I did one last check in the mirror. How would I last all day in heels? I never wore them anymore. I sighed, girding myself. It was for the cause.
Executing a graceful pirouette, I realized that I felt more ladylike than I had in a long while. The feeling held firm even as I recalled the threat, now erased, that someone had smudged across the mirror. I tipped my hat at a jaunty angle, vowing to find who had written the message. Zippered pouch beneath one arm, leather gloves clutched in a palm of the other, I strode briskly from the room.
Chapter Thirteen
Dante had promised that the press credentials and other materials necessary to pull off my journalist cover would be waiting for me at the front desk, along with the keys to an FBI-requisitioned car. But first a stop at the beauty parlor.
The salon reeked of rotten eggs. Someone was getting a permanent wave. I breathed through my mouth, letting my nasal passages adapt more slowly. The waiting area with its wicker furnishings and fern print wallpaper was reminiscent of a small lanai and I skirted through the area thinking I might be more suitably attired in a grass skirt and lei.
At the reception desk, I peered into the main part of the salon. A lone patron absorbed in a magazine sat beneath the metal bonnet of a hairdryer attached to one of several orange vinyl-covered chairs along the wall. When no one came out to help me, I went to the folding screen and checked the manicurist’s station. The gooseneck lamp had not been turned on and from the tabletop’s tidy appearance I guessed Liberty had not yet arrived.
My high heels were fitted with metal cleats to preserve the leather. They tapped sharply as I crossed the linoleum flooring in quick small steps. To my left were the three client chairs where the beauticians applied their magic. In front of the chairs, the wall of mirrors separated the public area from a private annex in back, reserved for staff. At least those were my thoughts as I closed in on the room, attracted by the barely audible sounds of conversation.
The voices were those of a man and a woman. The man’s voice sounded familiar. Nonetheless, I was more than a little shocked to see V-V, with his hands on Clara Renner’s shoulders.
He twirled around, his handsome features distorted by his surprise. Clara’s pink smock clung suggestively to the curves of her hourglass figure and her crown of auburn hair was tousled. Her mascara-laden lashes fluttered as she pressed backwards against the counter near the sinks.
More striking than ever in tall riding boots, jodhpurs, and a tweed jacket, V-V looked as if he’d come straight to the Club from his morning ride. Clara’s rapidly blinking eyes fixed me with a dubious stare. They made an odd couple standing next to one another, he looking so tall and proper; she so short and fiery. I hadn’t heard what the twosome had been discussing, but having caught them together, I was naturally curious.
V-V wore an ascot beneath his open-necked shirt. He adjusted it slightly. “Miss Lewis,” he exclaimed, his accent dramatizing my name, making me smile. “How lovely that you are here.” He gave me a slow once over. “And how lovely you are turned out.”
I blushed beneath my hat. “Thank you. I’m off to an interview.”
“How fortunate that you stopped here first.” He collected a book from the nearby counter. “I was about to come looking for you. Yesterday you showed an interest in Hoffmann’s short stories. I came across the English version of my favorite volume, the one we were discussing. I should like to lend it to you.”
“How kind.” Remembering what Liberty had said, I ventured a glance at his fingers. Any residual scars had faded with time and the skin was pulled so neatly over the end of the bone that it was not obvious but, yes, the three outer digits were definitely shorter than normal and absent their nails.
She had also alluded to an affiliation with V-V. I wondered if he had been trying to glean information relating to the Naval Officer’s wife from Clara before I arrived.
“The story we talked about, ‘Mademoiselle de Scudéri,’ is included in the collection,” he said, handing it over.
“Ah, the haunting mystery. I shall enjoy it very much.” My remarks had sounded like a poor attempt at mimicking his formal speaking style. No, more like a cheap imitation of Bela Lugosi. But V-V was not offended.
“You remembered. I am delighted. My darling Kiki wanted to bring it to you herself. But as I was just explaining to Mrs. Renner, she is unable to make it in to the club today.”
I had been looking forward to digging into Kiki’s relationship with the Countess. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Is she ill?”
