Authors: Margit Liesche
Tags: #Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General
My headlamps momentarily flooded the passing car’s interior and I saw two men in the front seat. The driver was bald and had a thin, gaunt face; the passenger’s round features and wild thatch of white hair were a distinct contrast. I caught a flash of the passenger’s white lab coat and then they were gone.
The dust from the speeding car had not yet settled as I pulled into the horseshoe-shaped gravel driveway fronting the mansion, my nerves rattled by the close encounter. It was around eight o’clock, and I suspected I might also be jittery about calling on Kiki unannounced. The English translation of the E.T.A. Hoffmann book V-V had lent me was on the front seat, part of the excuse I had invented for my impromptu visit. Grabbing it, I exited the Ford, observing another automobile, a gray Studebaker, parked a short distance away in the driveway’s shadows.
I peered through a narrow pane of clear beveled glass bordering the arched wooden doors at the entrance. At the mouth of the foyer, tasseled sashes held drawn velvet drapes. Beyond the parted drapes, a pair of dim sconces created a murky hallway.
I pulled the turtleneck of the heavy black sweater required for the evening’s mission higher up my neck and crossed my arms, rubbing them against the cool night air. It was good to be in casual clothes again, but my lingering survey of the elegant entryway made me wonder how my relaxed appearance would be received. Indeed, whether I would be received at all. Was the doorbell working? I poked the pearl button again.
At last, a tall, thin maid wearing a black dress with a white collar and cuffs appeared in the hallway. She smoothed her ruffled white apron and flicked on the light, then pressed her nose to the glass and looked out. I recognized the fuzzy bouffant and small round scars riddling her skin. The maid staring out at me was Irina Popov, my former cellblock mate from Wayne County Jail.
“Irina,” I said squeezing inside the vast vestibule, stomach churning wildly. “What are you doing here?”
Irina’s hazel eyes were wide with surprise. “Praise the Lord, it is our jewel thief,” she said, clasping her hands together.
I
praised the Lord, grateful that Irina’s hallelujahs had been reasonably restrained.
“Shh,” I admonished, glancing about for lagging greeters who might be curious about a nighttime caller. “What are you doing here?” I repeated.
“Agency sent me. Special assignment.”
Did she mean one of the intelligence arms? “Which agency?”
“I am eyes and ears for—” She paused. Her normally open expression grew suddenly hard. She straightened her back. “I been Merry Maids free agent for many years.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what it is you are doing here, Miss Pucci?”
Her recovery was smooth. Smoother than I would have expected from the recent immigrant and Holy Roller I’d met in jail. But give me a hundred to one odds Dante was the Merry employer who had planted her in the mansion and I’d take it.
“I’m a journalist,” I explained, then openly admitted to having been in jail in hopes of getting a scoop on the Countess. In confessing to the ruse, I hoped to strike a balance between being honest enough to win Irina’s trust, possibly as an undercover girl-mate, and shady enough to play off our bond as former cellmates. I also let her know that I’d come to LaVue Rouge to interview Kiki and return a book.
“Your turn,” I said.
Her rapid-fire English tested my interpreting skills now and again, but I got the lowdown on what had brought her to the estate and what she’d been doing since her arrival.
This morning the couple’s maid had called in sick. Irina served lunch to “Mr. V”—as she referred to V-V—and to his friends, then cleaned up afterwards. “The Mrs.” had not left her room all day, but following V-V’s direction, Irina had ministered to her needs the entire day, too. Finally, about fifteen minutes ago, having delivered a tray to the master suite, she had collapsed into a chair. Then I’d rung the bell.
She held her apron by its scalloped ruffles, rubbing them like rosary beads between her thumbs and fingers. “I do not think The Mrs., she is able to talk with you,” she added tentatively.
I opened my mouth to ask why. A loud crash resounded above us. Startled, we glanced at one another. If I’d had to venture a guess, I would have said a chair, maybe a small table, had fallen over in one of the rooms upstairs.
