Lipstick and Lies

by Margit Liesche

  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.

  The first hiccup in her idyllic existence occurred when her parents separated in the early 1930s. Her father moved first to London, then Paris, before settling in Budapest, his daughter with him as his hostess and travel companion.

  “And what a magical time it was,” she said, her tone becoming nostalgic, as if she were slipping back to Europe in the early ’30s. “So many invitations, such fascinating people, and, ah, what stimulating discussions. It was at a dinner gathering in London, actually, that I became interested in the pro-fascist Mosley group. Nearly everyone in our crowd was involved…” She sighed and her expression turned dreamy over the political debates that went on during the gatherings in their Budapest apartment overlooking the Danube.

  Another time I would have rolled my eyes or had trouble trying not to gag while listening to such a pretentious, irksome account. But I was too busy jotting notes to look up even when the enchanted tone in her voice became sad as she described the next turn in her life. In 1938, their charmed existence was interrupted when her father became ill with a heart condition. Holed up in Budapest, they hoped for the best, but his health continued to decline.

  “There were many who lent their support during this difficult time.” A billowing stream of smoke escaped with her sigh. “Especially Sari.”

  “Sari?”

  “Sari deHajek. A former friend. I had lost track of her after she left to attend Vassar College in the States.”

  I frowned, trying to place the name. Then I remembered. Dante had told me about Sari deHajek during my first briefing. In 1939 and 1940, while an exchange student at Vassar, deHajek crisscrossed America making presentations on Hungarian folklore and gathering information on U.S. war preparations. Under the tour’s auspices, she also made contact with possible fascist sympathizers, eventually compiling over 200 names in a small green and black address book. Later on, deHajek recruited the Countess. And it was her address book that the Countess brought with her to America a year later.

  By early 1941, the Countess’ money had run low. As a resident of a country that technically had become part of the Axis, her funds had been impounded by the Canadian government. She had to face her predicament. “How was I going to get along?”

  I could not resist the obvious. “What about getting a job?”

  “Pursuing the development of my personality was hardly practical training. Wealth, position, glamour—what else did I know?”

  She lifted an eyebrow and her nose went up.

  “Then,” she said. “Fortune showed me the way.” “Fortune” was a sudden memory of her achievements as a gifted orator in school. “I shall follow Sari’s path and become a lecturer, I concluded. And so I went to her for advice.” A puzzled look crossed her face. “Or, did Sari come to me?” She shook her head. “I forget. Sari knew I supported fascism and asked if I would help promote the cause in America. Things were getting rough in Europe. Anyone who could get out, especially to the States, was considered fortunate. I accepted.” She held her left hand out, admiring her glittering ring. “Ahh, but all of that is in the past. My future rests with Mr. Butler and his seed money now. He is saving so that when this is over we will be able to build a new life together, wherever fate may take us.”

  My pencil stopped. Her expression had noticeably brightened, yet I did not see that she had much to offer Butler in return. “Your fiancé’s loyalty is admirable. You’re lucky. Is he, uhm, disappointed you’re in jail, charged with espionage?”

  She braved a small smile. “No one since my Papa has been so kind to me. I kept my arrangement with the FBI secret at first even though I knew my apartment was wired and moving pictures were being taken of everyone who came and went, including him. How could I tell him? But then I was put in protective custody and the FBI forced my hand. When he learned the truth, I learned the true strength of his commitment. We have been engaged for nearly eight months and he has never wavered, even when our evening visits were reduced to two hours spent with an agent present. Can you imagine such humiliation?” Her chest heaved. “Or such love?”

  “Incredible.”

  As quickly as her mood had buoyed, it collapsed. Her eyes welled up and she turned away. While the Countess searched her pocket for a handkerchief, I crossed the painted cement floor, pausing inside her cell to observe Butler’s photo stuck into a crack between the wall and her metal-plate mirror along with a sepia-toned photo, presumably of her father. Butler’s neatly combed white hair and tweed jacket made him look dapper, I thought, my gaze lingering on his kind face, lively eyes and gentle smile.

  Above, a protruding folded-over corner on her father’s picture drew my eye. In European fashion, the photo had a rough-cut scalloped border. I suspected the corner had been jammed into the slit around the metal mirror at one time, causing it to bend. The paper had yellowed with age. I started to flip the edge up with my thumb and noticed the letter T, written in pencil, on it. I looked closer. On the glossy, photo side of the paper, scratch marks made by the pressure of a pencil suggested more writing on the back.

  The Countess was stuffing the handkerchief into the pocket of her jumpsuit. Curious, I gave the photo a little tug, freeing it so that it slipped to the floor.

  “This fell,” I said, turning the portrait over as I picked it up.