V-V shook his head. “Not exactly. She has been on the go too much. She is exhausted.”
Dee’s concerns about her sister’s work habits had been on the money then. I patted the book’s cover. “It was doubly kind of you to remember this under the circumstances. I’ll read it and report back.”
Clara had been standing by quietly. “It’s what’s expected from Herr General Anastase Andreyevich Volodymyr Vivikovsky.” Smiling broadly, she clipped the forehead of her heart-shaped face in a crisp salute.
The remark puzzled me, but V-V looked proud. He squared his shoulders.
Clara and I had not been properly introduced. He did the honors. Clara, who obviously delighted in teasing him, laughed again—a sweet chortle, really—and turned to me. She spoke in a breathy, little voice that coming from someone else might have been irritating.
“I’ve been behaving like a schoolgirl. I apologize. My comment about the Herr General must have confused you.” She grinned. “I call V-V Herr General because he tries to dictate our choice of reading material here in the shop. He disapproves of the movie screen magazines, thinks we should subscribe to more literary stuff. He likes to drop by now and then with what he calls worthwhile publications.” She turned to him, eyebrows arched. “Isn’t that right, sir?”
“Improve one’s looks, improve one’s mind?” I contributed, spontaneously.
V-V laughed. “Yes, an excellent slogan for the salon. Mrs. Renner, you should use it.”
I smiled. “I was looking for the manicurist. Have you seen her?”
The two exchanged a private look. They seemed worried.
“What? Something wrong?”
Clara glanced at V-V then looked across the small room. Two chairs, engineered to tilt backwards to corresponding sinks, took up most of the space. Shelving above held an array of bottles and jars. Near the shelving was a dark wooden Swiss chalet cuckoo clock.
“Glossy’s late,” Clara said, her small voice breathier yet. “That’s unusual for her. Especially when she has a client booked.”
“But I’m early…” I double-checked the clock, this time noticing that the ornamental flowers surrounding the chalet were all hand-painted in pink with rhinestone centers. I turned back to Clara. The pink looked as if it had been custom matched to her smock.
“I was referring to Mrs. Kelly, under the dryer,” Clara said. “When Glossy didn’t show, I called her boarding house, thinking she might have overslept. It’s nearby and the landlady’s an old friend.” She looked at V-V as if seeking his approval before continuing.
“What is it?” I asked, sounding exasperated, playing up my rights as the inconvenienced client. “If something has happened, I should be told. After all, I have an appointment.”
“She wasn’t there when I called.”
“Wasn’t there? Then where is she? Is she coming in to work or not?”
V-V, responding to my growing agitation, rose to Clara’s defense. “Mrs. Renner does not know. Neither does the landlady.”
I was not supposed to be acquainted with Liberty, aka Glossy. I forced myself to continue sounding indignant and detached. “What? How can that be?”
V-V spoke in measured tones. “When Mrs. Renner telephoned, she spoke to the landlady, who went to call Miss Fingers. Her door was unlocked. Someone had broken into Miss Fingers’ room. All her belongings, clothing, papers, everything, were strewn about.”
I shivered. Someone had just invaded my room also. I
shivered again.
“Oh my. And Miss Fingers, what about her?”
My concern was genuine, but V-V responded as if he thought I was merely being irksome. “Please, Miss Lewis. Mrs. Renner is already upset. She does not know where Miss Fingers is. It is why I was consoling her when you arrived.” His eyes pleaded for a show of sympathy.
Clara was upset? What about me? Liberty was my close friend.
Ah, but if V-V was her partner on the case, he’d be worried too. I tried reading his expression. Something in his look reassured me. I had been holding my breath. I exhaled, telling myself she was fine. Staging a ransacked room could be just part of her cover.
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.”
Clara glanced at the wall phone below the clock. “Mrs. Brown planned to call the police, right after we hung up. Said she’d fill me in once they’ve checked things out.”
“I’m supposed to see you this afternoon,” I said. “Think Miss Fingers might have a free slot afterwards?”
