Lipstick and Lies (3 page)

My arms pumped with my pace, the beads dangling from the bangle I wore hidden beneath my sleeve fluttering. Miss C insisted we play up our femininity with makeup, but Army Air Forces regs had put the kibosh on adorning ourselves with jewelry. This bracelet, though, had special meaning, for it belonged to Liberty Leach, my roommate at intelligence school. On my last day of training, saying our goodbyes, we vowed to meet again soon. To seal the deal, I’d traded my Confirmation cross for the expandable silver bangle, a keepsake from Liberty’s days in China. She’d explained that over there mothers slipped them on their children’s ankles, letting the beads’ musical tones inform them of their offspring’s whereabouts. Wouldn’t Liberty love to know where her bracelet was now?

“Finished,” Dante called from the car.

I swiped damp palms on my pants legs and pinched the bangle for luck.

We followed a winding interior byway to the main gate, pausing long enough for the guard to check us off his register. Dante eased into the flow of traffic on Michigan Avenue, the main road from Ypsilanti to Detroit. A neatly folded
Detroit Free Press
rested on the seat between us. He patted it.

“Here, check the front page. Story’s a few days old, but the background will help.”

I plucked the paper from the seat. It had been weeks since I’d read about the case. Two of the four men accused had already pled guilty, but six others, including the Countess, had not yet entered pleas. It was expected they would be arraigned on an espionage conspiracy charge sometime in the following week. Meanwhile, the entire group was being held in county jail under the jurisdiction of the FBI.

Countess Buchanan-Dineen’s picture, a glamour shot, appeared to have been lifted directly from the Society Page. She looked into the camera, smiling brightly, her chin resting on the heel of her palm, a cigarette clasped loosely between fingers loaded down with rings. An upswept hairdo and more posh jewelry, dangling at her neck and earlobes, completed the oh-so-sophisticated look. The stylized photo contrasted sharply with the others, mostly grim head shots, in the composite. It seemed especially odd alongside the photo of Mama Leonhardt’s husband, Carl Leonhardt, staring fiercely into the camera, the sleeve of his Nazi uniform ringed with a swastika-emblazoned armband.

I returned the paper to the seat. “You’ve got a lot riding on this one. First case under the new Espionage Act, right?” The landmark statute had been cited in the article. “Two have pled guilty. Think the rest will follow suit?”

“That’s our hope. And we need bullet-proof convictions. It’s been a long ordeal, nearly two years. Guilty pleas would save the government additional expense. Arraignment’s in a few days. We’ll know more then.”

“Two years?”

Dante shifted his weight, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead, damp from the heat. “Hoover’s adamant we build a solid case prior to arrest.”

I nodded. Before the war, the FBI had engaged in guerrilla warfare against underworld gangsters, the unsavory tactics earning the agency a reputation for being overzealous and unsophisticated in its information-gathering techniques. Now the Bureau’s mission had shifted to domestic intelligence and Hoover had changed the FBI’s approach. Brute force and psychological intimidation were out; legal investigative methods and by-the-book conduct were in.

Dante stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “An informant came forward after we arrested Buchanan-Dineen and her gang. Identified a sleeper spy we missed.”

“Who?” I felt an icy chill. “The corpse in the garage, Walter Blount?”

Dante lifted an eyebrow. “Guess again.”

Didn’t have to. I’d already uncovered the technical drawing in Blount’s pocket. Why would a guard have something like that on him unless he was a spy? Still, it was Dante’s game. I rolled again. “The man with the limp back at the factory?”

“Bingo. Name’s Otto Renner.”

Renner started as a draftsman at Consolidated Aircraft, the original manufacturer of the Lib. By the time Willow Run got underway he’d been in the field long enough to be considered an industry expert. Constructing a Lib involved more than the application of high-volume production principles, and the Ford team began drafting a pool of professionals from Consolidated, Renner among them. His current position, Supervisor of Tool Design, gave him access to top-secret blueprints. The FBI’s source claimed he took them home at night, copied them onto tracing paper, then returned them the next day. He’d been engaged in the subterfuge for several months.

I stared, stunned. “But security is airtight these days. To get plans out of the factory, he’d have to bypass Plant protection. How?” I thought of Walter Blount. One way would be if you were quick with a knife.

