A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  “Yes,” Sabrina had said. “If you came to tell us that, we’ve already discussed it more than once.”

  “I came to help. But you seem to be fine. I’m comforted by the way you look at each other; you haven’t lost love or trust.” He looked around. “And Léon?”

  “At his studio,” Stephanie said. “He’ll be here soon for dinner. You’ll stay with us, Robert, won’t you? We have an extra room.”

  “Gladly.” He looked closely at her. “No more nightmares about Mont Ventoux?”

  “Yes, but Léon is wonderful, and getting away from Cavaillon helped. But I’ve missed you.”

  “And I’ve missed you. Our little town is quite dull without our talks and our cooking lessons. And without Max. I loved him, you know. We talked often; he called almost every day, sometimes on business, but usually just to chat.”

  “What kind of business?” Sabrina asked.

  Robert hesitated only a moment. “He helped me smuggle young people into countries of great poverty and political repression, and, when necessary, out of them.”

  Stephanie stared at him. “But he was smuggling counterfeit money; that was why I wouldn’t go away with him.”

  “Wait.” Robert closed his eyes briefly. “Money. In those large pieces of equipment. He always had huge crates coming and going: returns, he said. I thought the returns were high. And Frick . . . Frick made the money. Max once called him his Dürer. I thought he was joking, but I should have caught on: Dürer was a brilliant engraver. Oh, Max, Max, I made use of you, I loved you, and you were everything I didn’t want to think you were. All the clues were there and I ignored them because I chose not to know.”

  Sabrina thought of Garth in the beginning, ignoring clues so that he could believe Sabrina was his wife. We shape the world to our own needs and desires, and when we can’t, sometimes we call it a disappointment and other times we call it tragedy.

  “Smuggling young people?” Stephanie asked. “For what?”

  “To help poor people resist despots. To help them organize and protest, sometimes to take the land that rightfully should be theirs, sometimes simply to manage their own villages without interference. All those activities are, of course, illegal in those countries, and so, when the governments begin to close in, we bring the young people home. Max helped me bring a young woman out shortly before he was killed. That was an adventure: we were like two boys.”

  “A good deed,” Stephanie said suddenly.

  “Yes, he did many.”

  “No. I mean, I know he did, but I meant something else. He told me that he did a good deed and, because of it, that man found him and killed him. He said it was some kind of coincidence.”

  Robert stood with clasped hands, his head bowed. “Jana,” he said at last.

  “What?”

  “The young woman we brought out. Jana Corley. I thought she and Max looked at each other in a way that seemed . . . well, it was just a passing thought, but it seemed to me that they knew each other.”

  “Corley,” Sabrina said. “I know a Tabitha and Ramsay Corley. He owns factories in Manchester; they have a home in Kent.”

  “Her mother’s name is Tabitha,” Robert said slowly. “She told me that once. But Jana is discreet; she doesn’t talk about our work. I can’t believe she would talk to anyone about someone helping me, as Max was that night.”

  “Well, we’ll find out,” Sabrina said decisively. “We wondered where we’d start in London. Now we know.”

  Robert held their hands. “Take care, my children. You are so lovely and full of life, but you know that there is evil in the world. You did a foolhardy and dangerous thing when you traded places; now you must be exceedingly wise and cautious and thoughtful.” He kissed their foreheads and Sabrina felt it was a blessing. “I wish you well. You must write to me, or call. We must not lose each other.”

  The plane flew over the flat fields of Normandy and then the English Channel, speckled with tiny whitecaps like flecks of snow. The coast of England was visible at the top of Sabrina’s window. London, she thought. Home for so many years. Home, work, friends.

  “Will we stay at Cadogan Square?” Stephanie asked.

  “Yes, for the last time. I sold it to Alexandra’s friends, but they won’t take possession until—”

  “You sold it? You sold your house?”

  “I have another one.” The words whipped out before Sabrina could stop them. She set down her coffee cup with a shaking hand. How are we going to keep from talking about who we are and what we’re going to do?

  The steward removed their trays; there was a bustle in the cabin as passengers slid their tables into the slots in the arms of the seats, put away computers and briefcases and prepared to land.

