Lemon in the Basket Read online

  The Judge had no sooner hung up than his phone rang again.

  Duncan said, “Dad? The girls have got Rufus. They’ll bring him there.”

  “Good. What about Gorob?” Maggie was hanging over the Judge’s shoulder.

  “It was Gorob, all right,” said Duncan. “He showed up early this morning, the only one except the crew to enter that plane. That’s pretty clear.”

  “Good,” said the Judge. “But it had better be very clear, and clear right away. It had better get on the air and into the papers. The foreign press, for instance. Authoritatively.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Duncan cheerfully. “So all I have to do is go tell the King of Alalaf exactly what he must do and say in the next five minutes.”

  “That’s all,” said the Judge fondly.

  Maggie said, “We had better brace ourselves, William, for the press.”

  “Oh, yes, they’ll be on us.”

  “We have no guards anymore.”

  “I may be able to rustle up one or two. I have other calls to make, quickly.”

  “I must warn Sam, at least.”

  Lurlene thought, Yah, look at them! Here they saw their own son knocked down and out, and lying on the ground. And all they got to say is ‘he wasn’t clever?’ Um boy! And the TV, it don’t show one sign of him and he could be dead and who gives a damn? Who cares? Lurlene put her handkerchief to her eyes. “Excuse me,” she sobbed. “Excuse me.”

  She ran out of the study and sobbed her way upstairs.

  But once there, she stopped sobbing abruptly. She went into the east guest room and picked up her evening purse. Then she went along the passage to Maggie’s room. Maggie’s purse was lying on her dressing table. Lurlene opened it and took the money. She then walked downstairs.

  The Judge was on the phone again. His study door was open. He could see her perfectly well, so she walked back toward the garden side. Maggie was not in the lanai. If she was in the kitchen, the angles of the house were a protection. Lurlene kept on going. She went out through the glass doors and turned to her left, and began to walk along the west terrace, past where the musicians had been last night, and the nook where she and that Mrs-Somebody had sat and frittered time away while all kinds of stuff was going on. All kinds of secret things. But they hadn’t told Lurlene. Not they!

  She crept around the west wing of the house. The Judge could see the driveway from his windows but he probably wasn’t looking out his windows. Lurlene tripped along close to the shrubbery. She made it to the end of the drive and put thick shrubs between her and the house. She was scurrying along the street, a hundred feet away, when a fast car swooped into the driveway. Mitch’s car. Hah, and Phillida driving, and a woman next to her. Tamsen, yah!

  Well, Lurlene certainly didn’t want to be around when they got there.

  She had had it. She had absolutely had it from those Tylers. She didn’t know where to go, or what to do, or even whether her own husband was alive or dead. The truth was she had to have a drink. And if Lurlene needed a drink, she was going to get a drink. She was alive, wasn’t she? Not in San Marino, a drink. Not in this stupid town. Culture, yah! O.K., she’d call a taxi and she’d go where there was a bar. She had sixty bucks. She’d blow it if she felt like it. Maggie would never say a word. All in the family, Lurlene thought bitterly.

  She had come to Huntington Drive and she saw a phone booth. So she’d call a cab. Get farther away from them, go some place and think. Think what to do. And find her husband. Listen, she had a right to find her husband. She had a right to say what she thought, and also, tell what she knew. Because it shouldn’t have been for nothing, she was thinking. So what was he doing at the airport, I don’t know, but if they killed him, if they just killed him, and don’t even mention it on TV! It shouldn’t have been for nothing that he died!

  The thought of Rufus dead was not shocking because she had known, for a long time, that Rufus had had it. He’d not been figuring to live, exactly.

  Sam was a strong man and Hilde a stout woman. Phillida had her own physical strength. Yet Rufus, once pulled from the car, stood up and walked into the house. He did not seem to be conscious, but he walked.

  Maggie followed them up the stairs to the west guest room, where they were going to put him down. Tamsen, who couldn’t help in this way, went into the study. The television was still on, but the Judge wasn’t paying it any attention. He came to her and took her hands and then he said, “What’s this?”