Dante offered more alternatives. “Trusting colleagues. Greedy guards. Payoffs…”

Was he aware that Blount had been carrying a Top Secret document? Asking would mean admitting that I’d pried open the envelope. Why advertise? If he didn’t already know about the drawing, he would soon enough. Besides, at the moment, Renner was up to bat.

“B-but still,” I protested. “You don’t just march out of a war plant with secret drawings. There are lots of checkpoints, lots of inspectors…”

“Renner has a bum leg. Wears a brace. This part is working theory only, but we suspect he rolls up the drawings and carries them out wrapped around his leg under the brace. Or maybe inside the lining of his suit.” Dante rubbed a hand over his suddenly weary expression. “The inventory of what Renner’s taken out shows nothing critical yet. He’s under surveillance.”

“Why not arrest him?”

“Blount’s testimony was key. Without it, to make a conviction stick, we’ll need to catch Renner with the goods. We want the big boys, besides.”

“Blount? The dead guard? He was your stoolie?”

“Uh-huh. And early on, Renner’s accomplice.”

I shook my head. “So what happened? Renner realized Blount was squealing on him? Killed him?”

“We’ve had a tail on Renner, remember? He was home with his wife. He couldn’t know Blount tipped us off, either. It’s been so hush-hush we’ve let only one senior Ford executive in on the operation.”

“But his associate’s been murdered. Won’t he get nervous, try to bolt?”

Dante felt for the cigarette behind his ear, but he had already returned it to its pack. His hand drifted to the pocket containing the smokes and rested there. “We’re going to lay low, wait him out, long as possible. Plant Security will handle the initial soft inquiry. They know to steer clear of his department as long as possible, but they can’t stay away forever. Once the heat moves in, sure, he may try to skip. Won’t get anywhere though. We’ll nab him.”

I posed the big question. “And my role in all this?”

“We need someone to befriend the Countess, find out if she’s been holding out about Renner or any additional spies who might be helping him. We’d especially like leads to Renner’s handler.”

I was excited, but I was also puzzled. “But she’s your agent. Why not just ask her yourself?”

“Buchanan-Dineen
was
our agent.”

He went on, disclosing that after the FBI had turned the Countess they wired her apartment and tailed her everywhere. Numerous trysts had been recorded, including her meetings with Dr. Thomas, the U.S.-born gynecologist. Thomas had purportedly furnished her with reports on manufacturing facilities as well as provided the hard-to-get chemicals needed for secret ink. Renner, however, had not been seen with her. Nor was he listed in the book of contacts they’d confiscated from the Countess.

“But you’ve got her in custody. Why not just ask what she knows about Renner direct?”

“We’re in…Well, let’s just say, we’re in a delicate position. At the arraignment, if Thomas pleads not guilty, there’ll be a trial. We’ll need her as a witness. Our key witness. So we’ve been doing all we can to keep her happy.” Dante ran a finger under his collar, loosening it. “Trouble is she’s slightly annoyed with us at the moment.”

“Annoyed?”

“She didn’t expect to be serving time.”

“Why? Was she promised a deal?”

“In her dreams.”

Surprised by Dante’s biting tone, I glanced over. But we had reached the Federal Building. A broad marble staircase climbing to an expansive columned portico defined its entrance. Dante slowed and turned into a driveway. The Ford’s nose dipped as it dove into an underground garage.

At a small guard house, a security man examined his credentials then released a metal arm. We traversed the gaping concrete space beyond, the Ford’s tires squealing with each new turn. At a fleet of identical vehicles, occupying a series of numbered slots, we parked.

“Where were we?” Dante asked, looking over at me.

I recapped. “Otto Renner, who works at Willow Run, also steals bomber designs and plans for the Nazis. Walter Blount, a Plant protection man and Renner’s helpmate, was the corpse in the factory repair garage. You don’t know who killed Blount or who’s running Renner, but you suspect the spy-turned-counterspy, Countess Grace Buchanan-Dineen, has insider knowledge. If she has re-crossed the line and is, in fact, a triple agent, you want me to somehow get her to disclose whatever she might be holding back.”

Dante smiled. “Bravo, Lewis. We’ve arranged for you to meet her, later today.”

