. I’ve been there a hundred times,” said Jules.
“I hope everything’s okay, Mr. M.,” said Smitty.
Alone, Pauline turned on the All News radio station, but there was nothing on it that pertained to her life, or Hector’s, as far as she knew: rapes, murders, gangs, drug deals gone awry, and a television star’s divorce. Still stunned by the suddenness of the news, and the incompleteness of it, she could not yet cry, although she felt an ache of loneliness for her friend. In days to come, she would say over and over, dozens of times, “He was my first friend here when Jules and I moved to Los Angeles.” She could only remember that Hector had wanted to stay on the night before after the other guests had left, as was their habit, and bring a bottle of champagne into
the library to talk over the happenings of the party, especially his latest contretemps with Rose Cliveden, but she had said no. My God, she thought, perhaps if he had stayed, whatever has happened might not have happened. And then she remembered that Rose was sleeping down the hall in one of the guest rooms, having been too drunk to drive to Holmby Hills, let alone down the mountain from Clouds.
I’ll wake up Rose, thought Pauline.
On Sunset Boulevard the traffic moved at a snail’s pace and then stopped entirely. Philip Quennell and Camilla Ebury, en route from Camilla’s house in Bel Air to Hector Paradiso’s house in the Hollywood Hills, sat in impatient silence in the car.
“It’s driving me mad, this sitting here,” said Camilla, tapping her fingers on the dashboard. “The traffic usually moves on Sunset.”
“There must be an accident, or something, up ahead,” said Philip.
“More likely, some great event at the Beverly Hills Hotel. That’s the holdup, I’m sure,” said Camilla.
Philip pressed on the horn several times.
“Honking is not going to do any good, you know,” she said.
“I know. I can’t stand people who blow their horns, but I can feel how anxious you are.”
“Perhaps if you turned left when we get to Roxbury, and got over on Lexington, we could go behind the hotel, and then come out again on Sunset,” suggested Camilla.
“Did Hector keep great sums of money in his house, do you think?” asked Philip.
“I know he didn’t. In the first place, he didn’t have very much money.”
“What do you mean, he didn’t have much money?”
“I mean, people who don’t have any money will think he had a lot of money, but people with money will say he didn’t have any money.”
“Money is a relative thing, is that what you’re saying?” asked Philip, amused.
“Something like that. Jules explained that to me. And in the second place, Hector was extremely tight. Anyone who knew him will tell you that.”
“Has Hector ever been married?” asked Philip.
“Engaged a few times, once to an actress, Astrid something, before my time, but he never married,” said Camilla. She looked out the window.
“Why don’t you cry?” asked Philip.
“I don’t know you well enough to cry in front of you,” she replied.
“Yes, you do.”
“I only met you last night.”
“We’ve come a long way in a short time, don’t forget.”
“I want you to know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not in the habit of bringing men home from parties.”
“You already told me that, and it wasn’t necessary to say it the first time. I knew that.”
She reached over and patted his hand on the steering wheel.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she said.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“About your marriage?”
“All right.”
“Didn’t you love your husband?” asked Philip.
“Why do you ask that?” replied Camilla, with surprise in her voice.
“You spoke of him very casually.”
“How did I speak of him very casually? And when? I don’t remember.”
“Last night, at the Mendelsons’.”
“What in the world did I say?”
“You said, ‘Don’t ever die in a country where you don’t speak the language. It’s a nightmare.’ ”
“But that’s true.”
“I’m sure it’s true, but it’s also a very casual way to talk about a husband who dropped dead on the street in Barcelona.”
“Do you think I sound callous?”
“I don’t know, but I’m curious.”
She looked straight ahead, thinking before answering. “Oh, I suppose we would have gotten a divorce in time if Orin hadn’t died. We weren’t really happy, but Bunty adored him, and I wasn’t desperately unhappy, just not terribly happy. Satisfied?”
“Honest answer.”
“Now tell me something.”
“Okay.”
“Do you always remember everything people say?”
“Yes.”
“I better be careful about what I say.”
“Look, the line’s moving,” he answered.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s no one permitted to go in the house,” said the policeman posted outside Hector Paradiso’s house on Humming Bird Way. Already the driveway had been roped off with orange masking tape strung between trees. There were police cars lined up on both sides of the street, and a news van from one of the local television stations was driving up and down the street looking for a place to park. An ambulance, with its rear door open, was parked in the driveway, and the driver leaned against the fender smoking a cigarette. Across the street, neighbors, still in nightclothes, were huddled together, watching the scene.
“No one admitted here,” said a policeman, holding up his hands, as Camilla Ebury and Philip Quennell walked up to the entrance of the house.
“I am Mr. Paradiso’s niece,” said Camilla.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you in. Those are my orders,” said the policeman.
“This is Camilla Ebury, officer,” said Philip Quennell. “Mrs. Ebury is Hector Paradiso’s only living relative.”
“I’ll go inside and ask, Mrs. Berry, but not at the moment,” said the officer. “I’m really sorry for your trouble, but I’m just doing what I was told. The coroner’s in there now.”
“If you could just tell them inside that I’m here,” said Camilla. “It’s Ebury, not Berry. E-B-U-R-Y. My mother was Mr. Paradiso’s sister. Mr. Jules Mendelson called me with the news.”