  There was a small gun in Tamsen’s right hand. She didn’t quite know how, through several hands, it had come there. The Judge took it away gently. He looked it over. It was in no state to be fired. He didn’t tell her so. He put the gun away. He placed a cushion so that her upper back would be held away from the back of the couch. He sat her down. He mixed her a therapeutic drink.

  He would not go upstairs, to where Maggie would be mourning. (Although only he could know how deeply. He knew it, where he was.)

  The familiar sound of Duncan’s voice made them both turn to the screen.

  “His Majesty,” Duncan was saying, “may have a statement. I don’t know. In the meantime …”

  The background was a wall. Duncan looked (his wife thought) handsome, young, strong, intelligent.

  “Mr. Tyler?”

  “Mr. Tyler?”

  He was interrupted.

  “What happened to your brother Rufus?”

  “The doctors are probably finding that out right now,” said Duncan evasively.

  “Hey, Mr. Tyler, your brother knew about this bomb, do you think?”

  “Your brother knew it, did he?”

  Duncan’s face filled the screen. He looked handsome (and all the rest) but also wise, his wife thought. “Somehow, and we do not know how—during the night he must have learned something. He came here with what he said was an urgent message for the King. Now, this Colonel Gorob—”

  “But will he talk, your brother?”

  “When, Mr. Tyler?”

  “Is he going to be O.K., Mr. Tyler?”

  “Where is he? Is he in the hospital?”

  Duncan did not answer. It seemed that the King of Alalaf was just now coming outside to make a statement.

  In the V.I.P. lounge the boy, the servants, and the women had been sitting quietly, sipping refreshment. In that haven also, Al Asad and his cohorts had been standing—and two Americans (quiet men who had drifted in) and Mitch leaning watchfully nearby, besides. All of them had been listening to Duncan Tyler.

  “In the event that you may not understand the American newsmen as well as I do,” he had said into the King’s teeth, “they jump fast.” The King’s eyes had been opaque.

  Duncan had turned to this Colonel Hafsah (or whatever his name was). “Tell His Majesty that if he does not wish the first advices to confuse your people dangerously, it must be made very clear, very quickly, that no American planted that bomb.”

  Both of the King’s white hawks had fluttered a little. But no one had replied to this impertinence. (Who was this young person to advise a king?)

  “If you like,” Duncan had said, because time was wasting, “I’ll go, and do it myself.”

  The King’s eye had then glittered. The one called Hafsah (or something like that) had said, “You have no authority, Mr. Tyler.”

  Duncan had said, “I have a tongue.”

  Al Asad had said, in English, “My people would not believe a statement from you.” His thin lips had curved contemptuously.

  Duncan had turned and said, “Will you tell His Majesty that mine will?” Then he had walked away, sensing that the two eagles (in business suits and horn-rimmed glasses) were stirring, softly.

  The King had looked murderous.

  But now, here he came.

  He spoke in the other language. The camera was on his very lips. His interpreter then translated. The statement made it very clear, to the whole world, that the bomb on the royal plane had, beyond a doubt, been planted there by an enemy of the regime, a
man formerly trusted in Alalaf, but now turned traitor and would-be assassin. This Colonel Heinz Gorob had gone into hiding, but American authorities (it had been agreed) would hunt him out for quick extradition. American vigilance had prevented a terrible tragedy. The King and Al Saiph were pleased to be most grateful. His Majesty wished to say that he was arranging for some twenty-eight American professors (whom he had been keeping under his protection for some time) to be flown safely to their homes as soon as the King himself was at his home safely. However, His Majesty hoped that they would return to their positions when certain discordant and dangerous elements had been eliminated from the campus.

  In a very short while, the royal party would board the plane. His Majesty wished to say, for himself and for the Prince, his grandson, a gracious farewell to the American people, and to convey his gratitude to Dr. Mitchel Tyler, and, indeed, to the entire Tyler family.

  His Majesty was sanguine that, in the future, bonds between the two countries would be strengthened by other such profitable friendships. The Prince was well.