  What I read looked important. That is, any name and address written on something belonging to the Countess could have far-reaching consequences.

  “There’s a name on the back, Tazio Abbado, followed by a Detroit post office box. Did you know it was there?” I set the print on the table before her. “Is this your father’s writing?”
/>   The Countess squinted. “Nooo—Sari wrote that.”

  The blood seemed to stand still in my veins. I had been holding something that a notorious enemy operative had once held. I was at once thrilled and repulsed. I did my best to keep my voice casual, inquiring, “Oh? And who’s Tazio Abbado? Why did she give you his address?”

  “Mr. Abbado is a fence.”

  “A fence? Why would you need a fence?”

  She lowered her voice. “A few precious stones were included in the spy supplies dispatched by the German naval attaché in Lisbon. If and when I needed more funds, I was to contact Abbado. Give him the goods. I never had the chance. Fate intervened and I was conscripted by a certain two-faced government agency.” She projected the last sentence bitterly toward the cellblock door.

  She stood and began to pace. “My strength—Mr. Butler’s strength—had always been rooted in the belief that I would never be thrown in jail. But we were deceived. It is only for a few days, they said. It is for your own protection, they said. Ha! All along their plans were to keep me for weeks, months, years of mental torture.”

  Dante had covered the particulars of her arrival and capture in New York. What he had not clarified, though, was why she had been brought up on the same charges as the others. Even I perceived a certain injustice when it was through her efforts the ring had been caught.

  Halting beside the newspaper articles on the table, she sneered at them. The inventory article was on top. She ripped it from the stack, crumpling it between her hands. “Now they have hit rock bottom. They want to destroy my relationship with Mr. Butler, the only thing I have left.”

  She winged the newspaper ball across the cellblock. It landed on the skeins of colored thread, piled on the table. The tangled heap reminded me of the former charm consultant’s tendency to embroider the truth, especially when her personal well-being was at stake.

  “Listen, Countess, you’re in jail. You’re accused of espionage. And while you’d like to believe otherwise, you have no leverage to make demands. My advice to you is this. Cooperate. Offer to testify against Thomas. Plead guilty if they insist. That’s what will get you out of this jam. That’s your ticket to a lifetime of happiness with Mr. Butler.”

  She pounded the table with her fist. The rumpled nest of threads bounced. “I will cooperate only when I have their assurance that I will not be sent to prison. That I will be exonerated.” Her piercing gaze blazed with defiance.

  My head was spinning. I had done my best to help her resolve her problem. I drew a long breath. Enough about her needs. On to mine.

  Leaning forward, in my best stage whisper, I said, “A source tells me that a new unit of German spies has infiltrated Detroit. My contact had names. Walter Blount. Otto Renner. Heard of ’em?”

  “Blount. No, he is not familiar.” She frowned. “But Renner, hmmm. I know the name somehow…”

  The creases in her forehead multiplied and deepened. She snapped her fingers. “Yes, that’s it. There was a beautician at the Cosmos Club. Her name was Renner. Mrs. Clara Renner, yes?” She looked expectant. Or was it shrewd?

  “Yes, Clara Renner,” I repeated. “The beautician. Do you know her husband?”

  She seemed genuinely bewildered. Then her face lit up.

  “Ah, yes! Of course. I did meet him once when I had an appointment with his wife. He dropped by with a bouquet of flowers. She gave him a book. And a loving peck.” She smiled wistfully. “He looked at her in the way Mr. Butler looks at me. It was sweet, I tell you.”

  She lit a cigarette and squinted, her eyes narrowing against the smoke. “So the beautician’s husband is an espionage suspect. But why are you asking me about him? The FBI never did.”

  I shrugged. “Wish I had an inside track to what the FBI knows or doesn’t know. It’s just what I heard. But about Mrs. Renner, how well did you know her?”

  “She styled my hair on just one occasion. When I tried getting a second appointment, she was always booked.”

  “And Kiki Barclay-Bly, the woman who brought you into the Club to speak? How did that come about? Were you two friends?”

  “Miss Barclay-Bly has been a loyal supporter. Is that why she is under suspicion?”

  “I didn’t say she was under suspi—”

  “Miss Barclay-Bly is not a spy,” the Countess cut in. “She is a dear woman, very kind. Maybe too kind. And her sister is a gem, as well. She introduced me to my Mr. Butler—”

  I sensed something had clicked. Or unclicked. She paused abruptly and dragged on her cigarette, staring off into space.

  In the distance a cell door clamored loudly. She stirred and whispered, “I have told you what I know about the FBI’s plot to come between my fiancé and myself. I am determined to counter their efforts. Your editor managed to get you in here twice. See if he will use his pull to arrange a visit from Mr. Butler. When it is set, I will reveal what I know about the Barclay-Blys.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the door to the salon I ground to a halt. A large piece of thick cardboard had been jerry-rigged over the lower half of the door to replace a missing section of glass.

