Lipstick and Lies by Margit Liesche Read Free Book Online Page B

session, and to plan my next move.
    The doors to our cells had been opened in the morning and, barring any trouble, would remain that way until lock-down this evening.
Personality Unlimited
in hand, I stepped out of my cell and lingered at the threshold. Across the common area, outside the bars, a matron in a white shirt and dark skirt was on routine inspection. She scrutinized our activities from the catwalk, a narrow walkway encircling the common area’s perimeter. Our monitor had beady eyes and a sour, pursed mouth.
    “All okay in there?” The matron threw me a severe look. I answered with a cooperative nod.
    Irina was lying on her back on the floor. She did not reply. The matron asked more directly, “Irina, you all right?”
    Irina’s eyes were closed. They flew open. “Uh-huh, yes, Matron. How nice you ask. I work on my posture. Must to lie here ten minutes. I do this and Countess she says I will soon stand straight and tall, like…” She hesitated, an image forming, and smiled broadly. “Like man who wear tall hat and lead band, marching in parade.”
    To my surprise, the matron returned Irina’s smile, exposing an unfortunate top gum line with more open spaces than teeth. The smile vanished. “Hmm, improvin’ yourself is a good thing, but watch out. Don’t go letting Hitler’s handmaiden in there boss you ’round too much or else you’ll be marchin’ straight-backed, imitating those goose-steppers in jackboots we been seein’ parading through the newsreels lately.”
    Irina rolled her eyes, and the guard swept her gaze next door to where the Countess and Billie were talking. I stepped into the common area, eager to take a look myself.
    The top bunk of the Countess’ iron-framed bed had been removed, giving her quarters an added sense of spaciousness. She sat, primly perched, near one end of the mattress. Behind her, Billie was brushing her hair into a scraggly ponytail, holding it this way and that as if trying to find just the right style for doing time. While Billie fussed, the Countess chattered incessantly, her voice muffled by the bowed position of her head.
    No wonder they had isolated her from the others, I thought, taking stock of her booty of special privileges, noting that besides providing docile cellmates and allowing her to wear jewelry, the Bureau had supplied her with a small stack of books. And while we all wore our own footwear, in my case, cotton socks and saddle shoes, the Countess wore leather pumps in a snappy red. The portion of her leg visible beneath the hem of her navy jumpsuit shimmered. My jaw dropped. Was she also wearing silk stockings?
    At a question from Billie, she raised her head. Her pretentious voice suddenly carried and we were treated to an ersatz hair-care tip, currently all the vogue in Europe. “Chamomile tea and lemon juice for color. Beer or raw eggs for body,” she recommended.
    With a snort, the matron lumbered off. Irina remained on the floor. She had closed her eyes again.
    “Heard you talking with the matron, Irina,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed a problem. Something wrong with your posture?”
    Her lids fluttered. She smiled broadly. “Miss Pucci. How nice you up. No, it is not problem. Countess she say, way we walk and pose it tell much about us. I got habit always to stand one-legged, like stork, one foot wrapped round other. Look insecure, Countess say, like I going to topple over. I try instead stand proud, hands at sides, feet flat on ground. Make better impression.”
    I’d been favoring slumped shoulders, myself. I straightened up.
    Billie tucked a final tendril of hair into the curve of the upsweep she had created. “There you go, Countess honey.”
    The former spy patted her hair. “How verr-y clever of you, Billie.” She crossed the seven-by-twelve-foot cell and paused before a metal plate bolted to the wall above the sink. She tilted her head, straining to see her reflection. “Exquisite! Billie, this time you have ahb-solutely