  “Do you want to be the one to talk to Jana?” she asked. “You were living with Max; it makes sense for you to do it.”

  “Oh. Yes, if you’d like.” And they both knew that by veering away from it they had decided, once again, that they could keep from talking about it as long as they both wanted to.

  Stephanie’s face was averted; she was watching the land come up to meet them, and thinking about touching down at Heathrow. It was so nice up there, she thought; now I have to face things. Except . . . not alone. Sabrina will help me. She’ll get us through this. Somehow.

  The house on Cadogan Square was dark and chilly, huddling against the rain that drummed from a leaden sky. Sabrina made a fire in the sitting room while Stephanie ran to the market and brought back food for lunch and dinner. They both were at home in the neighborhood and in the house, moving easily through its rooms, and both felt the strangeness of that but did not comment on it.

  “Shall I call her?” Stephanie asked. “I don’t want to go all the way to Kent if she’s out of town.”

  “She might have a flat in town.” Sabrina paged through the telephone directory. “There’s a J. Corley in London, near Berkeley Square. It’s worth a try.”

  “That’s so close. I think I won’t call; I’ll just take a chance.”

  “I’ll have lunch ready when you get back.”

  Stephanie called for a taxi and Sabrina watched her, marveling that she was so comfortable in London and Cadogan Square after such a brief time. But why not? she thought. How long did it take me, in Evanston?

  Stephanie found a raincoat and hat and umbrella in the foyer closet and dashed from the front door to the taxi. As they crawled through the traffic, she looked at the streets and buildings and undulating lines of black umbrellas with bewilderment. London, ageless and familiar, felt like home. But she had felt the tug of belonging as she looked at the scenes of Evanston in Sabrina’s photograph album. And Cavaillon had been home. And Vézelay was home now—or anywhere, with Léon.

  What’s wrong with me? Can’t I even say where I belong?

  Jana Corley’s apartment was in a curved row of flats, gray and dripping in the rain. Stephanie rang the bell and when a young voice came over the intercom, she said, “I’m a friend of Robert Chalon.”

  A buzzer sounded; she opened the door and climbed two flights of stairs. Jana was waiting, thin and blond, wearing a sweatsuit and heavy socks, her eyebrows still raised in surprise at Stephanie’s announcement.

  Stephanie held out her hand. “Sabrina Lacoste. And you’re Jana Corley?” She kept her hand in Jana’s and walked her back into the flat. All the lamps were on, and a small gas fire burned in the grate. The bewilderment Stephanie had felt in the taxi was gone: she felt strong and purposeful because she was doing something she and Sabrina had planned together. “I’m a friend of Robert’s; I lived in Cavaillon until a short while ago. I lived with a man named Max Lacoste. But I think you knew him as Max Stuyvesant.”

  Jana’s face became wary and she pulled away. “Max Stuyvesant is dead.”

  “He was thought to be dead. He’s been living in Cavaillon. You know that. You met him there, when you were with Robert.”

  “But I didn’t say anything. I mean, I didn’t tell him I reco
gnized him; it was obvious that he didn’t want me to. I guess Robert didn’t know. And I could understand it, you know; if I’d been mixed up in that Westbridge business I’d have wanted to duck out, too. And I figured maybe he was sort of doing penance for it.”

  “Penance?” Stephanie asked.

  “Well, you know, he was working with Robert; you do know they brought me out of Chile? They even did this routine, it was like a movie, when I was locked up in a warehouse in Marseilles: Robert got the guard drunk so Max could take his keys, and they broke open the crate I was hiding in . . . I was never so glad to see anybody in my life. So if Max was working with Robert, he was doing good, and I thought it might be to sort of balance Westbridge and whatever else he’d done. You know, after Westbridge everybody laid the most incredible exploits on him; it was mostly envy, I think. Like he’d lived out their fantasies. I’m sorry, I didn’t offer you anything. Would you like tea? Or soup? I’m heating some for lunch; anything to keep warm. I hate October; all of a sudden it’s winter. What do you take in your tea?”

  “Nothing, I don’t want anything, thanks. I have an engagement for lunch. I need to ask you something.”

  “About Max? Did he send you here?”

  “I’m trying to find out if you told anyone you’d seen him in Marseilles.”