  “Yoo-hoo. Anyone here?”

  On the reception desk, a spiral-bound appointment book lay open over a blotter, the exposed pages marked off in hourly blocks. All afternoon appointments had been lined out. In the manicure section, my morning appointment was scratched through but I had not yet been penciled-in in the afternoon. Kiki’s name had been struck out as well. I flipped backwards, noting she had been in nearly every day over the last two weeks.

  I checked the manicurist station. Dead. Where was everyone? And what had happened to the door?

  The sound of running water pulled me toward the back room, where a faucet had just been turned on. The rushing noise stopped and I heard a series of sharp cracks, like someone rapping a plastic container against a countertop. I arrived at the room’s entrance as Clara, studying a vinyl-coated chart, was coming out. We stopped short of bumping into one another. Still, she gasped.

  Raising a finger to her lips, she motioned over her shoulder. Dee Barclay-Bly was seated in one of the chairs fronting the sinks along the wall. Her chin-length black hair was matted and wet. I knew it was Dee from the thick eyebrows and pearl earrings. An open magazine lay neglected in her lap. Her eyes shut, her chin tucked against her chest, she appeared to be dozing.

  Clara led me toward the main part of the salon. “Sorry, but I don’t want to disturb her,” she said, her voice sweet and breathy. “She could use a few winks.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  Clara twisted a tiny medallion attached to her smock above her heart. It was a gold pin forged into a soldier’s profile. A private, he wore a tent-cap. An exaggerated lock of hair, extending from beneath the cap’s peak, formed a swooping curl above his brow. She noticed me staring.

  “Beauticians Behind Our Boys. On the third Thursday of every month, members of B-BOB contribute their tips for that day.” Her glance flicked to the appointment desk then to the patched door. “Our tips went down the drain today with our cancelled afternoon appointments.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “The day has been awful from the get-go. First, there was the upsetting call with Mrs. Brown, Glossy’s landlady. Then a police investigator stopped by, asking lots of questions.”

  “Oh…So Glossy never showed up?” I asked in genuine alarm. “No word?”

  “No. And the inspector said everything in her room was ripped apart. Even the lining of an armchair had been hacked to shreds with a knife.” Clara’s mascara-laden lashes fluttered. She looked anxious. “Pucci, are you all right? Let’s go sit down.”

  We crossed the salon to the cozy lanai area and chose love seats opposite one another. We settled onto lumpy cushions. The beads on Liberty’s bracelet fluttered, tickling my forearm, and I tried resurrecting my earlier optimism concerning my pal’s whereabouts. Dante’s memo, asking me to an unexpected meeting, left me hopeful that her disappearance,
as well as her ransacked room, would be explained then. Ideally, Liberty, and Roy Jarvis, would be present with Dante at headquarters.

  Clara leaned toward me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I smiled. Her voice was so sweet and she seemed so caring, it was difficult to imagine her being involved in anything that would harm our country or aid its enemy. Yet she was married to a known spy. I needed to learn on which side of the fence her patriotic loyalties were grounded.

  “I’m all right, thanks.” I began sliding my over-taxed dogs out of the high heels I had been tramping around in all day. “You said the investigator asked a lot of questions. What did he want?”

  “He wanted to know about Glossy. And her clientele. He knew names. Asked about some of them, directly.” Clara removed her shoes: white leather with a chunky heel, personalized with pink laces to match her smock. She swung her legs up onto the couch, folding them beneath her.

  “How about the Countess? Did he ask about her?” She stared at me blankly. “You know, the woman accused of spying for the Germans. Her story is in all the papers. She lectured here.”

  Clara fell back against the sofa. She grimaced then laughed. “You mean Grace Buchanan-Dineen! Yes, I did her hair. Once. But don’t remind me! She put me through the wringer so good that when she finally sashayed out of here, I told the girls that if she ever tried to schedule another appointment, tell her that I’m booked through next year.”

  The Countess had told the truth, then, about their relationship.

  “The investigator must have inquired about her though.”

  “Why? She was arrested before Glossy was hired.” Clara twisted her B-BOB pin. “He took Glossy’s manicurist’s license. It has her photo. Said they planned to use it for an All Points Bulletin they’re sending out.” Her cupid-bow mouth, shiny with a fresh coat of coral lipstick, curled into a coquettish smile. “Hope it’s legit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She was smiling broadly now. “Glossy was new to manicuring. Claimed she’d had two jobs in salons before applying here. I went along with her, but I knew she was fibbing.”