I smiled back. “A jail visit? Sure. What’s my disguise? Social worker? Parole officer?”

“We need you inside.”

“An inmate?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be close by.”

I swallowed. “Ahh…and where exactly will I be doing time?”

“The Hole.” He pulled the key from the ignition and glanced at me. “Oh, sorry. Wayne County Jail. Women’s Unit.”

If the reference to a women’s unit was supposed to make me feel better, it didn’t. “Now?”

“Soon as we nail down your cover.”

Chapter Three

My eyes flew open as I tried to piece together where I was.

It was the morning after a long, restless night and I was lying on a bunk in a cell of the Women’s Division of the Wayne County Jail on Clinton Street between St. Antoine and Beaubien in downtown Detroit. Last evening, following my briefing, Special Agent Dante delivered me to the jail’s property clerk, who had traded my street clothes for a dark blue jumpsuit. A stocky matron was summoned and I was escorted to a cell, cheek to jowl with the accused spy’s.

The cells were part of a cellblock located in a remote wing of the sixth floor. The Countess had been isolated as part of a plan to protect her from her former sister agents. She had spent five months with the German loyalists, getting to know them and pumping them for information before switching sides. Now, instead of keeping house in the cozy bungalows where they had once conspired with her, the ex-cohorts were housed in the not-so-cozy confines of a separate cellblock at the opposite end of our wing. Stripped of their freedom and dignity, they pined for revenge.

Segregating the Countess might keep her safe from physical harm, but it could not protect her from verbal abuse. Last night, following lock-down, I’d been initiated into the means the ex-ring members had discovered for delivering their taunts.

First, there had been the ratcheting clamor of cell doors rolling then clanging shut in unison, a sound I shall never forget. A sort of shell-shocked silence followed, then lights-out. Later, under the cloak of night, when few matrons stood guard and inmates’ voices could not be singled out, the hushed sound of men cooing and calling from their cells below began filtering up through the inch-wide ventilation space between the cell floors and the back wall. From our floor above the men’s, the women, in turn, taunted and teased. The off-color repartee, hesitant at first, soon grew heated and coarse. Barren cement-block walls and concrete floors served as the ideal conductor, enhancing the pitch and volume. My skin crawled as I recalled the bombardment of ugly jabs meant for the Countess contributed by her sister spies. “Snitch,” “skunk,” “rat,” were among the milder terms. A few guttural German expressions, none sounding too nice, made it into the mix as well.

In the darkest hours of the night, as the bursts of laughter became frenetic and the cries of desperation and anger turned haunting, my nerves had grown so frayed that I bolted upright in bed. Eventually I had settled into a semi-seated position, remaining that way until the first light of dawn, when the lights had been thrown on.

I was rearranging myself, trying to get comfortable, maybe catch another wink or two of sleep, when a matron barked, “Up and at ’em,” and someone tripped the doors.

I shot from my bunk.

The County Jail did a brisk business. Ordinarily, the four cells comprising our cellblock would have contained two prisoners each. Security for the FBI’s star witness meant that only two hand-picked inmates had been assigned to her section. I scurried into line-up. This was my first encounter with the women. I noted that one of the Countess’ cellmates was mulatto, the other was Caucasian.

A barrel-chested guard doled out dishcloth-sized towels, ordering us to disrobe, while a second matron stood eagle-eyed slightly apart from our pitiful formation. “All right, listen up,” the puffed-chested guard bellowed. “I’m gonna escort you, one by one, to the open stall at the end of the cellblock for a shower. Who’s gonna be first?”

The Countess volunteered. She marched past; shoving reserve aside, I gaped.

A German agent, I had thought, would appear hardened, imposing, and intimidating. Yet her bird-like frame, carrying probably less than a hundred pounds, looked as though it would collapse under the weight. And her shoulders, well, they drooped pathetically, as though the weight of where she was and what she had done were more than she could bear.

We each had private cells. We made our beds, scrubbed our floors and toilets. At a signal from the matron, we lined up to turn in our cleaning gear.

“I am harboring a book beneath my jail costume,” my mark said, falling in behind me. “Would you, perhaps, care to borrow it during our break?”

