Lipstick and Lies

by Margit Liesche

  “Nothing much.” The name was familiar. I couldn’t recall any particulars.

  “It’s a club for German immigrants. Detroit had a very active chapter.”

  He went on to explain that, pre-war, there were Bund chapters all across the country. The clubs had come under the FBI’s scrutiny after it was learned that the organization was being run from Berlin. “Our field office hit pay dirt when a membership roster fell into the hands of one of our agents. A real eye-popper. Member names had been divided into four groups: Youth, Storm Troopers, Women’s Auxiliary, League of Businessmen. Later, evidence of secret paramilitary training sessions, including drill and rifle practice, surfaced from another source.”

  “Past tense, right? These Bunds don’t exist today.”

  Dante gave a thin-lipped smile. “Our discussions with the Pastorius boys alerted us to several underground factions.”

  “Operation Pastorius—” I whispered.

  About a year ago, eight German saboteurs had been put ashore by U-boats off the Atlantic coast. Armed with an elaborate plan to cripple America’s industrial might, the agents also toted a stockpile of high explosives and thousands of dollars in cash. In a break for us, two of them decided to betray the mission, code-named Operation Pastorius, and the entire team was captured within days of its arrival. A speedy trial before a military commission followed. The turncoat-duo drew life plus thirty years; the remaining six were executed.

  “One of the Pastorius agents had a handkerchief with the name and address of Mama Leonhardt on it, written in invisible ink.”

  I was lost again. “Mama Leonhardt?”

  “A German alien, part of the band of spies we rounded up a month ago. Press dubbed this one the Motor City Spy Ring. Heard of it?”

  “You bet.”

  A month ago, FBI agents had charged eight Detroiters with conspiring to sell U.S. war secrets to Germany. In addition to two German aliens and five naturalized citizens, a prominent American-born Detroit gynecologist, Dr. Fred W. Thomas, was arrested. The treasonous act made the headlines in papers everywhere. Much as it had bothered me to learn that an American was part of the ring, I was equally astonished at discovering that four women, including a countess, had been incarcerated.

  I remembered the juicy disclosures about the Countess, the gang’s leader, disparagingly referred to as the Motor City Mata Hari.

  Fresh out of Ast X, Berlin’s Harvard of spy schools, the Countess had arrived in the States with Detroit and its burgeoning defense plants her target. Her plans unraveled when a letter to her from Berlin, containing a secret ink message, was discovered by Allied censors. Confronted by the FBI, she’d agreed to act as their counteragent, assisting them in weeding out Nazi spies.

  “I read an article about it a few weeks ago. Wasn’t the woman who ran the ring a countess?”

  Dante sneered. “It’s Miss Grace Buchanan-Dineen. The bogus title was part of the allure meant to distract her victims from her real goal—organizing other sympathizers and learning about our war production by cozying up to industrialist socialites.”

  “And Buchanan-Dineen—” my heart raced, just saying the spy’s name—“is she the focus of my assignment?”

  Something over my shoulder had diverted Dante’s attention. I turned and saw the dark, sturdy-looking man with the thick lips and thin brown hair who’d captivated Miss C when I’d been with her in the Ford. Had Dante deliberately positioned us so that he might covertly observe the man’s exit? He was descending the staircase. Who was he? Miss C had spoken in the plural when she’d said German spies were operating out of this plant. Was he, like Blount, a secret agent?

  The man followed the main sidewalk, cutting left at the end of the path and passing the Ford without so much as a glance. I turned back. Dante’s mouth formed a grim line. “Who was that?” I whispered. “Someone involved in your—our—case?”

  A few beats passed. A barely perceptible nod followed.

  He glanced at his wrist. “Let’s go.”

  I waited on the sidewalk while Dante used the radio. I heard raspy static, then the faint sounds of a garbled voice on the other end of the mike. His broad back and shoulders shielded me from what was being said.

  I paced the sidewalk, mulling over the situation ahead. The Countess, a trained spy, would be wily and cagey while I, a secret service novice, would be trying to trip her up. My stride quickened. And what about the factory spy? An enemy operative buried inside a government-owned plant would have nerves of steel. How would I deal with him? And the dead guard…Was his killer on the lam nearby?

  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-D
ineen 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 recrossed 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-o
ut. 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.