Lemon in the Basket

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “We’ll try to pick him up,” the cop promised. “If you and Judge Tyler say so, I’ll get right on that.” But Duncan noticed that he was putting his piece of paper, with the notes on it, very carefully away.

  Duncan, however, thanked him crisply and went out. The night air made him shiver. He did not know how well he had done in there, with his hints of some marital crisis. He knew that he must hunt the streets, he must race about the city after all. Call the Judge, first. Then try to find Rufus before the police picked him up again. Because Rufus was trying to talk, trying to tell, trying to confess. And he might not seem so “rambling and incoherent” another time. Didn’t drugs wear off as time went on?

  Duncan had not gone three blocks before he gave up watching curbs and parked cars and what few pedestrians had dared the darkness. It was absurd to imagine that he could find his brother that way. This city was the city-that-sprawled. Duncan had no idea of what route Rufus had taken, to what destination. Both were multitudinous. So Duncan settled to going along, as swiftly as was not conspicuous, toward the house where Rufus lived, and perhaps now was.

  The house was dark. Duncan parked at the curb and walked down the drive toward the garage, his flashlight in hand. The garage doors were open; there was no car inside. Duncan went up to the back entrance; the door to the service porch was not locked. So he was able to stand within the shelter of some walls and go to work on the back-door lock. He got in by using one of his credit cards, in a hoary method well taught in fiction. He was a little surprised that it worked.

  Once inside, he boldly turned on the lights. He was Rufus’ brother, after all. The small house depressed him. It was very neat and clean. The only disorder was some trace, in the bedroom, of Lurlene’s having dressed for the party in a hurry. But there seemed so very little trace of Rufus here. No collection of pet objects, no pet books, no accumulation of papers. No life?

  How did he live? thought Duncan. What did he keep on his mind? Why don’t I know? Was it my ever-loving duty to have snooped into his habits, to have taken it upon myself to judge him for the way he used his twenty-four hours a day? Then to have advised him? Or led him to something more productive, more satisfying—satisfying to whom? His tastes, and his needs, aren’t the same as mine. How shall I be wise for him, and teach him his life?

  The place depressed him, just the same.

  Also, damn it, he thought rebelliously, some of us are busy. I want to teach the front-runners, and learn with them. How much energy can the race spare, to turn around and understand and straighten out and patch, just to bring some people up to what? To average? Yes, Mitch does it, brilliantly—but even to do that, some of us must go groping ahead into the dark that’s in front of us. And in fear and trembling, too. So-called successful people can be the most harassed and miserable of creatures. Why isn’t that known? Well, it compounds, I suppose. The very ones who cannot are the ones who can’t imagine how it’s done. And there we are.

  (But this was my brother.)

  He stopped his sorry thoughts and used the phone to call the Judge, who had heard nothing. Duncan had given his father the news flatly, almost an hour ago, and his father had taken it calmly. The Judge was still calm. Maggie was fine, he said.

  Duncan said he must now fetch Tamsen’s clothes, against the morning, and change his own. He would call back soon again.

  There was no point in staying here. If Rufus finally came here, he would most probably simply collapse. Duncan had no idea where else to search for him. How had he lived?

  He tried cruising the neighborhood, slowly, but the hour was late, the streets were very quiet. There was no sign of Rufus, or his car. No likely neighborhood hangouts that Duncan could spot. So he drove to his own house.

  He put up the lights and felt the difference hit him in the face. All over this place lay the evidences of the living inhabitants and what interested them. Or did Duncan just imagine so because he knew, so well, what interested these people?

  Does Rufus know how I live? Or care? What lets him off caring, or trying to understand?

  Duncan dismissed any more angry and unprofitable brooding, sat down and called the Judge, who had heard nothing yet. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Duncan said he would go to the hospital. Rufus might have returned there.

  He went into the bedroom and found the things for Tamsen; he put them into a suitcase. He changed into slacks and sport coat. He picked up the case and put his father’s raincoat over his arm. He went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water from the tap.

