Lipstick and Lies (18 page)

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 re-entered 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.

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

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
tr
és 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.”

Her face was so forlorn I reached across the table and placed my hand over hers. “You’ll make it. You’re strong. You’ve survived more than most people could already. I’ll tell you what else.” I waited until she was looking at me. “If you give me the scoop about the FBI’s promise to let you off scot-free, I’ll write it up and the world will read about their duplicity in my paper.”

She yanked her hand out from under mine. “Do you think I’m so desperate as to believe such a thing could happen? Your editor would never print something negative about the Justice Department.” She shook her head. “No, it is no good. I am up against the wizards of propaganda. Even if by some miracle your paper would agree to do it, the authorities would simply use their power to stir up more publicity meant to destroy me and my fiancé. You and your editor might make the headlines as well.”

I nodded. “Lousy idea, you’re right. We don’t want to antagonize the FBI unnecessarily. But there’s another way to present your side. The personal profile. Tell me, so I can tell our readers, why you became a spy.”

Her shoulders heaved. “Ahh, more sensationalism to help you sell more copies.”

“No. It’s called winning the sympathy vote. Making publicity work
for
you instead of against you.”

She took a long moment to think. Standing, she picked up the overflowing ashtray and began walking to her cell. “It seems there is no other choice. You are my only link to the outside.”

“Hold on, I’ll need to take notes.” I removed a stenographer’s pad and retractable lead pencil from the envelope. Pencil poised, I suggested, “Why not start at the beginning. When and why did you decide to become a spy?”

“It wasn’t a professional decision,” she retorted. “The turn of events goes back to my family—how I was raised, the death of my Papa…” Bringing the ashtray with her, she resumed her seat across from me, continuing to talk while lighting up.

The Countess was born in Toronto. Her great-great-grandfather, whose title she used, was the last Count de Neen of Brittany in France. After convent school, and following in the tradition of her European peers, she traveled extensively, taking in various cultures throughout the Continent, acquiring an appreciation for art, jewels, and fashion. Learning to be an engaging conversationalist, discussing current events and world news at fashionable dinner parties, was central to her studies as well.