Jail costume?
Talking in line was a punishable offense; a belly laugh surely would have been worse. I swallowed and turned slightly. “Of course,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. “How kind of you to offer. Thank you.”

I might be a fledgling operative, but I was not so naïve as to believe she was being kind simply to be kind. Dante had warned me. I was the new kid on the block, and she would want to test me. The offer of the book, I suspected, was step one.

The matron collected the scrub tools from the inmate in front of me. She dropped them into a receptacle. The tools hit home with a crash and I moved with the distraction. My hands slipped behind me and the Countess pressed a thin leather-bound volume into my waiting grip. The cover held her body heat. I slid the slim book through a gap in the front of my jumpsuit. Her warmth transferred to my skin, giving me goose bumps.

“It’s my bible,” she said softly.

Inwardly I groaned. The thought of reading religious materials—in jail or otherwise—repulsed me, for I had spent my youth treading in a sea of them.

Back in my cell, I discovered she had not been speaking literally. The “bible,” actually a self-improvement guide, was titled
Personality Unlimited
. Leafing through the contents, I found chapter headings such as
Make-up, Dress, Manners, and Character Improvement
. Below, paragraphs of fine print covered the proper use of lotions, potions, necklines, hemlines, “may I’s,” “shall we’s,” and even “how to tell white lies.” I shook my head. Even with nothing else to read, the book held about as much appeal to me as pickled pigs’ feet.

“
Never say whoa in the mud.”
Now there was a tip I could relate to. My Uncle Chance said it all the time. And of course he was right. Surely I could learn something about my quarry from studying her guide. I flipped to the chapter on make-up and began reading about skin care, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier.

***

The muffled sounds of two women engaged in conversation next door nudged me from my nap. After first checking to be sure the giant cockroach I’d glimpsed earlier hadn’t returned, I arranged my pillow against the wall, leaned against it, and tuned in to the exchange.

“If I may be permitted to say once more, it is not your derriere, Bill-lay, that you must emphasize.”

“Say again?” The puzzled, sassy voice was that of Billie Workaday, one of the spy’s two select cellmates. Dante had said that Billie operated under an alias inspired by the Queen of the Blues, having decided that in reinventing herself she could also change her destiny. I could relate. For I had taken a name prompted in part by someone famous, too.

“You have more to offer,” the Countess continued, “than your Rubenesque—how shall I say—uh, posterior.”

“Countess, honey, no need to be uppity here. If you’re talkin’ about my tub’a lard ass just say so. In real English,
please
, so’s I can understand, okay?”

Zeroing in on what the Countess had to say had been easy work so far. Canadian by birth, she spoke with a broad “A” accent impossible to confuse with the others. I smiled as several seconds of silence passed. The effusive Countess, fluent in French, German, Hungarian, and who knew how many other languages, appeared to be having a devil of a time finding the plain English demanded by Billie.

“All of us possess at least one outstanding characteristic,” she said, at last. “The idea is to drah-matize that one gift, and the others will take care of themselves.”

Billie sounded lost. “Un-huh…”

“Yes? Do you mean,
yes?
”

Billie released an audible sigh.

The Countess and Billie made an interesting pair: a prostitute and whiz on the ins and outs of life behind bars contrasted with a woman born into privilege and convent-school educated in France who considered herself an intellectual and a gifted orator. So much so that she had arrived in Detroit posing as a professional lecturer. At ease with position and wealth, she directed her first assault on the city’s social set. Easy prey for her arsenal of fine clothing, jewelry, and charm, awed by her knowledge of European centers and culture, the ranks parted. Hostesses vied for her presence; society pages blazed with all the news about her every movement.

At the same time the Countess was busy conquering the social front, she also began appearing before women’s groups. The Birmingham League of Catholic Women, the Colony Club, and the Charm School at the YWCA were some of the organizations she dazzled. Initial presentations covered the life of women in war-torn Europe and the use of ersatz products. Her reputation grew and she began giving chatty talks on foreign affairs. “The Oppression of War,” “Into the Light of Freedom,” and, prophetically, “I Saw the Nazis in Central Europe,” were a few of the titles Dante had mentioned. When she expanded her programs into advising the city’s smart-set on how to increase their personal allure, almost overnight she became known as Detroit’s most popular “charm consultant.”