I eyed the staircase. A carved oak railing climbed one side, ending at a landing with a bank of tall casement windows inset with stained glass. Above the landing, another flight of steps rose to the second floor where an open balcony looked down over the entrance hall.
I stepped deeper into the foyer and gazed skyward to a vast open space that vaulted past a third floor and stopped at a beamed ceiling from which an ornate chandelier dangled.
The hall was completely quiet again. I turned to Irina and shrugged. There was another crash, followed by a scream.
I bolted for the stairs. My flat shoes and casual clothing were emancipating. I took the steps two at a time. On the landing, the knob at the railing’s top acted like a fulcrum, catapulting me around the sharp turn and flinging me up the next flight.
I heard Irina on my heels. Pulled by another crashing noise, we raced for a room down a hallway to our right. We hesitated at the door.
“It is the master suite,” Irina said, her voice trembling with fear or exertion, or both.
I placed my ear against the door. I heard a whimper. With syncopated precision, I knocked, turned the handle, shot open the door.
***
The couple stood near the fireplace across the room. Kiki, clad in peach satin pajamas, moaned. Eyes closed, she fell into V-V’s open arms like a rag doll, one of her feather-poufed high-heeled slippers flying off backwards.
V-V’s startled gaze flicked to Irina, then back to me. He wore a paisley smoking jacket, and dark slacks, and was slipper-clad as well. Kiki’s limp body shifted and his slippered feet parted as he braced himself to support her.
“What happened?” I asked.
V-V rearranged Kiki and shrugged. “She was eating dinner, got up to stoke the fire. I was at my desk, working—” He nodded to a large desk against the wall. “I heard a crash…”
The fireplace tools had toppled over. Behind him, angry flames leapt from logs stacked on andirons, sending embers up the flue. Two delicate chairs were positioned near the hearth, but a small table had been knocked over. Nearby, spatters of red wine and meal remnants sprinkled a section of the white pile carpet. Shattered china and brass fireplace tools were strewn helter-skelter. The poker had landed slightly apart from the main disaster.
Grunting as he picked up Kiki, he demanded, “Why are you here?”
“We heard a scream.”
“You heard a groan,” he replied emphatically.
I held my tongue. I hadn’t come to argue.
Kiki’s head lolled against V-V’s arm as he carried her to a monstrous bed set on a platform that dominated the room. He stepped up onto the dais, his broad shoulders straining against the fine silk of his paisley jacket. “Don’t worry,” he said, addressing us over his shoulder. “It is just one of her spells. She will be fine after a little rest.”
Observing Kiki cradled in his arms, it was hard to imagine she would be anything but fine.
Irina mounted the platform and drew back the covers, exposing sheets of gold satin. Behind the bed, an extended flounce of pleated gold draped the wall.
V-V placed his wife on the sumptuous sheet. He turned and his chestnut eyes, sharp like a hawk’s, and caught mine.
“You were explaining why you are here?”
I nodded. “Your wife and I agreed to meet at the Club today to compare ideas and discuss innovations for raising money for the war effort. This afternoon my editor called. Wants me go to Chicago tomorrow to cover a new development. I wanted to be sure you got your Hoffmann book back. I thought I might also try working in the interview. Obviously, I’ve come at a terrible time. Sorry.”
He focused on my empty hands. His eyebrow lifted inquisitively.
I managed a smile. “The book is at the bottom of the stairs. I dropped it when your maid and I heard the crash. We ran up here to help.” I strolled to the elevated bed to get a better look at Kiki. “What kind of spell is she having exactly?”
V-V shrugged. “The doctor does not yet have the precise medical term for the disorder. There should be tests, of course, but she is always too busy. Meanwhile, he—we—refer to the condition simply as ‘spells.’”
Dee had been concerned that Kiki was working too hard, but she had not mentioned spells. “What does the doctor think is causing them?”
