The Malaspiga Exit by Evelyn Anthony Page A

There was a card pinned to the front. She saw the familiar crest in red on the envelope and her heart jumped a beat. She opened it first.
    â€˜Thank you for lunching with me. I’m sorry I was delayed and didn’t see you. Until tomorrow. Alessandro.’
    Under the cellophane there was a gilded wicker basket full of flowers. Pale pink flowers, heavily scented. The same out-of-season roses as his mother wore.

CHAPTER THREE
    Frank Carpenter flew down to Hollywood on a Thursday; his telephone call to John Julius resulted in a lunchtime appointment, made by a secretary. For someone who hadn’t appeared in a major film for ten years, the actor seemed to live in style. It was a day of travel-poster sunshine; the smog cloud had lifted and everything sparkled in the heat. Carpenter took a cab out to the Julius house on Beverly Hills. He knew California well and had never liked it. He deemed himself a city man, but the artificiality of the pleasure grounds offended him. When he was in the country he liked it to be raw. He had several times taken a hunting trip to Vermont, living in a cabin with two other men. His wife had suspected him of being with a woman. Nothing could have been further from Carpenter’s idea of relaxation than taking his sex life into the hills to shoot deer. Hollywood held no magic for him; it reminded him of a cardboard city, built to delude the eye, like the streets and houses on a film set. A plastic place inhabited by plastic beings, pretending to be human. The air in the Hills was cooler; in spite of the busloads of sightseers crawling past the houses of the stars, there was elegance and space, handsome trees and beautifully laid-out avenues. He turned left off Sunset and up a long drive lined with Queen Palms. At the end of it they came to the typical ranch-style mansion, white stuccoed and green roofed, set in a perimeter of flowering shrubs. A Hawaiian butler appeared at the entrance. He was built like a prizefighter. It reminded Carpenter of the opening shot of an indifferent thriller movie.
    â€˜Mr. Julius is expecting you.’ In contrast to his appearance the butler had a friendly voice and a pleasant smile. Carpenter went with him inside.
    It was cool and green, the rooms open plan, a vast reception area leading off the hall. One wall was constructed of multi-coloured glass, which gave a weird kaleidoscopic effect, alarming and yet beautiful. Sofas the size of ocean liners, single pieces of modern sculpture in aluminium and stone, a room full of soft furniture and hard surfaces, dominated by an erotic mural over the open fireplace.
    â€˜Sit down, please, sir. Mr. Julius will be right with you. Can I get you a drink?’ Carpenter looked into the smooth dark face.
    â€˜A beer,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
    He recognized the face as soon as the actor came into the room. Handsome, with grey hair, blue eyes, a well-preserved body in expensive casual clothes, a young man’s walk. He shook hands firmly, gave a professional smile and sat opposite.
    â€˜What can I do for you?’ he said. The appointment had been made under the guise of an interview with a well-known film magazine. Carpenter took out his identity badge and passed it across. John Julius looked at it, and for a moment the Great Movie Star smile slipped sideways.
    â€˜What the hell is this? I thought you came for an interview!’
    â€˜In a way I have.’ Carpenter was used to honest citizens getting annoyed and even more used to the dishonest showing indignation. ‘I want to ask you some questions, Mr. Julius.’
    â€˜Couldn’t you have said so in the first place, instead of making up a lot of lies about Fan Fair Magazine !’
    â€˜You mightn’t have seen me,’ Carpenter said. ‘People don’t like talking to policemen. Especially my kind of policeman. I just hope you can help me.’
    John Julius got up. He pushed his fists into his trousers pockets and