He had considered Dhanab.
Gorob was a natural second-in-command. He functioned most comfortably under a powerful master whose power was given to Gorob to exert. But Dhanab was not a born master. He was too hesitant and too muddled. He might do for a puppet. But Gorob, who could pull the strings below him, needed a master above. He had quite recently found some new masters. Or they had found him.
The handwriting was on the wall for Alalaf. No such tiny state could exist much longer, independent of the great modern realities. It must be absorbed into one sphere of influence or another. Gorob envisioned himself as second-in-command to the real masters of Alalaf, wielding (behind some front, of course) the kind of power he enjoyed.
He felt himself to be absolutely trustworthy. The King, for instance, had trusted him for years. But times change. His new masters would find him trustworthy, now. Gorob himself, however, trusted almost nobody. Particularly Americans.
When he had warned his contacts, here in Los Angeles, that the foolish old king might go so far as to believe the promises of these imperialist-hypocrites, the representatives of his new masters had advised him to note anything … anything at all … about these deceitful people that might be usefully exposed. So Gorob (who was a linguist) began to drift and eavesdrop.
“Wouldn’t want to meet one of those fellows on a dark night Brrrr.”
“They’re theoretically civilized. You old enough to remember Valentino?”
“Isn’t it the women who wear the trousers?”
“Yes, but not the pants, ha ha.”
“Say, why don’t you make a play for the Princess, Rory?”
“You think that’s punishment?”
Frivolous, frivolous, thought Gorob disapprovingly.
Sam was going by with a tray. Duncan said to Phillida, “Will you?” He lifted a glass for each of them.
“If Maggie thinks it’s time, it must be time,” she said.
“Where’s Lurlene? Hang on to your face!”
“Out on the terrace, having a gossip. I just checked. Don’t know why, of course.” Phillida was curious, but cool.
Duncan said, “If you’re ready?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re needed upstairs.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows went up smoothly. Her smile stayed on.
So, while his eyes roved as if he were merely chattering nothings as he surveyed the scene, Duncan told her.
“Nothing has happened,” he began. “Hang on to that. Rufus went off his rocker, actually shot the boy. Not serious. Tamsen deflected his aim. Boy threw a knife and got Tamsen in the upper back. Not serious. Mitch says you’ve got to fix her up, clothing-wise. Dad’s room. Maggie says nothing has happened.”
“I should think not,” said Phillida, who had turned only a little pale. She drank thirstily. “What did you do with—”
Colonel Gorob had just come, like a shadow, into the fringe of a group just behind them. But Duncan had moved his feet and had glanced full circle.
Duncan said, “You remember … which was it, now? Through the Looking Glass?”
“Alice?” said Phillida, brightly.
The sound of this name caused Gorob to prick up his ears and begin to listen with interest.
“Well, it’s like in guinea pigs,” drawled Duncan. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Who knows?” said Phillida, with a shrug and the wrong inflections, disguising her literal question.
“A domestic affair, eh?” Duncan smiled at her but sent his pupils sideways in warning. “Go,” they said.
Phillida gave him her empty glass. “Please? And excuse me, Duncan? I ought to circulate.”
“Of course. I should …” Duncan turned around. “Ah, good evening, Colonel,” he said cordially. “Have you had refreshment, sir?”
The King was now across the room, standing beside Maggie. Maggie, who knew exactly where Colonel Gorob was at the moment, and also that the other two strangers were well surrounded, said to Al Asad, in the full hearing of six people, in what seemed to be purely conversational tones, very chit-chatty, “I understand that there is a traitor and a spy in your entourage, Your Majesty. I think that’s fascinating! Don’t you?”
None of the six guests was quite sure what she had said. Maggie could, if she so willed, beam her voice into one ear only. The fact was, none of the six really cared what she was saying, each being occupied in trying to think of something to say for himself. Furthermore, her cadences had been the heavily accented beats that go with trivia. (What an absolutely darling bracelet!) Whereas tragedy comes in monotones. (Look, I’m sorry, lady, but your husband had a little accident, and as a matter of fact, he …)
The King, who had heard her plainly, said nothing.