V-V’s broad shoulders sagged. “It is always the same. She works hard at the Club, she frets about her sister, she gets tired, a little melancholy, then gets a headache and she faints. Like this.” He reached for the satin covers, carefully arranging them around her still form.
I regarded Kiki’s face. Her normally porcelain skin was a ghastly gray and the thick fringe of bangs had flopped sideways, exposing the strawberry birthmark. In a final comforting gesture V-V brushed the hair back into place and bent to kiss her.
He straightened up. Irina had left the dais to begin cleaning up the mess at the hearth. The sounds of silverware and glass shards hitting the tray drew his attention, but then Kiki moaned and he turned back to her. While he hunched over her, soothing her with his words, like a crab on sand I inched quickly backwards until I was at a small writing desk I’d observed when I rushed in. I kept him in the corner of my eye as I panned the area surrounding a ream of engraved paper, hoping to find a sample of Kiki’s handwriting.
The sheet on top contained several lines of feminine handwriting, but it was too large to slip into my pocket without folding it first. Too much rustling, too much motion. My fingers twitched. Several sheets had been wadded up and left beside the stack. I chose the closest one, stuffing it into my pocket.
“She all right?” I asked, edging away from the desk.
V-V nodded and stepped off the platform. “Fine. She is sleeping now.”
At the fireplace, Irina’s forehead was deeply furrowed. She had seen me swipe the wad of paper, I guessed, sending her a pleading glance.
V-V addressed her. “Remain here and keep an eye on Mrs. V while I escort Miss Lewis to the front door.”
I faced Irina. “I’ll be back,” I mouthed, before turning to follow him.
As we descended the stairs, V-V asked, speaking distinctly and quite loudly, “So you’ll be returning directly to the Cosmos Club?”
I couldn’t fess up to my real destination. “Uh-huh, that’s my plan.” The Hoffmann book was right where I’d dropped it. “There it is,” I said, springing down the final steps, scooping up the volume. “Excellent—
creepy
—mystery, by the way. Thanks.” I spun around to hand it to him. It was only a shadow of movement, but in the corner of my eye as I reeled I saw one of the heavy velvet drapes near the door stir.
“It was very kind of you to drive all the way out here to return my Hoffmann,” V-V said, loping down the final steps. “And how timely…”
He lowered his voice. His eyes burned into mine. “I have been asked to convey a message. A certain friend wants you to know she is well. She has left the country. You know her destination. That is all.”
My pulse raced. “G-gee…” I stammered. “Great news. Thanks.”
V-V looked uneasy, as if he’d had misgivings about sharing the private communiqué. His gaze bored into mine again. “It is a pity my wife could not give you an interview, as you would have liked. But in coming here you have risked exposing a story upon which the very security of Detroit, the Midwest, possibly the entire nation, rests. Your friend begs you, keep her secret to yourself a while longer.”
“But…” I could not think of what else to say, nor could I move. Even as he opened the arched wooden door, signaling me to leave, saying he must get back to his wife.
Turning the car out of the estate onto the deserted back road, I pondered Liberty’s request to maintain her secret a while longer. Too late. The cat was already out of the bag. And I did not intend keeping her affiliation with V-V or his disclosure that she’d left the country private either.
The reflection of lights in my rearview mirror tore me from my musings. The headlamps had materialized so abruptly that the automobile must have pulled out from a driveway or side lane. I sped up. So did the other car. Michigan Avenue was only another mile, and when I reached it I eased into the flow of light nighttime traffic. A glance in the mirror confirmed that my tail was still with me, keeping a discreet distance. I was unable to see the driver, but the vehicle was recognizable: the gray Studebaker I’d seen parked in the estate’s horseshoe driveway upon my arrival.
Coming up on the block before the Orange Lantern, I swung onto a side street, cranking the wheel in a sharp U-turn and dousing the lights. Precious seconds passed, but no gray vehicle. I emerged from the side road, checking my mirror repeatedly to be sure the driver had not doubled back.