  He was a mile away before he remembered the hairpins. He did not go back.

  The hospital, at 2:45 in the morning, was hushed. No Rufus had come there a second time. Duncan gave the suitcase to an orderly and reminded him that the guards must inspect it before it went to Mrs. Tyler. After asking here and there, he finally found his brother Mitchel, sound asleep on a couch in the Doctors’ Lounge.

  Mitch woke to full intelligence with the ease of much practice. He listened and pursed his lips to whistle but did not. He told Duncan that tests had, indeed, been made, because the exertion of that knife-throw was not exactly what he would have ordered, for this patient. Although lucky for Tamsen that it had not had the force it might have had. But no harm had been done. The boy was all right. Tamsen was all right. If her scar was too bad, there was always skin-grafting. Everything was all right, if only …

  “As a matter of fact,” the Doctor said in hard appraisal, “if Rufus hasn’t spilled the beans by this time, where it counts, our chances are getting better that he won’t.” Mitch advised Duncan to sleep for a few hours instead of running futilely around town. He offered him a couch.

  So Duncan called his father once again. The Judge had heard nothing yet. He sounded tired but hopeful.

  Then Duncan called that cop.

  Lieutenant Dennison was grateful for the call. He had no news. He said that there had been no accident report. That, in all probability, Rufus had not crashed anywhere, and was not lying, injured and undiscovered, beside the wreck.

  Duncan said, “Well, all I can figure is, he must have realized he wasn’t too steady and gone to some friend. He’s probably sleeping it off in a borrowed bed. Where, I don’t know. That’s all I can think of.”

  “You may be right, Mr. Tyler,” the cop said smoothly. “But we’ll keep checking.”

  Duncan reminded him to call the Judge if anything turned up. He then put himself down on the scratchy couch. He thought he could not possibly sleep. He considered the advantages of being here in the hospital. In the morning he could, for one thing, borrow a razor. For another, he and Tamsen could go together to the airport. This would be in many ways an excellent thing. It would “look good.” It would also be good. So Duncan slept.

  To the many parking lots at the airport, there was not much difference between day and night. The many cars stood in their ranks. Nobody bothered them. Sometimes one left. Sometimes one came.

  26

  When light was just evident over the mountains, a gray sedan slid to the entrance of the building and a man got out of the back. Colonel Gorob had come to the moment of truth. He was wearing his usual uniform to assume his authority. It made him somewhat conspicuous, but that could not be helped. The gray car slid away. It would hesitate somewhere, ready to pounce back for him. But it would not hesitate forever. He knew that.

  The Colonel was carrying a fat briefcase. He stepped briskly into the building and went to inquire about the procedure. How was he to go, in order to approach the royal plane belonging to the King of Alalaf, the Colonel being who he was?

  The young man who told him how and where to proceed did so without any visible qualms. So the Colonel approached the door to the outside spaces of the field itself and addressed the man stationed there with some confidence.

  Then he was through and walking rapidly in the chill of the dawn toward the familiar plane, which had already been wheeled into position. The crew knew him, of course. They were fu
ll of good cheer, doing their duty, delighted to know that the Prince was flying with them. Nobody had warned them.

  So the Colonel went up the portable flight of steps and entered the plane. The steward knew him, of course. He had been cleaning and polishing, as was his duty. He was now cheerfully obsequious. The Colonel began to make suggestions for the comfort of Al Saiph. He took care to make a great many. He then swung the length of the huge bird, through all its various compartments.

  When he returned, the steward awaited judgment. Gorob said that everything seemed in excellent order but the man must be sure of so and so. And so.

  Gorob swung down and away. He had left the object in a good place. And left the steward busy. He walked briskly back, in the growing light, toward that door where the guard let him through with another “Good morning, sir.”

  The Colonel walked through the building and out at the street side. He stood at the curb no more than a minute before the gray car came sliding toward him. Gorob got in, pulled a topcoat over his shoulders to hide the uniform. The car went saucily around the designated ways for getting out of the airport complex. Inside the car, no word was spoken. Gorob felt that he had been worthy of their trust. This was gratifying.