This ability to mix it up with the elite, get them to let down their guard, was part of a bigger scheme for collecting confidential personnel and production information for Hitler. Luckily, before she could exploit her strategically developed contacts, the FBI had interceded. She went from enlightening nabobs to bestowing tutorials on sister inmates.

Billie spoke again. This time her voice, still earthy, had airs. “That is
co
-rrect, ma’am. It is ‘yes’ that I mean. But distinguish myself? What for?”

The former consultant cleared her throat. “You have many competitors in your, uhm, chosen profession, correct?”

“Un-huh, I mean,
yes
. At times the streets, especially the stop-and-go corners, get elbow to elbow.”

There was a pause, during which I envisioned the Countess scrutinizing Billie’s face.

“You should ac-centuate your eyes, for example. The upward tilt at the outer corners makes them divinely exotic. Hmm, yes. We must reshape the brows to emphasize their slant, perhaps smooth a little dark rouge near the sockets, finish up with mascara on the tips of the lashes—and voila! Your eyes will appear larger, more dramatic.”

“And…” Billie’s voice held both a note of hope and uncertainty.

“
And
, you will stand out from the others. You will be remembered for your remarkable eyes. You will excel, attract more business than all your other sisters combined.”

“A-men! Billie, you must to try what she say. Big success mean you not be living under thumb of pimp no more.”

This forward-thinking suggestion came from a new voice, Irina Popov. Irina was from Russia and, like Billie, the path she had followed to Detroit and eventually to jail had been paved with hardship. A band of Holy Rollers had saved her, so her arrest statement claimed.

There was a pause, followed by the rustling of cellophane, then the striking of a match. A sensitive snout was one of my outstanding features. I detected the smoke of their cigarettes almost before they lit them.

Up to this point, the Countess’ tone had reverberated with enthusiasm. Now it turned petulant. “Of course, as we have no make-up, an application lesson will have to wait until we are out of here.” She sighed. “Meanwhile, we will request some tweezers from the matron.”

I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. The way she put it, requesting an item from a matron was no more complicated than ringing up room service. But while I liked her verve, the time had come to unmask the Countess and delve into the part of her core that I could never like. Nudged by the metallic sounds of breakfast trays being handed through a food slot in the cellblock’s steel door, I rolled from my bunk.

Three metal picnic tables were bolted to the cement floor of the common area as if someone might actually try to walk away with them. The Countess, Billie, and Irina went directly for what I assumed was their favorite table while I, unsure of myself, placed my tray on another. The Countess, without hesitating, said, “Please, won’t you join us, Miss Lewis.”

With little time to rehearse a cover story, it was decided I would use my own name to avoid getting tripped up using a false one. The Countess, with a grand sweep of her arm, directed me to sit on the bench directly across from her. Billie and Irina, appearing to resent the intrusion, ignored me while I slid between the bench and the table.

“Girls
—”
The Countess’ voice strained with patience and good manners. “Being kind in one’s relations with others is the simplest definition of charm. This is our chance to practice.” Friendly, albeit strained “hellos” followed.

Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, tepid milk, a slice of dark bread, sugar, and coffee. Silence prevailed as we nibbled at the food and I slyly observed the others. I had been briefed about them, too.

Billie of the exotic eyes and Rubenesque rump had full lips, a head of wiry auburn-dyed curls, and flawless, milky-coffee skin. Tall and thin, Irina had fuzzy dark blond hair, worn medium-length, and a putty-colored complexion marred by small pink acne scars.

I looked over the edge of my mug at the Countess. The image was a far cry from the glamour shot I’d seen in the newspaper clip. This morning, absent the jewelry and make-up, her face reflecting the strain of a month-long stint in jail, with the unhealthy pallor of her skin and her scraggly hair, she was downright disappointing.

She sensed my stare. Lifting her chin, she angled her head slightly to one side, drawing her swan-like neck taut. The pose was practiced, I thought, intended to show her best side to the house lights, the effort wasted in jail where even the aura flooding from ceiling lamps was cast with gray.

Her regal bearing in place, she latched cool blue eyes onto mine. “And what are you in for, Miss Lewis,” she added as though suddenly recalling her manners, “if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“Stealing jewelry.”

Billie was impressed. “You a jewel thief?”