  The broadcaster took over. “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the King of Alalaf.” But he did not say the whole thing all over again. He took another tack. “Ladies and gentlemen, it was Rufus Tyler, son of Judge William Rufus Tyler, and the incomparable Maggie Mitchel, a brother of Dr. Tyler’s—it was Rufus Tyler who …” and so on and so on.

  Tamsen said wonderingly, “Rufus is a hero?”

  Phillida was standing in the door.

  “How is he?” said the Judge quickly.

  “Delirious,” said Phillida, “or as good as. Sam’s there. By the way, where is Lurlene?”

  29

  Lurlene was in the comforting darkness of a bar, downtown. It wasn’t quite time for the preluncheon drinkers. She was, in fact, the only customer. She sat up on a stool, watching the TV set that hung over the back bar.

  The local channel was still doing a “live” broadcast from the airport. They had preempted yet another half hour, and this sponsor had given them the go-ahead. So would the next, they hoped. Or, even if not, they weren’t going to surrender their luck, to be exclusively on-the-spot and “live.” They would stay to see the royal plane off.

  But meanwhile, there was nothing much to show on camera. The plane stood there lumpishly, and what feverish activities might be within were not visible. All the interesting V.I.P.’s were now hidden away within the lounge.

  So the truck had wheeled around and a newscaster had become the M.C., doing a man-in-the-street kind of interview with the crowd of ordinary people. It was only to mark time, and as uninspired as such things normally were.

  There was the wiggly girl who thought everything was real thrilling. But she didn’t want to be a princess. She was going to be a dental assistant. “Good for you,” the M.C. said.

  There was the middle-aged housewife who knew exactly how world peace could be achieved. Let everybody, at all times, behave exactly as she behaved. This would solve most earthly problems.

  There was the humanitarian, infuriated by man’s inhumanity. This Colonel Gorob ought to be lynched; the speaker would be glad to tie the hangman’s knot himself, in person.

  Lurlene sipped up these ideas with her liquor, on the whole, approvingly. But they weren’t saying one word about Lurlene’s husband. (The people who were being interviewed, not being at home, had not heard the King’s statement nor the present legend of Rufus. Neither had Lurlene, who had been in the taxicab.) She was beginning to think that probably he wasn’t dead, but probably the family had him, and probably they had tied him up again. A fine thing.…

  On the screen appeared a man, an ordinary citizen in jeans and plaid shirt, with dark-rimmed eyeglasses, and a gleaming bald head. He said, “I know where this Colonel Gorob is.”

  “Is that so, sir?” said the man with the mike, politely.

  “I sure do. I happened to see him go in there last night.”

  “I see. You know this Colonel Gorob by sight, do you, sir?”

  “Yah,” said the interviewee, with a sudden furious snarl, “I know him by sight. You don’t want to believe that, do you? So I know him by sight because I seen him on TV. How do you like that?”

  “I see.” The M.C. moved the mike toward somebody else.

  But the bald-headed man pushed himself, and his mouth close, again. “You don’t want to believe that, right? O.K. But I’m telling you, I see this Gorob go into this old Spanish house—”

  “Oh, you did?” smirked the M.C. The crowd was giggling.

  “On Mynard Street. Listen, I live down that way. It was kinda late—”

  “You saw him in the dark, did you?”

  “Now, I didn’t see him in the dark. It so happens, he’s right under the streetlight, which is right where this house happens—”

  “I see. If you know the address—”

  “I don’t know the address.”

  “I see.”

  “Whole street is only two blocks long.”

  “Excuse me. Miss? How do you feel …”

  “You don’t want to believe me?” Baldy pushed in again. “When I’m only trying to tell the Goddest truth. But you’re not going to believe me, are you?”

  “I think, sir, that if you have any important information, you ought to take it to the police,” the M.C. said, against the warning noises in his earphone.

  “Hah! They’re going to believe me?”