Clara had begun emptying the amber solution from a clear plastic bottle shaped like a ketchup container into the sink. Tilting her head, she tried stealing a look under my hat. “I’m sure we can make it work.”
V-V was ready to leave. “Mrs. Renner, as always, it has been a delight.”
Clara’s arms were resting at her sides. He took one of her hands and pressed it to his lips. She giggled. “And you, Miss Lewis,” he said, turning to me. “Perhaps after you have read ‘Mademoiselle de Scudéri’ we will have the opportunity to discuss your reactions.”
“That would be lovely,” I replied, automatically parroting his formal speaking pattern again. “And, please give my best to your wife. Let her know that I still hope to chat with her about the Book Faire, would you?” And tell Liberty to get in touch, I added silently, willing him to read my mind.
He snatched my hand, brushing it with a parting kiss. “Indeed, I shall.”
***
Today’s clerk was the same woman with the receding chin and horsy figure who’d been on duty at the Club the day before when I’d checked in. She returned with the packet I’d been expecting, giving me a shifty-eyed look as I took it.
I found a private spot along the wall and examined the envelope. No wonder the clerk had seemed wary. The flap was secured with a bold CONFIDENTIAL seal. Just as Dante had promised, the credentials—press pass, driver’s license, bogus newspaper—were all inside. I parted the envelope farther, wanting to glimpse my byline below the column head. I smiled. God bless the ghost writers back at headquarters. The subject of my phony interview was Mad Max. They’d chosen well.
Max was a WAC I’d gotten to know on stopovers at Wright Field in Dayton, Ohio. Only nineteen, she was a certified airplane mechanic and engine specialist, and one of the experimental airfield’s top mechanics. I crossed the lobby, dropping onto a wing chair tucked into a far corner. Unable to resist reading what I had written about her, I surveyed the room then pulled the newspaper from the envelope. Fabulous! With no effort on my part whatsoever, I’d written a great piece covering Mad Max’s war contributions.
I replaced the article, unable to keep from smiling at the author’s discretion in deciding to avoid any mention of her tattoos. My pulse quickened at discovering a letter-sized envelope, addressed to me, containing a personal memo from Dante.
“Sorry, we need to postpone our plans again. Something unexpected has come up. Meet us at headquarters this afternoon, after your appointment with Mrs. Renner. We’ll brief you then.”
Something unexpected? Daring to dream that it involved Liberty, perhaps Roy, maybe even the two agencies at last coming together on the same page, I was already feeling excited when I read the memo’s last lines and felt a bigger kick yet. “Not sure how you’ll finesse it, but remember don’t let Mrs. Renner change a thing. You’re already perfect, just the way you are.”
Chapter Fourteen
A stop at Plant Protection Headquarters was mandatory for anyone calling at Willow Run. A beefy beet-faced guard with an undershot jaw manned the visitors’ lobby from behind a curved counter. His hooded eyes followed me as I snaked between a couple of tall, leafy plants in ceramic pots then skirted a row of uninviting chairs on my approach to the counter.
The guard’s royal blue jacket was worn open over a gray shirt and black tie, the coat’s front panels partially concealing a bowl-shaped paunch. On the drive in, I’d passed the Orange Lantern, the roadhouse near the plant’s perimeter where Renner and Blount met for their final session before Blount was murdered. The joint did a brisk business with employees who liked to drop by after work. Judging by the number of cars parked there this morning, the men coming off the graveyard shift were no exception. Venturing toward the guard, observing his florid skin and morose expression, I could picture him hunched over the tavern’s bar, nursing a beer, venting his gripes.
At the counter I glimpsed the man’s badge. Officer Flynn. “What’s your business?” The gruff greeting matched his bulldog face.
