The Strange Story of Linda Lee

by Dennis Wheatley

  Therefore, to do as he suggested would be to lower herself in her own eyes. To trade the use of her body for a passport would be selling herself. It would be exactly the same as going to bed with a man for money. To be honest with herself, she would become a whore.

  On the other hand, what if she refused? Her hotel bill at Buffalo, bus trip to Chicago, the things she had bought since, and her expenses during the past few days had reduced her resources to a bare hundred dollars—only just over forty pounds. That would not keep her for long in America, and it was all she had in the world.

  Having no passport, she could not get a work permit. Without one it seemed there was no way in which she could earn money. And money she must have, otherwise within a month or less she would find herself destitute. The alternatives then would be starvation or the streets.

  At the thought she gave an inward shudder. But she was still loath to take the flashy Italian as a lover, and racked her brains for other means of escape. She still had two thousand dollars in the bank in Vancouver, but could not draw upon it because her cheque book had been in the night case she had abandoned to fight her way through the crowd at the exit to Toronto Station. And she dared not write for another, because she would have to give an address to which to send it, and the bank would pass it on to the Canadian police.

  Both Big Bear and Colin were rich men, and she felt sure that the bonds she had forged with them would have induced either to answer an appeal from her for help. But again she would have to give an address for a reply, and that would entail a certain risk. If Colin’s call from Niagara to the Hilton at Buffalo had been traced by the Canadian police, they would have alerted their opposite numbers in the States that she had probably got across the frontier, so she would be on their list of wanted persons. Should either of her letters go astray or fall into wrong hands, they would pounce within a matter of hours. Her beloved Eric remained the only possibility. Even though he might wish to have no more to do with her, for old times’ sake he would send her enough money to fly down to Mexico, or somewhere in the Caribbean where work permits were not required. But she had no idea where he had gone, and a letter to him care of the Foreign Office would probably not reach him for weeks.

  She had remained silent, staring down at her plate for a good two minutes. Her cigarette, unheeded, had burnt down almost to her fingers. As she quickly stubbed it out, Marco spoke:

  ‘Come on, baby. Make up your mind. You give me a good time and I’ll see you right. Otherwise you’ll soon find yourself pawning that fine mink coat.’

  The idea had not occurred to her. It was a way out. She could get enough for it to fly from the States to some other country. But no; she could not. She had no passport and no means of getting one. Fate had played her one scurvy trick after another. But at least she was still free and, having covered her trail from Buffalo, now stood a good chance of remaining so. By selling her coat she could keep herself decently for quite a while, but not indefinitely. A chance was being offered her of starting a new life with little to worry about. The first agent she had seen that morning had said he would have no difficulty in getting her a well-paid job if she had a work permit. Marco could provide her with the means of getting one. Such a chance might not occur again. She simply could not afford not to take it.

  Putting the best face on this unattractive situation, she smiled when she at last looked up. ‘I’m not accustomed to going to bed with men I’ve only just met; that’s why I’ve taken a little time to think it over. But I like you, Marco.’

  He laughed. ‘Any mutt could see you weren’t an easy push-over. That’s what got me. Else I wouldn’t have propositioned you with that bit of pasteboard. The boys who can get them don’t part with them for peanuts; so it’s going to cost me plenty. But I’m no meanie. We’ll eat tonight at the Lido, a real good Italian restaurant on East Monroe. And afterwards I’ll just not be able to wait to sample the goods.’

  The smile left Linda’s lips and she sat back. ‘No, Marco. It’s not going to be like that. I like you enough to promise you a good time if you play the game by me. But I’ll not so much as kick a shoe off until you’ve given me that passport.’

  ‘Oh, come on, baby,’ he sought to cajole her. ‘You sure can trust me. I wouldn’t do you down. But I can’t get what you want just in an afternoon. Fakin’ a passport takes a bit of time. Earliest I could hope my friend to let me have it would be some time tomorrow. Be a sport now and let’s seal our deal tonight.’

  Linda shook her head. ‘No, Marco. Let’s face the facts. I’ve no particular wish to go to bed with you, although I may enjoy it when I do. So this is a business deal in which I’m acting like a tart. I’ve never done that before, so I don’t know much about it, but I’ve always understood that they don’t rely on promises. They require the money on the spot.’

  Instinctively he realised that she was speaking the truth about herself, and the thought that she normally slept only with men she had fallen for inflamed his desire for her still further. After fingering his thin black moustache for a moment, he said:

  ‘O.K. then. I’ll start the ball rolling this afternoon. We’ll dine together this evening, just to get better acquainted. With luck, tomorrow I’ll be able to give you what you’re wanting.’

  Producing a slim notepad from his pocket, he went on, ‘Maybe, though, my friend wouldn’t be able to produce a British passport, so we’d best make it American. Despite your accent, with that to show you won’t need a work permit.’

  On her agreeing, he took down particulars which she gave him about herself. Name—Irma Catherine Jameson. Unmarried. Place and date of birth—Illinois, 6/7/52. Height, six feet. Colour of eyes—brown. Colour of hair—dark brown.

