Lipstick and Lies

by Margit Liesche

  “But the dictation recording is still inside the safe.”

  “Leave it. The transcription is not critical at the moment.”

  There was a soft rustling sound from a far corner of the office. I thought it might be Renner, shuffling paperwork on his desk.

  “Good. I see you have typed up the engineering briefs,” he added. “I need them for the conference. You may go now, Edith. I should like to review them beforehand.”

  For the first time, the starch in his diction registered. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I also detected a slight accent. Or was it affectation?

  I slid to the edge of my seat, expecting the wondrous manipulator to emerge. She didn’t.

  “Otto…”

  A cushion squeaked and I pictured Renner collapsing into the chair behind his desk. “Yes?”

  “The young lady waiting at my desk is here to see you about the Women in War Work interview. I read the sample…”

  Her voice dropped to a near whisper and it was impossible to catch what she said next. But it wasn’t necessary. I knew whatever she was telling him was favorable.

  “No, no,” Renner said, vehemently, the sudden harsh words careening through the semi-open door, causing me to flinch. “I am too busy now.”

  She began snuffling again. There was a significant pause.

  “All right, all right,” he snapped at last. “But tell her we need to make it quick.”

  Mrs. K, eyes glistening, poked her head around the door. “Come in, Miss Lewis. Mr. Renner will see you now.”

  On wobbly knees, I rose from my chair. “Thanks,” I said, brushing past her.

  Renner sat behind a desk composed of dark wood and simple lines. He had been carrying a leather attaché case when he arrived. Propped open on the desk, it rested between neat paper piles, arranged with military precision. He was studying a document as I entered. “Miss Lewis,” he said, looking up.

  The man was evil to the core and I should have been frightened. Instead I found myself staring back, fascinated. There was a worried look in his deep-set eyes, but then, a German spy operating out of a U.S. war plant would have plenty of concerns—even without Blount’s murder.

  Renner launched out of his high-backed chair. We shook hands and he motioned to a chair facing him.

  Across the desk, he studied me inquiringly. The probing stare was exaggerated by the jaw muscle he reflexively knotted and unknotted. Neither Renner, nor Mrs. K, had bothered turning on the overhead fixture. We sat in natural light created by sun streaming through the partially covered windows. His thin, straight hair shone in the light and my stomach curdled as I registered the color of his eyes. They were green, like mine. Caught in the golden glow, they telegraphed a keen mind. A quick hello-good-bye was my objective, but a token attempt at securing the interviews would be required first.

  “I understand Mrs. Sands is your secretary’s daughter, and that her sister works here also, as an inspector. From what Mrs. K has told me, a story about the sisters seems a good fit for my series. It has that human interest hook that my readers, my many readers, love.”

  Renner had been drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair. He stopped. “I am sorry, but it will not be possible. As you have gathered by now, Mrs. Kovacizki is not only a loyal, excellent secretary, she is also a friend. I should like to make her, as well as her daughters, happy. This, however, is a particularly difficult time for me, er, us. The department is under a great deal of pressure. We, that is, Wanda, cannot spare the time.”

  Mrs. K had left the office door open upon returning to her desk and, in truth, I’d only heard a few typing pecks since I’d sat down. Now I would have sworn I heard the soft rattle of amber beads.

  “You’ll have some disappointed ladies on your hands,” I warned, trying to sound ominous.

  “If I am not permitted to get back to the business at hand, they shall have to face something more devastating than not having their success stories featured in a newspaper.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Renner’s thick lips spread into an uneven smile. The look was either smarmy or remorseful, it was impossible to tell which. “What do I mean? I mean that an interview with Mrs. Sands is out of the question. My department’s work is more important to the war effort than your story. Perhaps another time. I am sorry.”

  I leapt from my seat. Renner stood, as well. He extended his hand across his desk. I reached to shake it. A book case covered almost the entire wall behind him. Over his shoulder, a glamorous headshot of Clara stared back at me. It occurred to me that Renner might discover I had spoken with his wife before we met. Perhaps I was thinking too deeply, but if that were to happen and I had not mentioned meeting her, he might become suspicious.

