Lemon in the Basket

by Charlotte Armstrong

  How could this be arranged? Gorob had no doubt that his masters could provide the necessary device—within an hour or two, certainly—and he had his unique usefulness to offer them. He, and only he, might be able to enter, unchallenged, the King’s plane. Supposing that Gorob went at dawn? He would appear to be inspecting, which would have been the natural thing for him to do.

  Of course, now that Al Asad would certainly not be trusting him, there was a good chance that airport authorities and the crew of the plane would have been, by dawn, warned against him. In which case, the Colonel not only could not plant an explosive, but he would be risking capture. He knew very well that Al Asad would not trouble his royal head about any American laws against violence or, for instance, kidnapping.

  But there was also quite a good chance that no one would remember to alert the crew of the plane. Gorob was the one who would have taken care of that detail, and every other. Oh, the King was going to miss the Colonel. The old man would not soon find anyone as conscientious and as trustworthy as he had always been.

  The old man would not have the time, for one thing, if all went in the early morning as the Colonel now hoped it would. The Princess must, of course, be included in the “accident.” Still, on the whole, it was as well to be rid of a possible nuisance. Women! American women! And if Alice Foster isn’t dead, he thought, she ought to be.

  He left the cab; he walked around a corner and down the block. The street, in an old part of town, was residential, tree-shadowed. It was difficult to find the numbers on the house. But the one he sought was directly under a streetlamp, painted on a stone. The path grew darker as he went, and he stumbled up the three steps to the door. He found the bell and rang it.

  After some exchanges, they let him in.

  Duncan Tyler finally had his groggy little wife on the other end of the phone. “Hey, Mitch says you think you’re going to the airport at eight in the morning. Now, honey, you better not get too flossy.”

  “Did Mitch give you the list?” she said, sounding a bit drunk, “My gray seersucker suit and my old white coat. Makes me look like a hunchback, anyhow. And shoes? Did I say shoes?”

  “I’m not going to have you running around …”

  “Well, who are you?” Tamsen was complacent. “When my doctor says …”

  “Not funny,” Duncan began severely.

  “Pretty funny if I wasn’t there to see him off, after all the fuss. He’d understand but would he?”

  Before Duncan could unscramble this, she said, “You don’t get the plot. You’ll be there, won’t you? Hah, so then I get to go home with you. Please bring the clothes,” she wailed, “or I’ll never get home again.”

  “All right,” he said helplessly. “I’ll bring the clothes.”

  “We have decided that I burned myself, you know, on a … Well, we don’t know what, yet. What’s interesting? I mean, for the neighbors?” She seemed to be rambling. Then she said sharply, “How is everybody? How are you?”

  “Fine. Fine.” He wasn’t going to tell her that Rufus was lost, that Rufus seemed, or Mitch thought so, to have got as far as the hospital and been turned away, long ago, and then had vanished again. This was an anxiety he wouldn’t put on Tamsen for the night.

  “Oh, Duncan, do you know what Saiph said to the King?”

  Duncan could hardly force his mind to take this in. “What?”

  “Ever since Inga told me, I’ve been laughing to myself.” She sounded sleepily merry or merrily sleepy. She sounded on the yummy side to him. He stifled his groan. “O.K. What did Saiph say to the King?”

  “See you later, old-timer.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the English. I can’t imagine how it turned out, in another language.” Tamsen was laughing. “I have struck a blow against an ancient culture.”

  Duncan emitted one hollow bark that must pass for mirth. “Go to sleep,” he said.

  “And hairpins,” said his wife.

  “What? Oh, sure. Good night, honey.”

  Tamsen got the phone back on its cradle by dangling it and fishing for its resting place. Inga had put the phone on the floor. Tamsen had been speaking upside down, of course, in the suite’s second bedroom. She dared not roll over to lie on her back. But so long as she did not do that or move her shoulder blade too much, she felt quite comfortable. The hospital had drugged most of the pain away for the night. Everybody was fine and it had been quite proper for Duncan to worry. She smiled and slept again.