The parking lot adjacent to the tavern was about a third full, but it was nearly eleven, the hour when the afternoon shift ended. Soon the next wave of plant workers would begin arriving. I needed to be inside the FBI truck beforehand or I risked blowing our cover. With no time left for puzzling over the Studebaker, I wove among the abandoned cars, hunting for Dante and the team.
The panel truck was in a deserted back lot reserved for overflow parking. I parked and beat feet toward it. Painted black and backed into a far corner, it had a billowy white cloud as the backdrop of a logo stenciled on its side. An airborne Liberator had been painted above the cloud. BUGS AWAY, the name of the phony pest control company under whose auspices we would be entering Renner’s office, was emblazoned on the plane’s nose. Beneath the fuselage, a giant cockroach, a bomb strapped to its belly, had just been released from the Lib’s bomb bay and was plunging downward.
At the truck’s rear doors, I knocked.
Two raps, pause; one rap, pause; two rapid raps, stop
. The square windows near the top of the doors had been blacked out. A few seconds passed during which I assumed someone was peering out of a minuscule peephole checking my identity. Finally, the chrome handle flipped downward. A hand reached out. I grabbed it.
“Glad you made it,” Dante said, heaving me up inside.
A mesh-protected bulb, like the ones mechanics use to illuminate the tight spaces in which they work, was suspended from the interior ceiling. Four men in dark clothing were huddled around canisters and other equipment.
“Sorry I cut it so close,” I said. “Had to pay what I thought would be a quick visit to a sick friend.”
“Our mutual friend?”
He was referring to Liberty. “Sorry, no. But leaving the friend’s home, I picked up a tail.” I described the gray Studebaker and the evasive maneuver I’d used to ditch it. Dante’s brow was furrowed. “Don’t worry,” I added, “I used extra caution pulling into the lot.”
He still looked concerned. “Positive you lost him?”
“Absolutely.”
He nodded.
My associates looked as if they had all stepped off the same Midwestern farm. Clean-cut, nice looking and with uniformly muscular physiques, they all had pale eyes, fair complexions, and blond flat-tops. On a team mission, such wholesome fungible looks were an asset as they could easily blend into a crowd should a fast getaway be necessary.
Dante did the introductions. Each man had been assigned a code name having to do with his area of responsibility. The safe cracker, who was also our lock expert, was called Fingers; the camera expert, recording any suspicious documents, Eyes; the radio man who would be on the inside with us keeping communications open with the lookout posted outdoors, Lips. From slots concealed in the sides of the truck, and through a minuscule peephole I’d correctly guessed was in the back door, his counterpart, Ears, would be covering the area around the building’s entrance, scouting for late-night visitors. A cooperating supervisor, who knew only so much as to be able to help pave the way inside, had put Development Engineering on notice about our fumigation project. A schedule indicating the times their section of the building would be off-limits had also been posted.
As agent-in-charge, Dante was code-named Doc. Finally, as the flaps and seals specialist assisting Doc in checking questionable documents for codes, ciphers, and secret ink, I was Nurse. We took a moment to review the sketches and photos of the office layout. Next, we ran through communications procedures and discussed various scenarios of what we would do once inside. Dante admonished us, “Keep in mind, this search of Renner’s office is illegal. If we’re caught we blow our chance of nailing Renner, plus the government will disclaim all responsibility for our actions.”
Everyone, including Doc, had already slipped on coveralls. Made of black cotton twill, the jumpsuits zipped up the front. A logo patch with the company bomber and bomb-strapped bug was stitched over the breast pocket; a larger version of the emblem had been stenciled onto the back. Mine slid comfortably over my slacks and turtleneck. I tugged the zipper and it made a soft buzz fleeing upwards. Doc flipped a billed cap onto my head, suggesting I keep the pliable rubber hood that was also part of my disguise at the ready. Wartime or not, a woman who would take a job stomping out bugs and rodents would be considered eccentric, and we could not afford to draw any unnecessary attention.