  “No, of course I—Oh. Well, I did, as a matter of fact. I shouldn’t have, but Alan absolutely promised he wouldn’t tell anyone. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time and I was . . . well, you know, I was very relaxed and I sort of let it out. That didn’t get back to Max, did it? I can’t imagine how it would.”

  “Who is Alan?”

  “My fiancé. Alan Lethridge. Well, he’s not exactly my fiancé, but I call him that sometimes, when I’m feeling fond of him. But, you know, he promised he wouldn’t tell anyone and I’m sure he didn’t. I’ll ask him, if you like.”

  “I’d like to ask him myself. If you’ll tell me where to find him . . .”

  Jana frowned. “Did something happen?”

  “I’m just looking for information. And it would be helpful if I could talk to Alan.”

  “Well.” She went to the desk and stood beside it indecisively, then shrugged. “I guess Alan can take care of himself.” She wrote on a pad of paper and handed the sheet to Stephanie. “He’s usually home by four.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jana followed her to the door. “Say hello to Max for me when you see him. I don’t care whether he wants to stay in hiding or not. He did a good thing for me and I’ll always be grateful.”

  “Thank you,” Stephanie said again. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  In the taxi she gazed unseeing at the streaming window, thinking of Max, whom Robert had loved and Jana admired, who tried to control everything and everyone around him, who lived by his own rules whether he was doing good or breaking the law. They even did this routine, it was like a movie. I couldn’t love him, she thought, but I could have tried to get to know him better, to understand him. I wish I had.

  Sabrina had set the small table in the sitting room, and Stephanie warmed herself at the fire before sitting down. The lashing wind and rain made the room hushed in dry snugness, and Stephanie sighed as Sabrina poured a white wine. “So lovely. Maybe we could make time stop for a while.”

  “Yes, we keep thinking that.”

  Sabrina filled their bowls from the soup tureen, and it occurred to Stephanie that her sister was acting as hostess, pouring wine, serving soup in her own home. Has she already decided to come back here? What is it she wants?

  “Tell me about Jana,” Sabrina said, and as she listened to Stephanie’s brief report she thought how well Stephanie looked, how confident in relating her conversation. Does she think she can do whatever she wants, with Penny and Cliff, with Garth, with Léon? With me? She can’t believe I’ll just walk away from them; she knows now what they are to me. “So Alan is next,” she said when Stephanie finished. “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Oh, no, it’s your turn. Unless you’d rather not. Have you ever met him?”

  “I’ve met his mother, but I never liked her. Xanthia Lethridge. As I recall, no one ever talked to her because she couldn’t keep anything to herself; it would be all over London the next—” Her eyes met Stephanie’s. “Maybe it runs in the family. I’ll call him; if he’s in town I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  Alan Lethridge lived in a town house filled with his parents’ discarded furniture. “Awful stuff, isn’t it?” he said to Sabrina, leading her into the drawing room. He was tall and thin, with a handsome, eager face and long hair; he wore blue jeans and an oversize sweater. “No wonder they got rid of it. But I’m too lazy to shop and I wouldn’t know what to buy anyway. I’m waiting for a princess to rescue me and turn the place into a palace. Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Andersen? What can I do for you? I remember I met your sister somewhere a long time ago, but I don’t know where.”

  Sabrina sat on the edge of a hassock and waited until he sat nearby. “I’m trying to find Max Stuyvesant and I thought you might be able to help me.”

  “Max? Max Stuyvesant? What are you talking about?” There was a clamorous silence; Sabrina could almost hear options running through his mind. “Is this some kind of a joke? Max is dead.”

  “He was presumed dead. But didn’t you find out that he was alive?”

  “Me? I didn’t find out anything. How could I? I didn’t know him; I never saw him. I mean, I did once in a while, I mean, people do, you know, at parties or the races, but we never talked; the fact is, I’d barely know him if I saw him.”

  “But I think you heard he was alive and told someone.”

  “I didn’t.” He looked at the ceiling, seeking help. “I mean, I didn’t hear he was alive, so naturally I couldn’t tell anyone anything.”

  “I think you did tell someone. And it’s important that you tell me who it was.”