  “That’s a striking photo,” I said. “Your wife?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  “What a coincidence. I spoke with her this morning. At the Club with Mr. Vivikovsky.”

  Renner’s eyes shifted. “You saw Clara this morning at the Club?” he asked, repeating what I’d already said. “With V-V?”

  “Uh-huh, I’m staying there. Female factory workers make up only one of the segments I’m covering in my columns. Ladies who perform volunteer work in women’s clubs are another. I stopped by the salon and Mr. Vivikovsky was there, canceling a hair appointment for his wife.” I drew an involuntary breath as a vision of the couple in the salon’s back room flashed to mind. V-V’s hand had been on Clara’s shoulder when I’d barged in. The gesture had seemed intimate and I still wasn’t certain what had been going on between the two. But I hadn’t intended waving any flag in front of her husband, either.

  My cheeks felt hot as I looked into the keen eyes of the enemy spy who was presently trying to read something in my face. Or in my mind. “Do you know Mr. Vivikovsky?” I inquired hastily.

  Renner’s reply was quick as well. “No. No I do not. I am due at a critical meeting shortly. I have papers to review beforehand.” He rounded his desk and began escorting me to the door. “Mrs. Kovacizki has the number for the Club. She will call you when the time is right to come back for the interview. Interviews,” he said, correcting himself loudly so she was sure to hear.

  The telephone rang, preventing her from grilling me when I reentered the anteroom. At the same time, Beth popped in. “Ready for your escort?” she asked.

  Waving to Mrs. K, I whispered my thanks. “See you soon,” I added, scooting out the door following Beth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I left one sticky situation for another. After dropping off the film of Renner’s office and asking the boys to begin the developing process right away, I went to the County Jail.

  On the sixth floor, I was met by the stout, sour-faced guard with the bad teeth who had been on duty when Dante, posing as a lawyer for the Detroit Free Press, had appeared with my release papers. Ordinarily, a caller would be deposited in the visitor’s area with the prisoner sequestered in an adjacent room and communication taking place through a small window set in a barrier wall. Agent Dante, believing the Countess would feel less constrained talking in her private digs, had fixed it so that I could meet with her there. If the matron was curious about my return and the unique circumstances surrounding it, she did not let on. She turned and began leading me to my encore performance.

  From the catwalk outside the common area, I glimpsed the Countess seated at one of the tables embroidering a ruffly white cloth. Near her a mound of threads, small skeins in assorted colors, covered the tabletop. The matron turned the key and tugged a lever. The barred door shot across the threshold. The Countess looked up with an expectant expression. Her eyes, alive with the anticipation of who might have come to visit, flashed with anger. Stabbing the threaded needle into the fabric, she leapt up and flung it to the table.

  “You,” she snarled. “The phony jewel thief. Why have you come? Who sent you?”

  “Hold your horses,” I said in a low voice. “I’ll explain, soon as we’re alone.”

 
; She followed my gaze to the matron, who, correctly reading her signal to leave, made a show of jangling her keys. “I’ll be just outside.” She nodded to the catwalk door. “Holler when you’re ready.”

  The door closed with a ratcheting clank. I turned to the Countess. “You’re right. I’m not a thief, I’m a reporter. The inmate thing, it was a ruse to get a story.”

  She lifted her eyebrows in mock surprise. “In-deed. Well, well, well.”

  She circled the table so it stood between us. She sat down, sidesaddle, on the bench. Uncertain how long—or if—I would be welcome, I remained standing.

  A pack of Camels was buried in the crush of colored threads. Sweeping the mound aside, she picked it up. Her dead-eye gaze remained on me as she plunged a cigarette into her holder and lit up. “Ah-nd so-o, you are a reporter. A gutsy reporter,” she said, smoke escaping from the sides of her mouth. “And just what sort of gossip would bring a poorly disguised inmate—now a decked-out snoop—back to a god-forsaken place like this?”

