Lemon in the Basket

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “He has to turn somewhere,” said Alice, “but that’s the last place these people want him to turn. So, now is their last chance. Do you see that? Don’t let anything happen there. Because here, it is absolute tinder. The whole works could go up in flame.”

  “In that way?” the Judge asked as she paused for breath.

  “What these people will do, on the slightest excuse,” she rattled ahead, “such as anything that will get into the foreign press, for instance, and hence be believable … then they will martyr Dhanab. Oh, they know where he is. And, in his name … which amounts to something … there will be a bloody mess. We won’t have seen anything yet.”

  “What ought not to happen here?” the Judge said alertly, cutting to the point.

  “Anything. Anything at all untoward. Either to Himself or the young one. Anything suitable for poking up the anti-sentiment that is ready to explode at any moment. Now, this hireling, you see—especially if he becomes convinced that alliances are in the wind—might even attempt to make trouble. Anything to break them off. How can I be clear enough or emphatic enough …”

  “You are being emphatic enough,” the Judge rattled back at her. “I’m listening. Just go on.”

  “Anything that happens in the U. S. A. that they can use, they will use.”

  “For what? Raids, riots or revolution?” the Judge let himself drawl, resorting to a fake humorous effect.

  “A massacre,” said Alice Foster. “The twenty-eight, for instance.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, they will cut my throat first of all,” she said rat-a-tat, “if that matters.”

  “I will do the best I can,” the Judge said without letting his voice wince. “We all will. G, you think?”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. He is a mercenary, I’m betting. But now, William, let me point out what is desirable. Let His M. return well pleased. Let the boy return, safe and well, and his mother with him. Then the whole thing swings. One source of power, for these people, leaks away from them. They are set back. Don’t you see?”

  “It’s now or never for those people, eh?” the Judge said.

  “Oh, William, bless you.” Her voice was running down, exhausted.

  “Can you take care?” he snapped.

  “I am a stranger in a strange land,” said Alice Foster, “but I know what I know.”

  “I believe you,’ the Judge said.

  “Have fun,” she said faintly, and hung up.

  Humph! This is going to be fun, all right, the Judge said to himself. Poor woman, waiting in a strange land for her death to become “desirable,” if “those people” saw their chance to swing that country.…

  When he opened the door, there was Maggie, standing at the foot of the stairs just outside, talking to Rufus. “Good of you to be so early, dear. Although nobody is here yet, really. Well, Tamsen is upstairs, of course. Duncan, too. He’s primping in his daddy’s room.” Maggie smiled. “You look very nice. Why don’t you roam around down here and see if everything is just so? Oh, William …”

  She had already received the message from the Judge’s eye: “Something urgent has come up.”

  “Do that for me, Rufus,” said Maggie, “but don’t go upstairs. Everyone up there may not be decent.” She tapped his arm affectionately and said, “Oh, William, there is one thing …” By some instinct she disguised the fact that she was being summoned by seeming to summon.

  Rufus grunted hail-and-farewell to his father and walked toward the garden side, skipping the stairs.

  Maggie walked into the study and the Judge softly closed the door and told her.

  Maggie said, “Alice has this young man, Dhanab, with her?”

  “I don’t know how or why,” the Judge said, “but I had that hunch. After her letter, I saw by the dictionary that the nickname ‘Dhanab’ means ‘tail.’”

  “Does it? Well, we must just make sure that nothing untoward happens here,” Maggie said resolutely. “What, more or less than we are doing, ought we to do?”

  “I think,” said the Judge, “that I had better warn my … er … special guests not to approach the King, at all, this evening.”

  “Isn’t that too bad, dear?”

  “Yes, but it may be wiser if this treacherous fellow is not given the notion that he had better (now or never) cause a little trouble. We shall see, of course. That may be overcautious.”

  “I’ll tell Jaylia,” Maggie said, “and I think, perhaps, Duncan, too. He can speak to the King as an old acquaintance. Or, given the opportunity, I’ll tell the King myself. None of them would suspect a woman of saying anything of importance.”

  Maggie was wearing a long dress of a lavendar-gray, with a silvery shimmer woven into the fabric. With it she wore a Victorian magnificence of amethysts around her neck. She turned and took hold of her skirt, lifting it daintily in an old-fashioned gesture, and said, “There can’t be any real danger, if we are just as polite as we can be—and deadly bores for about two hours.”

  “Do try,” the Judge said, “to be dull, Maggie darling.”

  In the kitchen Kasim was hanging over an enormous round tray of small edibles, trying to point out to Chloe which varieties were, in his opinion, unsuitable. He was having difficulty. Chloe, because she was enjoying herself very much, had chosen to be obtuse.

  When the tallish figure of a man in a dinner jacket went through, behind them, and whisked around the corner of the doorway to the back stair-hall, it was the stirring of the air, or perhaps his shadow only, that made Kasim look up and say sharply, “Who was that?”

  Hilde said, “Who? Oh, that was only Mr. Tyler.”

  Kasim stared fiercely at the doorway to the spot he had been, in theory, guarding.

  Chloe said, “But how can there be religious reasons? That ain’t meat. And this ain’t Friday.” She batted her lashes.

  Kasim sighed. It was his duty to enlighten this young and pretty infidel. And Tylers were safe; he knew that, by this time.

  Maggie went up the front stairs and tapped on the door of the Judge’s bedroom. She opened it. Duncan said, grinning widely, “Hi, Maggie. Am I sufficiently adorable to cope with the fairest flower …”

  But as she slipped inside and shut the door, he sobered at the sight of her face. She told him quickly about Alice Foster’s phone call. She didn’t put on any acts.

  Duncan whistled softly. “Gorob, eh? What could he do, I wonder, to make trouble?”

  “He can grab at anything to upset the King,” said Maggie, “who doesn’t seem to be exactly in love with us adorable Americans.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to be as adorable as hell,” promised Duncan.

  “And, also, dull, don’t forget,” she warned him.

  Duncan realized that he “adored” his mother when she put on acts, but he loved her most when she flattered him and didn’t.

  Tamsen was saying, “Well, so long, old-timer. I guess it’s battle stations.” When she had explained this phrase to his satisfaction she slipped out of his room. All was ready there. Inga was spotless and correct. The outer little boy was beautifully arrayed. Yet perhaps he needed some quiet moments to prepare, inside. Tamsen had a suspicion that Saiph had become somewhat more Americanized than was politic, for this evening. And much of this must have been her own doing. The truth was, he did not belong to her. He belonged to other people.

  When she was standing in the upper passage she was struck by the silence. Downstairs she knew the servants were buzzing softly. On the terrace she knew the musicians were arranging their chairs and music stands. All around out of doors, the fortress was ringed by defenders who were keeping a noise of newsmen at bay.

  But here, in the core—here, just outside the precious boy’s room—this silence was of a peculiarly thick texture. Well, of course, everyone was busy somewhere else.

  Tamsen shrugged and went skipping along toward the main staircase, passing the door to the Judge’s room with no notion that anyone was within, then passing Maggie’s doo
r, and so around the corner, and down.

  16

  Rufus Tyler, standing near the top of the back stairs, around the corner of a wall, drew no breath until he sensed that Tamsen had gone.

  When he slid along the empty passage, rubbing a shoulder on the inside wall, he found the door to Saiph’s room standing about a quarter of the way open. All that could be seen, through the gap, was a door to the dressing room and bath, there in the side wall, toward the Judge’s bedroom.

  But now the door of the Judge’s bedroom itself began to swing inward, causing a faint shifting of air currents and a change of light in the curtained corridor. There was just room in the narrow triangle for Rufus to place his feet and draw his body out of the passage, to be hidden from any glance cast casually along it. Yet he was not visible to very much of the room behind him.

  Inga was saying, placidly, “There will be ceremonies.”

  “I know,” said Saiph, “I must wait here. But I am very thirsty.” His voice was lazy, but commanding.

  Tamsen, where the stairs curved and bridged the hall below, crossed over and came down sedately to the last step, where she hesitated, with the door to the Judge’s study at her left, one of the arches to the living room at her right, and the front door before her. Sam, in his stiff white coat, was stationed there to bow in the guests, some of whom must have already arrived. From here, she could see a few people in the big room, and among them Phillida, wearing a satin gown of dullish green, so understated that the first impression was the elegance of the woman. Tamsen was relieved to see her. Phillida would have everything in hand. Tamsen herself was feeling very young and shy.

  Then Sam said, “Mrs. Rufus Tyler, Good evening, ma’am.”

  There was Lurlene, and Sam taking her somewhat battered “mink” stole. Lurlene, looking quite nice in dark blue, but not at all nice in the face.

  Tamsen drew in a sharp breath. She took a quick step down and she came to Lurlene. She didn’t say “Good evening” or even “Hello.” She didn’t ask where Rufus was. She sensed there wasn’t time. Lurlene’s terrified eyes met hers at once. Lurlene sent a nervous tongue over her upper lip and burst, “What’s wrong?”

  Tamsen said nothing. She tilted her head. She watched. She listened. She ached to read through the skin. Sam had carried the wrap away. There was no one else near enough to watch and listen and somehow know.

  “I’m sorry,” whined Lurlene, “I said he should go on ahead because I didn’t want to hold him up. I just got here in a cab myself, I mean …” All this was excuse, apology, alibi. For what?

  Tamsen simply turned and flew up the stairs, as light-footed as a child.

  Lurlene put her hand to her throat, blinked, and started toward the stairs. But Phillida came swinging out of the living room. “Hi, Lurlene,” she said. “Come and meet some people. The King isn’t here yet, but he soon will be.”

  “I’m … I’m … I’m …” Lurlene’s eyes rolled. “I’m scared!”

  “You looked it,” said Phillida, in a kindly way. “I fly to the rescue. Come on. I know somebody who is probably just as scared. You can help.”

  “What …” whispered Lurlene, “what’s happening?”

  “Oh, we are having a gay time,” said Phillida blithely. “Three movie stars so far, and all absolutely furious because they got here first. You’re looking very smart and proper.”

  Lurlene swallowed. She felt her blood begin to flow differently. I guess he goofed, she thought, and that figures. He would. Listen, she told herself, it wasn’t that I wanted anybody to get hurt, or anything.

  She said to Phillida, “Well, I thought … something simple, you know?”

  “Very wise,” Phillida approved. “Oh, Mrs. Hardy, may I present my sister-in-law, another Mrs. Tyler?”

  The Judge, who was standing, for strategic purposes of his own, near the garden doors, noticed the movements of his daughters-in-law, caught the sense of momentary panic, then of Phillida’s cool hand on things.

  Upstairs, the Princess wore a crown of her own hair. She was clad in gold. Her gown was long of skirt and sleeve, and high to her throat. The fabric was stiff and under the shape of the dress, the body curved invisibly. But the body was potently there, as Duncan noted with one uncontrollable part of his senses. Otherwise, he was intelligently concerned with what Maggie was telling this young woman. The young woman, he observed, was receiving the news that many people, including her own mother, were in danger, without making any girlish outcries. The three of them were clustered in the upper passage, just outside Maggie’s door.

  As Inga went into the boy’s bathroom to fetch him a glass of water …

  As the door to that east guest room, that had been standing on a slant, began to swing inward, opening …

  As the boy sat absolutely still, staring into the eyes of the sudden man …

  As Tamsen came from the stairwell, flitting in a curious way, like a blown brittle leaf, her arms working, from the elbows, angularly. Her face was white. Her lips set. Her eyes blazed. They, and the motion of her arms, canceled all thought of any of the three becoming an impediment to her purpose. She was not to be stopped! She passed them by.

  Duncan growled astonishment and took strides after her.

  The door to Saiph’s room stood wide. A few feet inside, stood Rufus Tyler with a gun in his hand. The boy sat in the blue chair and his eyes were not swerving from the man’s face, as if the man were a snake and the boy an accomplished charmer of reptiles. Someone was running water in the bathroom. A faucet thumped closed.