  The thing was set to go off in two hours.

  In a little while, television men with cameras, and one remote-truck, came to the automobile gate to demand entrance to the field itself and a spot from which they could photograph the departure of the Little Prince, which the whole country would want to see.

  Up in the coffee shop, a man seemed to be watching the time, in a stupid sort of way. He was clad in a mussy dinner jacket, and he had not shaved this morning. The waitress raised her brows to her fellow workers. This guy was either hung over, now, or heading for a beauty. He looked pretty owly and kept rubbing his nose and snuffling. But he was no trouble, just some harmless slob. At the airport, they had already “seen everything.”

  By a quarter after eight, the TV cameras were ready; a crowd of still photographers had gathered with an equal number of reporters. The broadcaster from the local channel, which alone was going to do this “live,” was there, with a scarf wrapped around his precious throat. The field swarmed with guards and policemen who kept all others some distance away from the royal plane.

  The first private car to come through the gate was driven by Duncan Tyler. With him was his wife, Tamsen, looking like a little pink-nosed rabbit, huddled in her white coat. Once past the guarded gate, the car was first impeded, and then actually stopped, by the swarming newsmen, who were glad to see things looking up. The local TV camera even turned its hungry eye in their direction.

  The young Tylers chose, they said, to wait in their car. So the guards brushed everybody aside and directed Duncan to where the car might safely stand.

  “So far, so good,” breathed Duncan, “O.K., honey?”

  “I’m fine,” said Tamsen, trying to make herself believe this. She knew about Rufus now, and she was doing a night’s worth of worrying, all at once.

  “They’ll be O.K. No matter what he does, they’ll make it now. Watch it! Fix your face,” said Duncan. “Here comes the interview.”

  But before the newsmen could pounce on them again, the second car came through. It was chauffeur-driven; a Secret Service man sat with the driver. In the back, sat the Princess, her maid, and Mrs. Mitchel Tyler. This car was permitted to draw closer to the plane and the swarm was drawn to it. The three women got out; the car turned and, in a stately manner, departed.

  In a moment Zora, carrying last-minute small bags, went meekly toward the steps and up into the plane itself, and vanished. The newsmen were after the Princess, who was beautifully enveloped in a traveling costume of soft beige. The Doctor’s wife was smilingly there, but only (as was Phillida’s way) decoratively standing by.

  “No,” she said to the only newsman who addressed her directly, “Judge Tyler and Mrs. Tyler are not coming. They think the family is well enough represented.”

  “Say, what’s it like to be married to a Tyler?” he said inanely (being very young and unable to get anywhere near the Princess because everyone else had seniority).

  Phillida just kept smiling faintly until he flushed and turned away.

  Jaylia was already on camera when the Doctor’s car came through. Mitch was alone in it. He drew it over to where Duncan and Tamsen were waiting. He got out, but could do no more than salute them with his hand before he was engulfed by eager stragglers.

  Duncan said, “I guess it’s time. Now, I’m going to be right behind you.”

  “All right,” said Tamsen gratefully. She was feeling very nervous. As they got out of the car and walked toward the Princess, she eyed the big insect, so lumpish on the ground, that would so gracefully use the sky. The crowd opened to let them in. They greeted the Princess and she greeted them. Duncan stood at Tamsen’s back, guarding it from any touch whatsoever.

  The “live” broadcaster was happily identifying everyone for his viewers. By this time, a crowd of ordinary people had gathered just outside the automobile gate. They were not let in. They would, of course, have seen more at home, and would see more, when the millions watched the news tapes run this evening. But to be, for instance, a couple of yards from the Little Prince when he came by—Well, that was distinction.

  Maggie and the Judge and Lurlene were in the Judge’s study with the TV set tuned to the local station, getting this “live.” The Judge was holding his thumbs. Not much more time to be endured in this much tension. Once the royal party took off from American soil, the situation would improve a good deal.