  Out in the sitting room of the suite, the two young bodyguards, who had started up when the phone rang, lay back as her murmuring ceased. Hayyan and Kasim knew, now, what had happened at the Tyler house. It had not been feasible to keep it from them any longer. Inga had told them in such a way as to make them not very anxious for any more people to find out about it. Had they not been appointed bodyguards to the Prince? But Inga said that the wound to his body was slight. It was nothing much. Wiser to keep quiet. Otherwise none of them, Inga said, could go home tomorrow. The two young men found themselves very eager to get along home.

  So in the hush of the suite, Inga, alone, was not lying down and not intending to lie down. She had been quick to answer the phone in the first place, that had rung so late by special dispensation. Saiph had not been awakened. Inga had crept to waken Tamsen. Had crept back. Her charge was sound asleep, and safe, for now. His wound (so trifling, thanks to God) would heal. Inga would watch it. She would watch. She had the gun that had been fired at him in her own pocket. She would probably kill the next even slightly suspicious person who approached him. Now, in the sleepy silence, Inga went into the bathroom and began to scrub again. She scrubbed and she scrubbed, with patient care, to get the stains out of the fabric of his gown. It was better that few knew. But she knew.

  As the night wore on, the big house in San Marino was quiet, although the guards (still there because of the Princess) could see some lights still burning.

  The apartment over the garage was dark. Hilde and Sam, having kindly taken the trouble to pack up the belongings of the two bodyguards for their departure tomorrow, were now abed. Chloe was long gone.

  The light was up in the west guest room, behind drawn draperies. Jaylia was checking over the packing, what was in, and what was left out, for the morning. She was being rather picky and petulant with her maid, Zora, who was dying for sleep. The Princess did not seem sleepy. She seemed impatient to be on her way home.

  The light was very dim in the east guest room, where Lurlene was asleep in the bed that Saiph had occupied. Phillida Tyler, wearing a bathrobe that belonged to the Judge (and very smart it was on her), sat in the King’s chair in that room. She had not closed her eyes.

  Maggie’s room was dark. Maggie was lying down, not sleeping but restoring her energies in a way known to her of old, a system of relaxing inch by inch, useful in conditions of stress.

  Downstairs, the hall was lit and so was the Judge’s study, where William Rufus Tyler sat, sipping now and again at a tall glass. He did not dream of sleeping. He would wait up for whatever happened.

  Duncan Tyler was there with him, simply because he had not been able to leave his father, nor yet the place where news would surely come, when there was any. He must go soon, to fetch Tamsen her clothes, if for no other reason. There was no other reason. Duncan would have felt better in the body roaming the night, hunting and peering, expending energy, but the brain decreed that this was no good, at all.

  They had the TV set with them and had watched the eleven-o’clock news. The big story at that hour had been that the Little Prince of Alalaf was going home tomorrow. The hour of his departure had not been broadcast. There had been a repeat of a tape showing the King arriving, with entourage, at the airport, then a new tape of his arrival at the party. There had been no mention, whatsoever, of Rufus Tyler.

  Now Duncan told himself that it was wise to wait for the twelve-o’clock news on radio, after which he must go. He clung to the hope that every hour that passed w
ithout any news of Rufus was so much the better.

  The Judge was brooding, in silence.

  What have we done to our son and brother? We loved him. (He was thinking in the past tense and this seemed appropriate.) Although Maggie had been hurt and I, too, and often, Rufus never did set out to hurt anyone before this. Or we never thought so. It hurt us that we had to help him so much. It hurt us that we couldn’t help him more. It hurt us, not he, as the books say. Possibly the books are nonsense? But as far as we knew, we loved him. He could have been sure of us all. Of his brothers, too. Mitch was very fond. It is hard for Mitch to be patient, but he shows devotion in other ways. Duncan was blunt with him, but free and easy, and very fond. None of this seems to have been enough. What have we …

  The Judge caught himself going around again and wrenched out of the groove. This was the sort of “thinking” one inevitably falls into. He mused on another track. Supposing that one’s childhood home, and one’s first family, can never be enough? A man, or a woman, may need another home, and another family. And a grown-up place in the world.

  Rufus had had Lurlene, only.