Our weapons were minimal. Dante would be carrying a revolver and blackjack while the rest of us had been issued gas guns. As a final precaution, we checked them.
The facilitating supervisor had cleared our admittance through Gate 10, the inbound entrance for all trucks arriving at Willow Run. We would follow normal security procedures, subjecting our truck and gear to the requisite inspection. A search raised the stakes, but Dante had been discouraged from trying to win an exemption, as special requests always raised a red flag and could ultimately backfire, drawing closer scrutiny once we were inside. To that end, all canisters, spraying devices, and traps that might be related to an extermination business had been left in sight; all equipment that might appear suspect was hidden in compartments beneath the truck’s elevated floor.
Dante and I climbed into the panel truck’s cab, leaving the rest of the team seated on the two benches bolted to the interior walls in back. He started the engine and pulled the knob for the lights. “You okay?” he asked, looking over.
We were about to break into a locked office of a government-owned factory. The idea of getting caught and returning to jail terrified me; the expression I pictured on my father’s face horrified me even more. Yet I was also keenly aware of embarking on an adventure few would know about much less have the privilege of experiencing. That was as heady as it got.
“I’m doing swell,” I replied, smiling back across the cab at him.
Telling Dante the news about Liberty, as well as V-V’s ominous send-off, needed to wait until after the break-in. His briefing could not have made it clearer: our focus needed to be one hundred percent on the job at hand.
I recognized the unbuttoned jacket and protruding paunch of the guard at the Gate 10 checkpoint immediately. My skin crawled. It was Officer Flynn, the chunky, florid-faced guard who had been manning the lobby desk when I’d visited Willow Run earlier in the day.
“The guard knows me,” I whispered, slipping the loose rubber hood over my head.
Flynn reviewed the copy of our contract then leaned in to scrutinize the cab’s interior. My eyes were riveted to the windshield but I sensed his gaze pause on me. I did not breathe.
“Need to check the back.” Flynn pushed away from the door with a grunt.
“Fine,” said Dante, hopping out while I expelled an audible sigh.
Muted voices and the sound of equipment being shifted across the floor penetrated the small sliding door at my back. Then silence. Resisting the urge to fling open the trap door and have a look, I discovered a hangnail and nibbled at it until at last Dante returned.
Flynn’s gruff voice penetrated the cab as Dante climbed in. “Everyone on-site’s required to wear a badge. You’ll need six.” He handed the identification to Dante, charging him with returning the badges once we had finished.
A lanky youth with shiny, pock-marked skin and a pencil-line mustache sauntered outdoors and coolly surveyed our truck.
Flynn hitched up his pants. “Outsiders have to be escorted. The Kid here will take you over.”
The Kid stepped astride a nearby factory scooter. We chased the scooter’s taillights along a spottily lit lane that serviced the back of the L-shaped factory. I regarded the windowless concrete walls and metal doors.
Hadn’t I left County Jail?
Dante cracked the small trap door behind our seats. “We’re here,” he said, projecting his voice softly through the narrow opening. “You men ready?”
Several hushed voices chorused back. “Yeah.” “You bet.” “Let’s go, Doc.”
The Kid had dismounted his scooter. “This is the section where you’ll be working,” he called, indicating we could begin unloading.
I stood amid the equipment we’d piled near the truck’s rear door. Hoisting a canister onto my back, I lifted my black bag. Fingers, Eyes, and Lips had already loaded up. Dante slammed the door, leaving Ears inside, and we marched toward the door as a unit.
A lamp suspended from a curved metal rod illuminated the entrance as our escort tugged open the door. He motioned us inside. After checking to be sure Dante had his directions straight, and reminding us that he would remain nearby until we finished, he began closing the door.