  Maggie was watching intently and analyzing everyone’s performance. “Tamsen is too timid to take her own stature,” she declared. “Phillida doesn’t want to be there. That is, sometimes, effective. Mitch looks dour, doesn’t he? Duncan comes off best, don’t you think? Jaylia is the most professional, of course, but she certainly overdoes some things.” Maggie clicked her tongue.

  Lurlene sat there, in the couch corner, keeping quiet and looking sullen. She was a prisoner. Phillida had watched her practically all night, for heaven’s sakes! Then, before first light, when Phillida had taken off home (to change her precious clothes, and what a clothes-horse she was!) then Maggie had taken up the vigil. Maggie might be a little less nasty about it, but she watched, just the same, and don’t try to fool Lurlene. What am I supposed to do? she was thinking.

  What she had done this morning, under Maggie’s bright suggestion that amounted to an order, was to cut off her new long dress and hem it to be a short dress. So now, here she was, wearing it, and watching TV. And look who was on TV, this morning.

  Yah, look! “Dr. Mitchel Tyler who …” and so on.

  “Duncan Tyler, the Doctor’s brother, who …” and so on.

  Not one word about any other brother. They wouldn’t say there even was a Rufus. No, they wouldn’t do that, in this world!

  “The Doctor’s wife, Phillida Tyler, who …” Blah-blah-blah—

  “Tamsen Tyler, who is becoming one of our …” Blah and blah.

  And was there any Lurlene Tyler mentioned? Naw, she wasn’t there. She had to sit home with the old folks and watch the whole thing on TV. And the whole thing was phony, if you asked her!

  The picture jumped to a long shot. Almost together, there were now arriving the King’s car and the ambulance in which the Little Prince was riding. Motorcycles could be heard, roaring distantly, but that noise stopped short of the gate, where the King’s car deferred to the ambulance. But when both vehicles had entered, the car came to a stop first. Three men got out of the King’s car, walked to the plane, and boarded. They were only servants. The King, and two cohorts, waited in the vehicle, deferring to the Little Prince. The camera soon understood this and looked to where the swarm was buzzing around the back of the ambulance.

  Duncan said quietly to the Princess, “While we have the chance, good-bye, Jaylia. And happy landing. You’ll make it.”

  Jaylia said, w
ith no coquetry at all, “Thank you all, for everything. Good luck.”

  Tamsen said, “Good-bye. Good luck.” It was Tamsen who kissed the Princess. Duncan was already intent upon what was happening over there.

  Hayyan and Kasim climbed out of the ambulance and turned to help Inga down. Inga turned, at once, to help the boy.

  Saiph appeared on his feet and in full regalia. He looked lively and well. At some screaming suggestions, he remained poised, his hands clasped together in a very appealing way, standing higher than the crowd, while the camera turned.

  The Little Prince was pleased to answer a few bland questions with bland answers. Yes, he was very happy to be going home. Yes, he had liked America very much. Yes, he hoped, one day, to return. The camera held on his handsome face, his charming smile.

  (“He’s just adorable!” “Isn’t he cute!” “Bless his heart!”)

  Meanwhile, the ambulance driver had taken out a wheelchair. Inga folded herself around the Prince like a mother hen with protective wingspread, and then he was seated in the wheelchair where the camera couldn’t get much of him, through the surrounding throng, thick with guards and uniformed police. The newsmen trotted at the edges as a path was swept before the Prince, and he was moved within the throng, and pushed to where his mother was waiting.

  “We must get you aboard,” his mother said, smiling at him.

  “I do not wish to be carried.”

  “Of course not. Inga, you go beside him, I’ll come just after.”

  Saiph said to Tamsen a gay, “So long. See you later,” which was only in fun. Their real farewells, equally gay, had been said in the hospital suite. They were very fond of each other; they would never meet again. No use to fuss about it.

  On television, it was the King’s turn.