  What if Rufus had married a different kind of woman?

  What kind?

  Such-as-Phillida could never have felt anything but live-and-let-live for such-as-Rufus. Although, in charity, such-as-Phillida would have seen to it that he was kept alive. And such-as-Tamsen basically despised him. Had Rufus sensed as much? Poor little Tamsen. She tried so hard, she gave herself away.

  Then some very meek, truly meek woman? No. There tended to be an ego in a marriage. At least one ego. Some strength.

  Lurlene may have been the girl for him.…

  The Judge now remembered the relief it had been, on past occasions, to weep wet tears. But weeping? This he had outlived, and the relief of it, as well.

  What have we done, or not done.…

  25

  Duncan Leaped to the phone at its first ring; his father’s hand warned him not to pick it up too promptly. So he let it ring twice more and then he was able to say in normal tones, “Judge Tyler’s house. Duncan Tyler speaking.”

  The caller announced himself as being a member of the police department. He gave name, rank, and location. Lieutenant Dennison was calling from a police station in the northeast section of the city.

  “We have a Rufus Tyler here. His home number doesn’t answer. He’s acting a little bit peculiar. Would some member of his family care to come down?”

  “Peculiar, how?” snapped Duncan. “Yes, of course, I’ll be down. But what’s wrong with my brother?”

  “Well, sir, at first we thought he was under the influence of alcohol. But he became rambling and incoherent. It could be he is suffering from some … uh … illness. So you had better … It would be a good idea to come down.”

  “How did he get there? Are you holding him? Was he in an accident?”

  “No, no. He just walked in. We … uh … don’t know. I think you had better come down.”

  “Right.” The Judge, who had been listening too, shook his head when Duncan mutely offered him the phone. So Duncan snapped, “I’ll be right there.” And hung up.

  His father was looking old and tired. “Save the big guns until we need them, eh?” said Duncan. “I’ll go. If he is incoherent enough, we may be all right. Let me grab your raincoat.”

  Duncan turned away from the look on his father’s face and went leaping up the stairs. He looked in and told Maggie, knowing that she would go down to be with the Judge. Then he covered his party clothing with the Judge’s black raincoat and tore out to his car.

  Duncan’s spirits had risen, somewhat, because at least they knew where Rufus was. Yet the policeman had spoken with an ominous hesitation. Or rather, he had ominously refused to speak. Duncan knew he was going to have to ad lib, and fast, when he got there. But action was such relief that he felt in a swinging mood that could conquer anything, tell any number of lies, act any part, and if Rufus had spilled the beans, unspill them, for at least the rest of this night. And with what relief he would take Rufus where he could spill no more!

  Duncan found a place for the car. It wasn’t an elegant part of town. The night was cool, as nights will be in an essential desert. Duncan went in with the raincoat buttoned around him.

  “Mr. Tyler?” A man got up. To Duncan’s surprise, he was in plain clothes.

  “I am Duncan Tyler. I spoke to you, did I?” Duncan looked around.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tyler. Your brother has gone.”

  “Where?” Duncan felt stunned. This cop’s eyes were not missing a thing. Duncan stayed stunned.

  “If we knew, we’d like to pick him up and bring him back. He must have had a car. He’s not safe to drive, in my opinion.”

  “Wait a minute. You had him here. You said he was ill. Now, you say he’s not safe. I don’t understand how you happened to let him go.”

  “We didn’t intend him to go. But we had no reason to lock him up, Mr. Tyler. We knew you were on the way, and so did he. It looked as if he was willing to wait for you. He was quiet. So when he asked for the men’s room, it took a while for anybody to notice that he never came back. Can you describe his car, sir?” the cop added smoothly.

  “I’ll do my best, in a minute,” Duncan said, rubbing his head. “First, I’d like to know what happened. Take it from the top.”

  “Well, sir, he just came in, like a citizen with a complaint. Or a report to make.”

  Duncan rolled with the word “report.” “Go on,” he said.

  “Gave his name to the desk man. Gave his father’s name, his mother’s name. Made a point of who his family was.” The cop was watching Duncan carefully.