“The offices with the infestation problem were left unlocked,” he said just before the door clicked shut.
We followed the corridor to Renner’s office. Beyond the frosted-glass door the room was completely dark.
Dante surveyed our group with a sweeping glance. “Ready?”
Inside the anteroom, we pulled on fitted leather gloves. Dante tried the door to Renner’s private office, but it wouldn’t budge. “Blast. Son of a gun installed a special device of some sort. Fingers…”
Fingers slipped a small metal pick into the lock. Dante turned the handle, cracked the door, and paused. “Eyes, the washroom is right down the hall. How about getting set up in there, we’ll get started in here.”
Once we were inside, our objective would be to uncover Renner’s drawings of the night-bombing device. We would also be on the hunt for evidence pertaining to other espionage activities, such as letters or records containing names or leads to other spies, drop-site addresses, strategic enemy plans or drawings of secret devices, and any data that could be used to mislead the enemy. Eyes would use the darkroom he was setting up in the restroom to photograph the items, then process the film to be sure we had the shots we wanted. Back at headquarters, the prints would be developed in the lab. Later, after Renner was brought in, the photographs would be used to inspire his cooperation.
Beneath his coveralls, Eyes’ thick neck and broad shoulders bulged as he lifted his black bag and collected a second valise containing his photo equipment, including cameras, collapsible tripod, film, special lights, and chemicals for developing.
Dante entered Renner’s office and closed the blinds before turning on the light. Signaling me to wait by the door, he motioned to my counterparts. The men each took a section of the room. Light fixtures, sills, and furnishings were examined for traps. I studied the stacks of paperwork, thinking they looked nearly as high as they had twelve hours earlier.
Something on the floor behind the desk caught Dante’s eye. He got down on one knee to take a look. Fingers, having completed his search of a potted fern, started toward Doc, gesturing for me to follow. A leather case had been shoved into the corner behind another plant. Sensing Fingers and me behind him, Doc motioned to a nearly invisible wire which ran to an electrical outlet in the wall. He disconnected the plug and opened the case: It contained a sound recording device. I had seen the exact model demonstrated in training. The beauty of the recorder was an extremely sensitive switch that could be rigged to be thrown automatically whenever someone spoke. It was creepy to think that Renner might have my voice preserved for his private purposes on a recording somewhere.
No one had made a peep since we’d entered. Dante found another wire connected to a port in the side of the briefcase. Holding it between his fingers, he followed it to the bookcase behind Renner’s desk, where he found a microphone attached to the photograph of Clara. On the opposite side of the room, Fingers discovered yet another wire taped discreetly along the baseboard. It led him to a second microphone attached to the underside of the drawing table across the room.
Lips, turning up nothing unusual in his area, took a seat at a table near the door. He donned earphones connected to a radio inside the open case positioned in front of him. Satisfied we had uncovered and exterminated all existing electronic bugs, Dante asked Lips to contact Ears inside the truck. Ears had nothing to report other than that The Kid was guarding the door, whiling away the time smoking cigarettes.
Eyes returned, having set up his equipment in the washroom. Lips remained at the table, tuned to the radio, keeping an eye on the anteroom beyond. The rest of us went to the color-coded blueprint near the drafting table. The giant drawing was affixed to cork board. After carefully examining the board’s edges for a trip wire, Fingers slipped his hands beneath the center of the rendering. My mouth felt dry, watching him pull the twin panels apart to reveal the pleated dumbwaiter door.
Fingers leaned into the wall, placing an ear near the large dial at the door’s center. I held my breath, my gaze riveted to his thumb and index finger as he deftly spun the knob. He tugged the corrugated metal inset and it gave way, sliding noiselessly toward the ceiling and exposing the wall safe. He gripped the safe’s handle. This morning when Mrs. K was similarly poised to open the safe, Renner had made a surprise appearance. Fingers pulled the handle, the door opened, and when nothing unexpected happened, I gave the men a thumbs-up.