  My palms, even my fingers, felt damp with perspiration as I dug into the manila envelope I’d brought with me. Pulling out my faux Women in War Work article about Mad Max, I dropped it in front of her. “I’m not after gossip, I’m after true stories. Here, take a look.”

  She scanned the piece, looking more than a little wary.

  “I’m staying at the Cosmos Club, where you lectured,” I added. “There’s still a lot of buzz about you and about your, er, arrest, circulating among the members.”

  The Countess arched an eyebrow. “Buzz?”

  “They’re curious about why you became a spy and, to be frank, how you managed to carry on with a fiancé and your German associates by day, then, by night, dish the dirt to the Feds.”

  “You managed to lie to me,” she retorted sharply. “I freely admit to doing what was necessary to survive and to having the ice in my veins necessary for carrying out such tasks. This is what happens when you have no one to fall back on. And what, pray tell, is the rationale behind your deception?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter on assignment,” I said, grasping for the right mix of innocence and gall. “I got the idea for an interview with you, a female spy and counter agent. I imagined the lead. The Dark Side of Women in War Work: The Account of a Reluctant Spy. Now there’s a provocative story.”

  “One that would boost the sales of your newspapers,” she observed slyly.

  A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Ah-nnd who should be credited for the brilliant notion of sending you in here as a jewel thief?”

  It was tempting to give credit where credit was due, but exposing Agent Connelly was not an option. “Uh, me,” I said. “But that’s why I’ve come back. It occurred to me if I disclosed my true motive you would recognize the advantage and help me with my story.”

  “Advantage?”

  “Yes. I’m giving you a chance to tell your side of things. You said the FBI lied to you. Why be misunderstood? Why let others exploit you? Tell me the truth, so we can tell the world.”

  She flicked a lengthy cap of ashes into a sardine-can ashtray. “You make it sound simple.”

  “It is.” I snatched the Free Press article from the manila envelope. I shoved the paper across the table. “It’s painful to admit, but it’s gotten so competitive that some reporters will sensationalize an account or make short shrift of checking for accuracy before running an item. This piece, for example.”

  She gave the article a fleeting glance. “Hmpff.”

  Her blasé response was the flip side of what I had expected. Headlined As a Spy the “Countess” Did All Right for Herself, the story was nothing more than a glorified account of the clothing, jewelry, and other personal items the Countess had accumulated during her spy heyday.

  In the outer-wear category, the reporter claimed, besides the mink coat she’d brought to jail, she owned a sable cape, three mink stoles, a silver fox jacket, two Persian lamb coats, a Persian lamb muff, and four mink hats. In the evening wear department, her hoard included twenty-nine dresses and two genuine lace mantillas. For daytime, seven suits in fabrics ranging from tweed to velvet. To match the varied ensembles, an assortment of handbags and gloves.

  The inventory journalist had even deemed the two-way stretch girdles owned by the Countess newsworthy. He felt “compelled,” he said, to mention the “unmentionables” because foundation garments “have been practically unobtainable for several years now.”

  The writer concluded with the observation that the Countess was in for a long prison term, making this contention when she had not yet, in fact, admitted any culpability in the indictment brought against her.

  I had been counting on the shoddy excuse for journalism to stir her passions, get her dander up. I was disappointed. “When I was here before, you said you wanted to tell your side of things. What better way to do it than by giving your adversaries a taste of their own medicine? You know, fight back in the press. It would be ironic, don’t you think?”

  The FBI’s ex-counterspy lifted a neatly folded pillowcase with an embroidery design stamped across its hem. The square of cotton had been hiding a stash of news clippings.

  “That is nothing. Hoover’s agents, who have purposefully stayed away for three days now, had a matron deliver these items just this morning.” She selected a society column from the top of the stack. “Look.”

  I skimmed the breezy opening.