I stated the nature of my visit and Flynn asked me to open my pouch. He dumped the contents. The back of his hand, thick with tufts of dark hair, crawled through my belongings, a tarantula after prey. The creeping hand stopped. I resisted the urge to turn and run, watching the stubby fingers seize my powder compact, then my lipstick tube. He clasped them by the fingertips as though wary of contracting an exotic disease, as he inspected them. The cosmetics, elements of my undercover girl kit, were set aside. I began humming softly to myself, trying to appear outwardly cool while a few more items suffered his groping attention. At last, seeming satisfied, he tagged the pouch and returned it, leaving me to stuff my possessions back inside while he registered my name in a log.
A visitor’s number was jotted on a temporary badge indicating my destination. Badge pinned in place, bag tagged and coded, I turned and was ambling toward the door when a “Halt!” from Flynn stopped me. My heart raced. I spun around to face him. “Wwwh-at?”
“Not so fast,” his voice boomed through the deserted lobby. “You’ll need an escort. Searls,” he called over his shoulder, “get out here.”
A pimply, tow-headed guard emerged through a partially open door behind the counter. He followed at my elbow, eventually climbing into the passenger side of the FBI Ford I’d left parked in the lot outside. Luckily, this model had no two-way radio or other identifiable equipment.
The Plant Protection building stood between the main inbound and outbound gates. I nosed out of the building’s lot, curving along the plant’s interior byways, following Searls’ direction. He knew a lot of people and as he waved to them, I became conscious of the platoons of protection men, on foot or motorized scooters, patrolling the roads and parking lots.
Searls directed me to park in a spot only yards away from where two days earlier I’d met with Miss C. Renner’s office was in the foot-portion of the L-shaped plant. We got out, passing the detached Administration Building on our way to the entrance.
A guard posted inside checked my pass and we started down a corridor long enough to land a Lib. I let my tow-headed guide lead the way while I lagged behind, reading the etched lettering on the glazed glass doors on either side of us. We were passing through Research and Development, I realized, aware that the secret plans for the night-bombing device Renner had somehow pilfered and copied had been produced behind one of the doors. Which one, I wondered?
The endless hall spilled into a centralized secretarial pit before continuing on through a doorway on the opposite side. The hub contained several rows of desks occupied by women typing. The flow of people streaming in and out of the area was constant, and when we arrived the preoccupied secretaries did not even bother looking up. A balding man in a brown suit entered through a set of double doors off to the side. A loud burst of machinery and truck noises came in with him, momentarily cutting off the continual clack-clacking of typewriter keys. I turned, catching a glimpse of a loading dock before the doors clo
sed.
Searls left after introducing me to Beth, an attractive, bubbly brunette. Beth wore a navy pleated skirt woven with white hash marks and a white open-neck blouse. A tiny blue sapphire on a delicate gold chain rested in the crook of the neckline’s V.
Accompanying her down another vast corridor, I stared at more closed doors. Behind them, Renner’s Tool Design team worked on the jigs, fixtures, casts, and molds needed for the new or modified parts developed by the engineers in the R&D wing. Dante suspected that Renner took secret plans out of the plant by hiding them inside his brace. Having just experienced some of the plant’s security measures firsthand I wondered again, how was it possible?
I said, “Research and Design usually work hand in hand, especially during the development phase. But your teams work in separate wings. How do they coordinate what they’re doing?”
Beth frowned then smiled. “Only a reporter would ask something like that.” Not necessarily, I thought, returning Beth’s smile as she elaborated.
“The Research and Design groups operate under an umbrella department called Development Engineering. The department has conference rooms where they get together on the second floor. Oh, and engineers from both groups regularly visit the Loft.”
“The Loft?”
“Uh-huh. All of the masters, or original drawings, are kept up there.” Beth looked over. “You ought to see the place, if you can. It’s a huge room with lots of windows to catch the light. Drafting tables are everywhere, but there are never enough. All engineering changes have to be done there and with the recent increased demand for bombers and our stepped-up production, the changes are constant. The engineers spread out, work on the floor, if they have to.”
She was echoing Twombley’s words. I nodded.
I knew a little something about the arbitrary policies associated with design work from my previous job in an aircraft plant. “What about cabinets with flat files for storing the originals? Are they in the Loft, too?”
Lipstick and Lies Page 16