“That’s what Alice Foster says,” gushed Maggie, all deference and flutter. “Dear Alice! We went to school together, ages and ages ago.”
“So I have been told,” the King said gravely. His eyes were fixed on her face.
“We are still in constant touch! Isn’t that remarkable! He begins with the letter G,” said Maggie. “So Alice surmises. She can be so amusing.”
“Yes, indeed,” the King murmured politely. But his glance had gone over her head, in the desired direction.
“Oh, Monica,” cried Maggie. “Your Majesty, may I present a very dear …”
Elsewhere in the room, Mitch, hero-surgeon, was bearing up under more gushing praise than he cared for, when his wife came slipping to his side. “Are you allowing Saiph to come down, dear? So many people want to know.”
“Oh, now, about that … Excuse us?” Mitch drew his wife away. This was understandable. Everyone hoped to see the Little Prince.
Phillida said, “Spot on your left cuff. I’m clued.”
Mitch looked at his watch, and in the process rearranged his jacket sleeve. “I’ve had a thought,” he began.
“Level, first,” said Phillida, in an undertone. “Will she be all right?”
“If the knife was clean,” said her husband grimly. Then louder, “I’d like to persuade His Majesty and the Princess to come up with me. I want to suggest something.”
“Both of them? Away from the party?” Phillida said. “Oooh, the hostess won’t like that! I had better check for neglected souls.”
She moved in the direction of the hall. Mitch moved in the direction of his mother.
Colonel Gorob moved in the direction of the King. His ears were pink with delight.
That had been blood on the Doctor’s cuff. Recent? Of course, since he must have dressed himself afresh for this occasion. So? A knife had wounded someone in this house. “Someone” was a woman. It was a domestic affair. Ah, these clever Americans! The woman’s name might be “Alice.” Yet, perhaps not. The Colonel was easily persuading himself that he had, all along, been sensing undercurrents here. So, blood and a knife and a woman? And all in secret. Very clever, these Americans. But not, of course, as clever as he.
Lurlene saw Phillida ghosting by again, between her and the musicians. “Hey, Phillida! Excuse me.”
“Who is it? Oh, Lurlene. Yes? Mrs. Hardy, are you comfortable?”
Mrs. Hardy was very comfortable indeed.
Lurlene, having accepted the comfort of a drop of vodka, here and there, was also getting tipsy.
“Listen,” she said anxiously, “I haven’t seen one single sign of Rufus and I’m getting worried.”
“Of course you are.” Phillida bent closer. “I’m afraid he may have fortified himself a little too much. Best not to disturb, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I see,” said Lurlene. “Well, thanks. Gee, I’m sorry. Is Maggie awful upset?”
“She hasn’t the time,” Phillida smiled and glided away.
To Mrs. Hardy, Lurlene said, “You know, my husband has been drinking pretty heavy, lately.” This wasn’t the truth, but near enough.
“Me, too,” said Mrs. Hardy, cheerfully. “The on—ly way to fly.”
Lurlene, however, was not amused. She was begin
ning to wonder if she was so smart to be hiding out here with this stupid dame and missing everything. She didn’t think Rufus was drunk. Probably those dumb pills. Because a drink or two couldn’t hurt, could it? Especially when you felt—well—let down or something. But you were supposed to be having a good time, at a party.
19
The guest bedroom in the east wing was a large one, but it was crowded. The King was there, seated where he had sat this morning. Colonel Gorob stood stiffly beside Al Asad’s chair, keeping his ears and his eyes open, even while his wits were racing. One part of his mind considered the boy, who was a factor, now, and a powerful one.
Why this was clearer to him than it had been this morning, Gorob did not know, but Al Saiph, dressed as he was now dressed, looking as he now looked—somehow older, new planes on his cheeks, somehow emerging from childhood, becoming under one’s eyes a young male of the royal line, and not sickly, either—he was a factor impossible to dismiss. Nor could his mother, the Princess, standing there in her gold, be dismissed too lightly. She was a widow. Half-formed schemes tumbled in the Colonel’s deep-dreaming mind.
Meantime, his eyes inspected Inga Bjornsen, who was there, drawn respectfully into the corner, spotless in her uniform, as silent and dour as ever. Gorob discarded any suspicion that it could have been she whose blood had stained the Doctor’s cuff. Nor could it have been the Princess. No, not that golden glow. And not, he concluded, their hostess, who was standing there in her silvery gown, beaming in her silly fashion, a pampered so-called “society” woman in a decadent society, who would have no tolerance for pain.
All the while, the Colonel’s ears were listening to the Doctor, who was saying that he realized there might be some considerations to do with this particular patient that, providing his well-being was not jeopardized, the Doctor was proposing to take into account. It had occurred to him that it might seem desirable to His Majesty, and perhaps, also, to the Princess, if Prince Saiph were to be permitted to fly home to his own country tomorrow, on the King’s own plane. “Unless,” the Doctor continued, “Your Majesty would prefer not to risk both of your persons in the one plane. In which case,” the Doctor smiled, “we will be very glad to keep him with us.”
Colonel Gorob was finding himself startled.
Jaylia did not speak or even gasp. Into the boy’s face an eagerness leaped, but he said nothing.
Al Asad, with his palm over his chin, said, “If he can safely travel with me, tomorrow, that would be desirable.”
Now Jaylia did gasp and clasp her hands. Across Maggie’s face ran a parade of emotions—surprise, dismay, resignation, sadness, and on into unselfish-rejoicing.
Gorob, however, was viewing the prospect with some alarm. What! The royal family returning all together, with the boy looking as he now looked—landing in a blaze of glamorous excitement with joyous tidings from America, with the inevitable gratitude and a softening …
The Doctor was now saying that the boy’s health was, of course, his primary consideration and responsibility. And to that end, he would very much like—in fact, must insist—that the boy be transferred to the hospital for the balance of this night. This to enable some tests, some final checkings, to provide all possible assurance that the Doctor, in his experienced and yet intuitive judgment, was correct. If everything was found to be healing as well as the Doctor felt sure was true in this case, then the Doctor could trust Miss Bjornsen, who was (in his opinion) an excellent nurse, to continue a regime which she well understood. Yes, after such testing—a cautious step the King must understand and approve—if all went well, the boy might go.
The Doctor turned and said to Saiph easily, “We’ll just put you back in your old nest for a few hours.”
“Very good,” the boy said. “Then I can say good-bye to many kind people.”
“Ah,” said the Colonel.
But the King stopped him with a raised hand. “You will arrange this, Doctor? How soon?”
“I will telephone for an ambulance. I will alert the escorts. It won’t take, I should say, more than twenty minutes or half an hour for them to come. That is, if this is your pleasure, Your Majesty.”
The King’s head bent, indicating that this was his pleasure and also his express command.
Mitch bowed, in his own somewhat saturnine manner, and went away.
“Oh, but my party!” cried Maggie softly. “My poor, poor party! Oh, I beg your pardon.”
Jaylia said, “If I may be excused, Your Majesty? I must tell my maid to pack quickly. Perhaps I could, then, help with the party?”
“My dear, you could, indeed,” said Maggie, as if the world had just been saved.
“Wait,” said Gorob rapidly in the King’s own tongue. “Your Majesty, I must give warning. A woman has been knifed in this house. The Doctor has blood on his linen. They are all concealing this fact. It is a woman of the household. Would it not be desirable to let the Prince require the women to come here, that he may thank them?”
The King rose. His eyes were cold. “What has this to do with us?” he said sharply, in the other tongue. Then he said to Jaylia, in English, “Indeed, you must be ready.” This dismissed her. Jaylia left, invisibly curving under her stiff golden gown.
“But the maid …” Gorob began to plead. He was thinking, Suppose it is the maid, one of ours, who has been injured? They would not wish this known. “If I may ask that the maid come here …”
The King said, in English, “You are rude.” He said to Maggie, “I am sorry for this embarrassment to your party, madame. I shall go down. During this time of waiting, perhaps Al Saiph may also greet your guests.”
“Oh, that is kind,” glowed Maggie, “so kind of you, Your Majesty, to understand what this means to me.” (As silly a society hostess as had ever walked a stage, was she.) “Saiph, my dear, you must know how much everyone wants to see you, if only for a little, little minute. Oh, I am sorry that you will miss most of the party. Could we not send—something with you?” Maggie’s lashes seemed to be batting at thoughts of ice cream.
Saiph leaned forward, his face alight. He said, “May I have Tamsen?” He was not making a request. He was giving forth, from a position of privilege, and with some boyish glee besides, a royal command.
“I will inquire, Your Highness,” said Maggie gently.
“Who is this?” asked Gorob. Maggie’s mask had slipped only a little, but he sensed something.
“A friend to me,” said Saiph, arrogantly. “Don’t be rude.”
The King sat down again. So Duncan Tyler left his listening-post in the passage and walked into the vacuum Maggie had left behind her. “So you’re going to leave us?” he said to the boy, after his nod had done honor to the King.
“I hope I shall be going home,” said Saiph. “Not that I have been unhappy here. Will Tamsen mind coming with me to the hospital and missing the party?”
“I’m sure she would much rather celebrate with you,” said Duncan. Then to Al Asad, who seemed to be sitting very still, “My wife is putty in his hands, Your Majesty.”
“Explain,” said Saiph. “This is an idiom?” Then to his grandfather, he added, “I have been studying the idioms, you see, sir.”
Colonel Gorob was looking stiff and sour. Trivialities, he thought. When we should be searching for the woman.…
In the Judge’s room, Tamsen was on her feet, in a white dress that belonged to Maggie. Phillida had been circling her with a mouthful of pins, tucking and fitting and creating. Now she was hooking the bracelet on Tamsen’s left wrist to a brooch that was fastened at her waist.
“Makes a bit of a sling, anyhow.” Phillida put a small white satin evening purse into Tamsen’s left hand. “Can you hold on to this?”
“Yes, but I can’t do my hair,” said Tamsen matter-of-factly.
“I’ll fix.” Phillida began to take down the dark disarrayed tumbling tresses. “Now, if you must move suddenly, and that dressing begins to feel icky, keep your back to some wall. Hah, brilliant t
hought! Let’s have your hair down.” Phillida turned gentle. “Honey, can you do this?”
“Of course I can,” said Tamsen. “I can do anything.”
Maggie opened the door softly. “Can you come now, Tamsen?”
“Yes, all but my hair.”
“Then will you come? That Colonel is on to something. Saiph is helping us, God bless him. You’ll see. We must simply exhibit you boldly and get that over.”
“Yes,” said Tamsen, “let’s get that over.”
So, after Phillida had whacked a brush swiftly down her hair, Tamsen went walking beside Maggie into the passage, and along it to the boy’s room, which looked as if nothing had happened there. She gave Duncan one quick look and saw his face go fond and proud. She was lifted into perfect confidence. Nothing has happened, she said to herself.
The white dress came high to the base of her neck. Her own fall of dark hair was another cover for the wad of surgical dressing over the raw place where the knife had scraped her skin away. Forget it.
Maggie was cooing respectfully, “Your Majesty, may I present my little daughter-in-law, Tamsen Tyler, who has been your grandson’s loving playmate all this while.” (A sentimental old fool, she was.)
“Your Majesty,” said Tamsen, bending only slightly from her waist. The effect was gravely ceremonious. She gave the old King, those piercing eyes, one shy glance of her own. Then she turned toward the boy. Her back must now turn part way toward the King and the other man. She had not even glanced at the other man. She said to Saiph in her soft manner, but somehow jauntily, “I’m glad the Doctor thinks you are well. But I don’t like saying good-bye and spoiling the whole party.”
Saiph laughed. “Oh, you look very pretty, Little-Girl-Thomas,” he said teasingly, “all dressed up in a party dress. But you can’t stay at the party, either. You must come with me to the hospital.”
“Oh, must I?” Tamsen was gay. “Phooey—that same old hospital?”
Inga rose and spoke from her corner. “May I say—please? Mrs. Tamsen cannot go in such a party dress. May I, perhaps, lend her a uniform?”
“Very good, Inga,” said Saiph at once. “Yes, she shall wear a uniform. And she must be ready quickly.” This was an order. “Because I must go downstairs, now. Let Kasim and Hayyan come,” he said with his chin up.
Lemon in the Basket Page 14