  Dripping real and fake jewelry, the vivacious and smartly gowned Countess endeared herself to Detroit’s upper crust as lecturer and hostess. (She served sherry with a dash of British accent on the side!)

  “And this,” the former charm consultant said, thrusting a second item my way.

  Rather haughty was Grace Buchanan-Dineen, bogus countess, when she was arraigned in Federal Court under charges of being head of a German spy ring. Her regal bearing and affected mannerisms of European culture made her a hit with Detroit club women while she allegedly garnered secrets of local war plants for the German Gestapo.

  A photograph accompanied the column. The clip trembled in her hand. “They have placed a shot of me next to that harlot spy, Mata Hari.”

  The Countess was featured in a conservative dress, tastefully detailed at the neck and sleeves with piping. Beside her, her body seductively arched in a belly-dancer’s pose, the Great War’s Mata Hari was scantily clad in harem clothes. I shook my head sympathetically.

  She swiveled her head, dragged on her cigarette, and eyed me harshly. “I am being victimized by a hostile press. Tell me, why should I believe that you will not do the same?”

  I was feeling more than a little victimized myself. My eyes flicked to the ceiling, hoping to find an electronic bug to glare at. The Bureau had already isolated my mark and made her desperate for a confidant. That had been help enough. Why had they overplayed their hand? What was the point of agitating her with the malicious articles?

  “Those articles are not my handiwork,” I said, pulling my gaze back to her. “Why do you think they’re giving you such trash?”

  The possibilities unfurled in a single breath. “They want me to know the public has no sympathy for me. That the American people do not perceive me as an agent of the FBI, but as an enemy spy and a ringleader. They want to make it clear that, until I capitulate, they will ignore my demands while encouraging the press to fan the fire of the public’s hysteria.”

  She tapped the inventory article. “One of the matrons, not the sour bitch who was just here, but a cheery one who wants me to think she is my friend, confided that it was my fiancé who provided the press with this list.”

  I gasped. “Butler betrayed you?”

  She shook her head. “No, never. The matron was lying, trying to trick me.”

  “But why would she do that?”

  The Countess looked at me in disbelief. “So that I would fall deeper into despair. So that I would feel entirely alone, completely vulnerable.”

  “But how can you be sure?
If Mr. Butler didn’t give the press the list, who did?”

  “Who do you think?” she sneered. “The very same government representatives who provided me with all those newsworthy items in the first place. The same high-minded officials who directed me to ‘dress nattily’ and pose as a trés continental refugee so that I might mesmerize audiences as the self-styled lady of charm.”

  “The Abwehr?”

  The Countess raised her eyes to the ceiling. “No. Whatever money my comrades managed to send was confiscated. I was working for the FBI, remember? They doled out the funds.”

  The Bureau must have a big budget, I thought. Besides the furs, clothing, and unmentionables already described, the Countess had accumulated an extensive jewelry collection, including scores of earrings, rings, bracelets, watches, pendants, lockets, and pins. Liberty had once been close to acquiring a similar arsenal of special spy “weaponry” for her assignment in China. The errant thought left my brain as quickly as it had entered.

  “Why would the FBI give a list like that to the press?”

  “You mean, besides making me an object of ridicule?” She stood up. Arms crossed over her chest, she began to pace. “They want me to know that besides being omnipotent, they are deadly serious.” She rubbed her forearms with her hands as though warding off a sudden chill. “Espionage carries a maximum sentence of death. The other day, a column arrived letting me know that the ultimate penalty is being considered in my case.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. The U.S. District Attorney had announced that he would not seek the death penalty, admitting that they simply didn’t have the evidence warranting it. Dante had shown me a clip on the decision when I’d first arrived. Tempted to put her mind at ease, I resisted. Dante and his team were purposely feeding her the misinformation. I had to trust that they knew what they were doing.

  “Ah, but what does it matter?” She slid back onto the bench opposite me. “I do not have the will left to survive long-term confinement. If I escape the hangman but am sent to prison, my death will be certain regardless.”