  “Nobody! Look, I’m sorry, Mrs. Andersen, but obviously I can’t help you, so if you don’t have anything else . . . I mean, I’m sorry to be rude, but . . .” He stood and looked down at her.

  Sabrina stood beside him. He was indeed being rude, and the only reason for that was fear. “This isn’t a game, Alan. It’s very important; in fact, someone could be in danger—” Panic flared in his eyes, his mouth tightened stubbornly and he strode to the door. A mistake, Sabrina thought, at least a mistake until she and Stephanie decided how much to tell him. She followed him to the door, her voice casual now. “If you remember something, please call me. I’m staying at Lady Longworth’s house and I’ll be there for a few more days.”

  “There’s nothing to remember.” Sabrina thought he sounded like Cliff, mumbling, grouchy, guilty.

  “He’s lying and he’s not very good at it,” she said to Stephanie, at home.

  “Is he afraid?” Stephanie asked. “What would he be afraid of?”

  “Maybe Jana. If she’s the princess he’s waiting for, he wouldn’t want her to know he broke his promise, especially if there are serious consequences. We have to decide how much to tell him, in case we want to talk to him again.”

  “Why can’t we just tell him what happened to Max?”

  “Because . . .” Sabrina got up to add a log to the fire. They were in the upstairs sitting room, where they spent most of their time, the drapes pulled shut, the fire casting a flickering copper glow on their faces, cashmere afghans lying lightly over their laps as Sabrina lay on the chaise and Stephanie curled up in a deep armchair. A tea service was on the table between them, and now and then they exchanged a smile because it was so good to be together in this warm, private place. “Because I don’t think we should tell anyone.”

  “But why not? How can we find out who sent that man if we don’t tell people what happened?”

  “I don’t know. I just think it’s best not to tell anyone, at least for now. It’s just a feeling I have. We can talk about it some more if you want; I’m sorry I can’t give you a reason.”

  “N
o, it’s all right. I trust you.” Stephanie leaned forward and lifted the quilted cozy off the teapot to refill their cups. “But if Alan won’t tell you anything, what do we do now?”

  “Talk to Lazlo and Carr. I don’t know how close they were to Max, but we do know they worked for him and they quarreled over their forgery business. Maybe somebody talked to them about Max, or asked questions that seemed unusual, or . . . Oh.”

  “What?”

  “I just remembered. The oddest thing. One day last spring, when I was over here, Denton came into Ambassadors and asked me if I’d heard from Max.”

  “Heard from Max?”

  “Yes, I thought he’d gone crazy. But when I said Max was dead, he said he was presumed dead, that they’d never found a body. And he thought he might have called me.”

  “That’s sort of scary, isn’t it? What did you tell him?”

  “That Max was his friend, so if he were alive he would have called him, not Stephanie Andersen in America. And then he said . . . wait a minute, I’ll try to remember . . . He said, ‘Well, if he does surface—’ and then he apologized for putting it that way—‘if he does and if he happens to call you, would you let me know? I somehow can’t believe he’s really dead, you know. He always seemed indestructible to me.’ And there was something else, Stephanie. I think he was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to call him.”

  She spoke briefly on the telephone, then hung up. “Hunting in Germany. Back on Friday.”

  “Well, but he couldn’t really know anything, could he? It was just some kind of weird thing. Does Denton do weird things?”

  “He wasn’t crazy when I was married to him, if that’s what you mean. And he wouldn’t be frightened without a reason. Well, I’ll talk to him on Friday. Or maybe you’ll do it; you might be better with him. But first we’ll find Rory Carr or Ivan Lazlo. Maybe both of them.”

  At her desk, Sabrina called Michel Bernard and Jolie Fantôme, who had written the newspaper articles exposing Westbridge Imports and Max Stuyvesant. “They’re on assignment in Canada, Mrs. Andersen,” said their assistant. “Can I help?” And when Sabrina told him what she wanted, he said, “Carr and Lazlo are London, both of them, at Wormwood Scrubs Prison in Shepherds Bush. They’re in the lifers unit, you know, so they get only one VO—sorry, visiting order—a month, and it’s only for ninety minutes. So you’ll have to find out if they’ve had a visitor for October. They may not have, since it’s early in the month. If you need me for anything else, please call. Good luck.”