  When he had paid the bill he took her to a nearby photographer’s, where she had a passport photograph taken. Then, having agreed to meet at the Lido at eight o’clock that evening, they parted.

  That afternoon Linda rested on her bed at the Sherman House, her mind filled with thoughts about Marco Mancini. She decided that she had been right to put her scruples behind her and do this deal with him. After all, once she had the passport she would not have to see him again. And for a single night he would be quite bearable, because his hands and linen had shown her that he was almost fastidiously clean and he had the cheerful live and let live disposition that usually goes with Latin blood. But she had a strong feeling that he was not to be trusted, and definitely made up her mind that until the promised passport was actually in her hands she would not let him take her to any place where they would be alone together.

  That evening, at the Lido, he spared no expense on giving her a good dinner and did not bother her much with questions about her past. Most of the time he talked cheerfully about himself. He was a second-generation American and his family came from Palermo in Sicily. He claimed to be descended from Olympe, one of Cardinal Mazarin’s nieces. She did not for one moment believe him, but thought the claim in keeping with his distinctly brash personality. As she knew Venice well, she was able to talk about the city and say how much she liked Italian people.

  Toward the end of dinner, he tried to persuade her to go on to a night club with him, but she was adamant in her refusal. As an excuse she said she needed lots of sleep and that, if she stayed up late, she would be much less fun for him the following night.

  Eventually he gave in, and took her back to the Sherman in a taxi. No sooner were they in it than he gave free rein to his amorousness. She let him kiss her and returned his kisses with sufficient ardour to let him know that she was not frigid by nature. But when he went further, she fought him off determinedly until he gave up his attempts and laughingly declared that, from her height and strength, he thought she must really be a man dressed as a woman.

  The next day she felt restless and depressed and went for a long walk along the lake front, during which she endeavoured to put Marco out of her mind. But he persisted in returning to it and, as the day wore on, she came more and more to dislike the t
hought of spending the night with the flashy young Italian. Yet she knew that if he produced the passport she must now go through with it.

  At eight o’clock they met again at the Lido, as they had arranged. As soon as he had ordered cocktails in the little lounge, her eyes asked him a question. Grinning, he produced the passport, opened it to show her her photograph, then slipped it back into his breast pocket.

  The fact that he had really got it for her filled her with mixed emotions: elation and relief that she need no longer worry about how to keep herself in the future, but at the same time a feeling of annoyance and disappointment. Subconsciously she had been hoping that he had been lying and would fail to fulfil his promise, which would free her from having to fulfil hers. But now there was no escape from having to give herself to him.

  Now that she must do so her sense of fair play insisted that she should give him as good a time as she could. If she had plenty to drink, that would not be too difficult and, as ever, when she went to bed with a man, she could close her eyes and think of her beloved Eric.

  Putting her heart into her part she was as gay as any man could have wished over dinner; but toward the end her laughter became so loud, after the amount of champagne she had drunk, that Marco refused her a liqueur, saying that she had had enough liquor for the moment and that they would have more drinks later. Then he sent for the bill and, immediately he had paid it, took her arm to pilot her out of the restaurant.

  In the taxi he did not attempt to kiss her. She leaned back in her corner, taking no notice where they were going, but it seemed a long drive.

  When the taxi pulled up she noticed only vaguely that it was in an ill-lit street, and seemed to be in a poor part of the city. He led her up the steps of an old, brownstone house. The door was answered by a huge Negro who grinned a greeting and said, ‘Number six is all ready for yo’, Mr. Mancini.’

  They went up to the first floor. As Linda reached the landing, she glimpsed a blonde girl in a kimono going into one of the rooms. Turning to Marco, she asked, ‘What is this place? I thought you were taking me to your apartment.’

  His teeth flashed in a grin. ‘My landlady is mighty particular. She don’t allow fellers to bring dames along to stay the night. This is a rooming house, but quite respectable.’

  As he spoke, he opened a door and showed her into a big room. The furniture was old-fashioned, and against one wall there was a large brass bedstead. At its foot was a table, with glasses and bottles. When he had closed the door, she sat down in an armchair. Walking past her to the table, he opened a bottle of champagne.

  She lay back and closed her eyes, then opened them again as he said, ‘This is what you need, babe,’ and held out a full glass to her. Taking it, she smiled up at him.

  ‘Here’s to us.’ He lifted his glass and they both drank. A moment later Linda felt her head swim. Her limbs suddenly seemed to go limp. She dropped the glass and passed out.

  When she came to she was in bed, naked and alone. Her head was aching as though it would split. Raising it painfully, she gave a bleary glance round. Curtains were drawn across a single window, but enough light came through them for her to see by. It was not the room in which she had passed out, but much smaller and had hardly any furniture. Wildly, she looked round for her clothes. They were nowhere to be seen, and the room had no cupboards.

  With utter horror, the reason for her being there flashed through her mind. Marco had sold her into a brothel.

  Chapter 17

  A Night in a Brothel

  With every beat of her heart, Linda’s head gave a violent throb. She let it fall back on the pillow and shut her eyes again, endeavouring to concentrate in spite of the stabs of pain. It could not be true. She was the victim of an awful nightmare. She lay flat on her back, her arms stretched out limply on either side of her. Raising a trembling hand, she ran it over her stomach, up to her breast and pinched one of her nipples. Yes, she was both naked and awake.