  The man, startled, jerked up the gun. The boy raised his right arm; his robes made an angel wing. Tamsen blew in like a leaf. There was a flash, a glitter of light. She fell against the man’s right forearm as the gun made a sharp little bark, and the knife sliced along Tamsen’s flesh. She staggered and fell hard against the man’s body. He pawed with frantic feet on the round white rug that lay on the polished floor. The rug skidded. They both fell. On the way down, the man’s head hit the edge of a wooden chair. When he was down, he murmured softly and his head rolled and he was still. The white of Tamsen’s gown began to soak up redness. The white of the boy’s sleeve was reddening.

  The only sounds had been the bark of the gun, the crack of the man’s head, and a series of soft thumpings and subsidings.

  Duncan went, in an apelike crouch, to where his wife had fallen on her face. The blood was welling from her upper back along her left shoulder blade, seeping into the white of her bodice, slipping down along the bare flesh and under her left arm into the thickness of the rug.

  Tamsen said in a tone that was hushed, “He didn’t hurt Saiph? He didn’t?”

  Duncan looked up; although he was feeling almost blind, he could see that Inga was already there, bunching the white fabric under the boy’s right upper arm. The boy had not made a sound. Duncan looked at his brother Rufus, who seemed to be napping peacefully. His breathing was gentle. Duncan thought that he himself must be going mad. He twisted his neck to look behind, and saw his mother in her lavender silver, and the Princess in the gold, standing together silently in the open door.

  And he thought, in fierce rebellion, that wanted noise, If Tamsen’s badly hurt, the hell with the rest of the whole damned world! But from long habit, he looked first to see what the truth was. He didn’t dare touch, but the wound was more broad than deep. Tamsen’s profile was smashed against the white rug. Her eye was wincing and blinking. But she was not going to cry. He seemed to know that Tamsen was not, for instance, dying.

  Then Maggie Mitchel Tyler, a small and rather elderly person in silvery lavender, put out her hand and closed that bedroom door, gently, but very firmly.

  Duncan recognized the instinct to conceal, to wait, to catch at one’s breath and one’s wits.

  He caught at his own. Now the press? Headlines? AMERICAN GUNS PRINCE.… PRINCE KNIFES AMERICAN GIRL.

  Maggie had come to speak to Inga. “Is it bad? No, I see. Will it bleed?”

  “It
is not bad. I can stop the bleeding.” Inga was blunt and factual.

  Maggie looked down. “Tamsen?”

  “All right,” said Tamsen.

  “This did not happen, you know,” said Maggie, as if she were reasoning with a director at rehearsal. “Nothing, at all, has happened in this room.”

  Jaylia then said some quick foreign words and the boy answered with one.

  And Maggie went swiftly to the doors to the balcony, opened them in a quick double swing, stepped outside, leaned slightly and called below. “Did you gentlemen hear anything strange, just now?” she inquired, with more curiosity than alarm.

  “Ah no, Maggie, you can’t,” groaned Duncan.

  He heard Jaylia speak low. “Turn up the air conditioning. Is there a spray to get the smell out?”

  But Inga had towels, now, and was working with the boy.

  Duncan crouched where he was, over the fallen people, the bloodied rug, the disaster.

  A man’s voice, American, called up from outside. “There was something, Mrs. Tyler. In the house, was it?”

  “I thought it was outside,” said Maggie. “You don’t know? Oh, I hear that the musicians have come. Why must they scrape so! Hayyan? And the other gentlemen? Has anyone given you coffee?”

  “It could have come from the kitchen,” the American voice said.

  “Saiph, my dear,” Maggie’s voice changed. “I believe I see how to prove to you what I was saying. If you could come out?”

  Jaylia pounced upon her son. A wad of toweling was under his arm. His mother snatched another large clean towel and threw it over his right shoulder. The boy got to his feet. His mother was whispering in his ear.

  “Mrs. Tyler,” the voice said, below. “I don’t know as he ought to come outside until we check …”

  “Oh mercy! Then, I’ll stand in front of him, myself,” Maggie promised, gaily. “Now, then, my dear …”

  The boy was on the balcony, Maggie in advance of him on the railing side. “Do you see the sky?” Maggie’s voice charmed and teased. “Is that not the east? Now, do you not see the pink and the purple? So does not the sun set in the east, sometimes?”