Always, whenever it was mentioned, in any circumstance, the name of Jules Mendelson seemed to bring about a change in attitude. As the officer headed toward the front door, it opened, and two policemen came out with a young man between them, his hands in handcuffs behind his back. The television van had parked and unloaded, and the cameraman ran forward to get a picture of the trio. The handcuffed person in the middle shouted out, “Hey, man, don’t photograph me,” and bent his head down and turned it away from
the camera. As he looked up from his bent-over position, his eyes locked with Camilla’s.
“I didn’t do this, Miss Camilla! I swear to God! I was asleep in my room in the pool house. Your uncle buzzed me on the intercom and said there was trouble, and by the time I got dressed he was dead, and whoever did it was gone. I swear to God, Miss Camilla.”
“Oh, Raymundo,” said Camilla, staring at him.
The policemen moved him on toward the police car. One opened the door, and the other pushed Raymundo into the car.
“Who’s Raymundo?” asked Philip.
“He’s my uncle’s houseboy, has been for a couple of years,” said Camilla.
From the front door, the policeman called out, “You can come in now, Mrs. Ebury, and your friend.”
Walking toward the door, aware that they were being photographed by the cameraman, Camilla reached into her pocketbook and took out a pair of dark glasses and put them on.
“There was a blond man, looked like an off-duty marine, who ran out of the house,” yelled a voice from behind some trees.
“Who’s that?” asked Philip.
“The crazy lady next door,” said Camilla. “She made Hector’s life hell, spying on him all the time, imagining all these insane things.”
They walked inside the house. There was a small central hallway. To the left was the dining room. To the right was the living room, and beyond that the library. The house was filled with police and medical people.
“This is the niece, Captain,” said the police officer.
Philip took hold of Camilla’s arm and walked her forward.
“Captain Mariano, Mrs. Ebury,” said the captain, introducing himself.
Camilla nodded. “Mr. Quennell,” she said, introducing Philip and looking around at the same time. The living room was in shambles. A shot had been fired into the mirror over the fireplace, and the glass top of the coffee table had also been shattered by a shot. There was blood on the blue upholstery of a sofa, and a trail of blood leading into the library. Camilla
gasped when she saw the bare legs of her uncle’s bare body in the room beyond.
“Will you be able to identify the body, Mrs. Ebury?” asked Captain Mariano.
She had turned pale. She looked as if she was going to faint. She looked at Philip.
“Didn’t Mr. Mendelson identify him?” asked Philip.
“Mr. Mendelson didn’t go in that room,” answered Mariano.
“May I identify the body, Captain?” asked Philip.
“How well did you know the deceased?”
“Not at all well. Hardly at all, in fact, but we were at the same party last night, and I know what he looks like,” said Philip.
“That all right with you, Mrs. Ebury?” asked the captain.
Camilla nodded. Philip walked into the library. Lying facedown on the floor, in a pool of blood, was Hector Paradiso, nude and dead. There appeared to be several shots in his torso, and red marks on the cheek that was visible to Philip, as well as on both his buttocks.
Philip nodded. “That’s Hector Paradiso,” he said. He thought of Hector last night, dancing so elaborately, his white teeth flashing in his tanned face. Too tanned, he remembered thinking at the time. Now the too-tanned face looked ghostly and white beneath the red welts on it.
“How many times was he shot?” asked Philip.
“There appear to be five shots fired in all,” said the captain.
“What are those red welts on his backside?” he asked.
“The victim seems to have been slapped across the face and buttocks by his black patent leather dancing pumps,” said the captain.
Philip nodded. From the other room he heard Camilla’s voice. “I am stunned, simply stunned, that Raymundo could do such a thing,” she said. “My uncle has been responsible for bringing Raymundo’s family up here from Mexico and getting them green cards so they could work legally and sending them to schools where they could learn English.”
“We’re not at all sure that Raymundo is responsible, Mrs. Ebury,” said a police officer.
“I saw him myself in handcuffs outside this house being put into a police car,” she said.
“I’m not a bit convinced about Raymundo,” said the captain.
“Do you happen to know where your uncle was last night, Mrs. Ebury?”
“Yes, he was at Jules Mendelson’s house,” replied Camilla.
“I know that. We’ve talked to Mr. Mendelson. I meant, after Mr. Mendelson’s.”
Camilla looked at the police captain and understood what he meant. “No. I would have no way of knowing that.”
Philip walked back into the room. “Where is Mr. Mendelson?” he asked.
“He left,” said Captain Mariano.
“How long ago?”
“He only stayed a few minutes.”
“Perhaps you should call him at home,” said Philip to Camilla.
“Yes,” she answered.
“I don’t think he went home,” said the captain. “I heard him telephone Sandy Pond and ask to see him immediately.”
Camilla nodded.
“Who’s Sandy Pond?” asked Philip.
“The publisher of the
Tribunal
,” answered Camilla.
“Comin’ through,” called out a voice from the library.
“Step over here, will you, Mrs. Ebury, Mr. Quennell,” said the captain.
Two stretcher-bearers made their way through the living room carrying the last remains of Hector Paradiso zipped into a black rubber body bag. In the silence that followed, the crying of a small animal could be heard.