  “I’m sorry. Madame? Or is it Miss? How do you feel about …”

  “Listen,” howled the bald-headed man. “Look at this fellow Rufus Tyler. He was only trying to tell the Goddest truth, and look what they done to him. The po-lice!” He spat on the ground.

  The M.C. turned all the way around as the picture went back to the studio. Troublemakers in sidewalk interviews had to be handled.

  “Hey, that’s right!” Lurlene burst aloud. “Look at that! They’re not going to believe him. They don’t want to listen to somebody trying to tell them the truth. That’s right.”

  “Yeah, maybe he don’t know what he’s talking,” said the bartender. “This Colonel what’s-his-name is from this foreign country. How come this character knows what he looks like?”

  Lurlene held her forehead in her hand. “Um, boy,” she said. “How dumb can you get? He just said he saw him on TV. You don’t believe him either, do you? Who listens to the truth? Who?”

  “You want to believe him, go ahead, be my guest.” The bartender smiled placatingly and polished glass.

  “I happen to know what this colonel looks like myself,” she said. “You believe that? Naw.”

  “If you say so, I certainly do, ma’am.”

  “Yah! What do I owe?”

  So he told her. He was just as glad she was leaving. Never did like seeing a lone dame up at his bar. Couldn’t get used to it; that was a fact.

  Lurlene went out and found another taxi. “Listen, you know Mynard Street? Only about two blocks long, right?”

  “That’s right, lady.”

  “So take me down them two blocks,” Lurlene said, “and maybe I’ll tell you where I get off. And maybe I won’t.”

  She was fuming. It shouldn’t be for nothing, she was thinking. No, it shouldn’t. They never let him have one chance. They keep him down, all the time. Well, Rufus isn’t any liar; that I know. Oh, they can lie. But here’s this thing and he done it for me. (Lurlene was swimming in her dream.) Here’s Rufus, he actually tries to shoot the kid. Well, it’s the truth, and they got no right to cover it up and Rufus don’t want them to cover it up, but they think they can do anything, they think they’re so smart. And I don’t care what you say, it’s not right to tell lies and this colonel, he ought to be glad to know that he was right. Sure he was right. He had a hunch, you bet, last night. He was the one said about a woman and a knife. And he was right, because that was Tamsen-baby. But, oh no … Well, that’s what they think. Somebody’s got to listen. This colonel should be glad. And spread it around, in ten minutes! (Lurlene remember
ed.)

  On Mynard Street, the old Spanish house was easy to find. There was only one old Spanish house. Its number was painted on a stone. The stone was under the streetlight. Everything seemed to fit.

  Lurlene was feeling frightened as she went up the leaf-arched path. But she summoned up enough righteous indignation to be able to ring. After a few exchanges at the door, somebody spoke from deep inside. Then they let her in.

  At the airport the royal party, ceremoniously and at last, boarded the royal plane. The door was closed, the steps were drawn away, the big bug began to crawl. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Little Prince of Alalaf has just …”

  Duncan said to his brother Mitchel, “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

  The newsmen swarmed after them to Duncan’s car.

  “You going to the hospital, Doctor?”

  “He’s there, is he?”

  Duncan said, “Look, friends, it’s been a rough morning. How about giving us some breathing time?”

  “Yes, but where’s Rufus?”

  “We want Rufus.”

  “He talking yet?”

  “What?” “Why?” “Where?”

  Mitch said, “Rufus is at my father’s house. We are going there now.”

  Mitch said to Duncan’s eyebrow as they moved away and the pack raced for transportation, “You dreaming they wouldn’t find out where he is?”

  Duncan said, “I hope he’s there.”

  Rufus was there. But Lurlene was not.

  Almost as soon as they had entered the house to receive this blow, the house was besieged. The Judge finally went outside and said a few words.

  His son Rufus was here, yes, but in collapse. Not physically injured, no, but in a state of emotional collapse. He was not yet coherent. The family did not know his story. They might not know it for some time to come. Would the press please have the goodness to allow a very ill man and his worried family some respite?

  “Listen, Judge Tyler?”

  “Judge Tyler?”