  “Yes, yes,” Duncan said impatiently.

  “But then he started talking pretty crazy. I was called in on it. It wasn’t a case of being drunk. He looked … well … worse than that. At one point I thought he was going to pass out. I’ll have to ask you if you ever suspected that your brother took … well … say … goof balls?”

  “I suppose anything is possible,” said Duncan gravely, gazing over the man’s head. “But why did he come here? That’s what I can’t …”

  “He said there had been a crime.”

  Duncan said nothing. He simply stared. A thought of his mother crossed his mind, unexpectedly.

  “I … uh … took a few rough notes, anyhow at first. Let’s see.” The cop had a piece of paper and he looked at it. “Said there had been a crime. A ‘big important crime.’ Something about ‘kill.’ Something about ‘boy.’ ‘Kill.’ ‘Boy.’ And then ‘shot.’ Or ‘shots.’ ‘Wouldn’t let me go.’” The cop looked up. “Then he started to … well … cry. But he kept saying ‘don’t matter.’ That I remember.”

  “‘Don’t matter’!” Duncan let himself be sharp.

  “Well, I got the idea he meant that he didn’t matter. Like—frustrated?”

  Duncan said, after a moment of blankness, “Well, it beats me. What do you make of it?”

  “He could have had a bad trip,” the cop said. “LSD?”

  “I don’t want to believe that,” Duncan said restlessly. “How long since he left? How far could he get?”

  “Long ago and far enough,” the cop said ruefully, “that he’s not in the neighborhood. About his car, sir?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right.” Duncan rummaged in his mind for the make, model, and color of Rufus’ car. He announced that he did not know his brother’s license number. The cop said that most people didn’t know their own.

  “Maybe he went home,” said Duncan suddenly. “I’ll run down there. Perhaps find some record of that license for you.”

  “Oh, we can get that in a very short time. Now … uh … your brother is not, as far as we know, a suspect, Mr. Tyler. But he may be dangerous to himself, and to innocent people. Would you … or your father, say … advise us to pick him up?”

  “Do that,” said Duncan decisively, with an air of relief. “And when you do, call my father, please?
I’ll be in touch with him, too.” Duncan turned to go.

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Tyler?” the cop said, rather stubbornly.

  “I don’t make too much,” said Duncan heavily. “I can tell you this. His wife took sick this evening. At least she … well … retired from the party. Now, I don’t know what may have happened between them. You see, the family was entertaining at somewhat of an occasion.”

  “I heard about it,” the cop said. “Say, how is the Little Prince?” (The Little Prince was this man’s darling too?)

  “The boy?” said Duncan, deliberately using this word. “Oh, he is fine. He has been OK’ed to fly home in the morning. Had you heard?”

  “I heard it on the air ten minutes ago. So they took the tests already, did they?” This cop was genial, but he had not stopped watching.

  “They must have,” said Duncan cheerfully. “Anyhow, the Doctor has said that he may go, and everybody’s happy.” He then caused his grin to be wiped away. “My point was …” He frowned. “It’s possible that my brother was more upset than any of us had time to notice, with the house so full of guests. My sister-in-law is still there, you see. She’s been put to bed. Whether her trouble is emotional … At any rate, my brother was certainly out of the party mood for some reason, because he left the house in the midst of things, without saying a word. I wonder … It’s hard to believe that he could have been feeling depressed or desperate enough to have taken something.”

  “A serious quarrel, was it?” the cop asked, not believing in this very much.

  “I don’t know,” said Duncan. “But there was something. Must have been.”

  “You don’t know about any crime, then?” The cop was obviously suggesting that this could be the “something.”

  “I don’t know what he would have meant by ‘a crime,’” mused Duncan. “A lay person uses that word loosely.”

  “Yes,” said Lieutenant Dennison, “but he said ‘important.’”

  “It’s too bad,” said Duncan, careful to speak without suggesting reproach, “that you couldn’t have got a clearer statement out of him. I’m sure you tried,” he added with a quick smile that didn’t last. “But the point now is—if poor old Rufus is in that bad a way, I had damned well better find him.”