  Making an effort, she forced herself to sit up. Her head rolled on her shoulders, but she managed to steady it and got a clearer view of the room. It was only about ten feet by twelve. It had no dressing table or chest of drawers. There was a white-painted wooden wash-stand, with a chipped basin and an enamel jug. Underneath the washstand there was a slop pail and on top two bottles that looked as if they held disinfectant. There was a single chair and a dumb valet, on which a man could hang his clothes. A white-painted bedside table held a lamp with a pink shade, a brass ashtray with two cigarette stubs and a box of matches in it, and a pot of vaseline.

  As she lolled back again, she saw, that in the ceiling above the bed there was a mirror about five feet by three. Owing to the semi-darkness she had not noticed it before. In it she saw dimly reflected her tousled hair, gaping mouth and naked shoulders. It confirmed her worst fears. Big Bear had told her about his nights out after attending conventions in the United States, and that some of the more expensive brothels had six-sided rooms in which all the walls and the whole ceiling consisted of mirrors, so that copulating couples could see themselves from many angles. The mirror over the bed was obviously a makeshift in a cheaper kind of house.

  Closing her eyes again she thought back over how she had let herself be trapped in this ghastly situation. Marco Mancini was obviously a professional pimp. His dark good looks and flashy clothes were just the things to attract girls who came from poor homes. And what better hunting ground could he have chosen to find likely victims? In theatrical agents’ waiting-rooms there were always passably good-looking girls, out of a job and willing to be picked up. In most cases she supposed he simply gave them a dinner, made them a little tight and persuaded them to spend the night with him, on the pretext of finding them work. Once he got them to this house, the rest was easy. He simply gave them a Micky Finn and collected his money.

  In her case he had had to do more. But no doubt his nefarious activities brought him into contact with many types of criminal, and she had once heard Eric say that in every city forged passports were obtainable if only one knew where to go for them. Evidently Marco had thought it worth the expense of having one made for her, because he could get a very high price for a girl with her looks and figure. Bitterly she wondered how much he had got for her.

  For ten minutes she lay, still suffering both physical and mental misery. Her head continued to ache abominably and she had a foul taste in her mouth. It was this last that rallied her into getting out of bed. As she did so she staggered, but grasped the back of the chair, and so reached the washstand. Having gulped down two glasses of water, she dipped the corner of one of the rough towels into the jug and scrubbed her teeth as well as she could. Then she filled the basin and spent several minutes alternately plunging her face into it and drawing deep breaths. That made her feel a little less awful, but no less desperate about her situation.

  She tried the door, but, as she had expected, it was locked. Going to the window, she drew back the cheap cretonne curtains, to find that the room she was in was high up, probably on the fourth floor and at the back of the house. Below was a builder’s yard, but no-one was to be seen there. Beyond, the prospect consisted of grimy buildings and a small section of mean street. The window was open a few inches at the top, but when she tried to open the lower half, she found that it was screwed down. Even if she could have got it open she thought it unlikely that anyone passing in the section of street would hear her cries for help, as it was quite a long way off.

  As she turned away in despair, her glance fell on a hook at one side of the window, just showing beyond the edge of the curtain. Her eyes dilated with horror. It held a whip.

  Turning, she ran to the door and hammered hard on it with her fists, crying, ‘Let me out! Let me out of here!’ at the top of her voice. For a good five minutes she continued to batter on it until her hands were bruised and sore, but there was no response.

  Breathless and shaking, she staggered across to the bed. As she pulled back the sheets to get in, she saw a corn p
laster. Vividly there sprang into her mind Marco in the shop to which he had taken her to get the photographs for her passport. He had stubbed his toe against the counter, giving an ‘Ouch’ of pain, and exclaimed, ‘Jesus! That got my corn.’

  A moment later she saw other evidence that he had been in bed with her while she was unconscious. Wrenching open the bedside cupboard she was just in time to grab the chamber pot and be sick in it.

  It was a horrid bout, but at length she managed to pull herself together and washed her face again. Then, so shattered that she could not even relieve her agony of mind by tears, she crawled back into bed.

  After a while her headache eased and her bout of vomiting had rid her of the bile resulting from the Micky Finn. Yet she racked her brains in vain for a way to escape the ignominy that threatened her. Even if she could have got a message smuggled out by some servant in the place, or by pleading with the first man who paid to make use of her, there was no-one to whom she could send for help; for it was certain that neither a servant nor a customer would take a message to the police, and she had not a single friend in Chicago.

  Worn out with misery, she presently fell asleep. When she awoke, it was dusk. Not long afterwards the key turned in the lock, the light was switched on and a middle-aged woman came into the room.

  She was pear-shaped, her breasts and stomach sloping off into enormous hips. Her hair was brassy, her face heavily powdered and her cheeks rouged. Between them she had a small, beaky nose and below it a rattrap mouth and a chin that hardly protruded from her thick throat. Without preamble she said in a deep voice: