The Strange Story of Linda Lee

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Get up, girl.’

  Linda sat up and, holding the sheet across her breasts, angrily demanded her clothes.

  The woman ignored her outburst and repeated harshly, ‘Get up, I said. I saw you last night, but I want to take another look at you.’

  ‘Fetch me my clothes!’ Linda cried again. ‘And you’ll let me out of here. If you don’t, I’ll get out somehow, sooner or later and, by God, I’ll have the police arrest you for kidnapping.’

  ‘So that’s your tone.’ The woman’s thin mouth curved into an evil smile. With a speed surprising for her bulk, she darted across the room, grabbed the whip that hung beside the curtain and brought it down with a cruel swish across Linda’s shoulders.

  With a scream of pain, Linda cowered back. The harsh voice came again, ‘Now will you get up, you stubborn bitch?’

  Sobbing from the searing lash she had received, Linda slithered from the bed and stood up, still holding the sheet round her.

  The woman raised the whip again. ‘Drop that sheet and walk towards me.’

  Petrified, Linda obeyed and came to a halt, naked, in front of her tormentor.

  For a good minute the woman remained silent, while walking slowly round Linda, her small, black eyes appraising every feature of the superb body. Then she said in a pleased voice, ‘You’ll make a splendid cow for my best-paying bulls. Worth every buck I paid for you. Those hips of yours were just made for this business. When the thirty bucks a night boys tire of you and want something fresh, I’ll put you on the short-timers at five a go, and rake in still more. You could take ten a night easy, and fifteen when we’ve a crowded house Saturdays. Maybe I’ll start you with five or six, though, for a few nights, just to run you in.’

  Choking with rage and terror, Linda burst out, ‘You filthy hag! I won’t take one. I swear I won’t. I’d rather die.’

  The woman chuckled. ‘Plenty of them say that at first, but they soon change their tune. Best be sensible, dear. You’ll enjoy it then, anyhow to start with. My name’s Lottie. I’m the Madam here, and I treat my girls good as long as there’s no complaints from the customers. I split fifty-fifty with them on what they bring in. That goes as well for any tips they may give you in private. And don’t you dare try cheating me on that, or it’ll be the worse for you. Of course, you’ll have to earn first what I give for you. Five hundred bucks that heel Marco screwed out of me. But I couldn’t afford to quarrel with him, otherwise he’d take his pick-ups to another house. Then there’ll be your clothes and hair-dos. In three or four months, though, you’ll be making good money. Now you’ve near slept the clock round you’re quite fit enough to make a start. I’ll send old Sal up to you. She’ll take you along the passage to a room where you’ll find make-up an’ all, and she’ll fit you out with black stockings, mules and a dandy nightie. Then you’ll come back here and in about an hour I’ll send up the first randy gent who’s willing to pay plenty to have a new girl.’

  ‘I won’t!’ Linda shouted. ‘If a man comes here and tries to take me, I’ll tear his eyes out. You can try your whip on me again, but I’m a damn’ sight stronger than you are, and if you do, I’ll choke the life out of you.’

  Lottie shook her head. ‘No, dear. I’m not going to use the whip on you no more. That would spoil your lovely body for the customers. But I see you’ve got to be broke in, so I’ll send Bimbo up instead. He’ll be real pleased at the chance to use his weapon on a gorgeous doll like you.’

  For the moment, while Lottie walked out of the room and locked the door behind her, Linda did not register the meaning of this new threat. Then, with full force, it struck her. A brothel, she felt sure, would have on its staff a strong-arm man to act as a chucker-out if any of the customers became troublesome. Bimbo must be the name of the one here, and he was to be sent up to rape her.

  The memory of the lorry-driver came into her mind. Bimbo was probably just such another coarse and powerful brute. From being raped in the shack she had succeeded in defending herself. Then she had at least been fully clothed and with nothing to prevent her from running away if she could free herself from her attacker. But here she was stark naked and a prisoner.

  She visualised Bimbo as an ex-pugilist or all-in wrestler. What possible chance would she have of defending herself from such a muscular ruffian? For a few minutes she contemplated surrender. But that would not save her from what would follow. Lottie had spoken of ten to fifteen men a night. Linda knew from having once read a book about an American prostitute who worked in a house on Hawaii during the Second World War that it was possible for a woman to accept that number, night after night, and retain her health. But the horror, the degradation of it!

  A macabre procession of naked men paraded through her mind. Bald men with enormous bellies, one-armed and one-legged men, gaunt creatures hawking and spitting from afflicted lungs, men with rashes, scrofula and only partially-healed sores, men who would wish to be whipped and in turn whip her, perverts who would demand of her unmentionable obscenities, perhaps a homicidal sadist who would try to strangle her, and others with venereal disease from which it would be impossible for her to protect herself from catching sooner or later.

  Shudders shook her, but her resolution returned. She would fight them one by one until some brute, infuriated by her resistance, inflicted some injury upon her that would cause her death.

  Quickly she looked round the small room for something with which to defend herself. There was nothing having a blade or that could be used as a bludgeon. And the whip was gone; Lottie had walked off with it. It occurred to Linda to barricade the door. Even if she got all the furniture in the room against it, that would not be anything like sufficient to prevent them from forcing it open after a while; but at least it would show that she was determined to thwart them by every means she could.

  Getting her hands under the end of the low bed, she raised it a little and began to drag it toward the door. She had moved it no more than a foot when the key turned in the lock and the door opened. Dropping the bed, she swung round and came to her full height. A giant Negro stood there, his white teeth gleaming in a wide smile of anticipation.

  She recognised him at once. Bimbo was the doorman who had let her and Marco into the house on the previous evening. Her mouth fell open and her eyes opened to their fullest extent. She had become casually acquainted with several coloured men of the upper class during her trips abroad with Rowley. They had all proved pleasant and intelligent, so she had liked them and had no racial prejudice. But this was different. The thought of his black skin pressed against hers made her flesh creep.

  Still grinning, he surveyed her eagerly from head to foot, then rolled a red tongue round his thick lips and said, ‘Waal now, if ol’ Bimbo ain’t the lucky boy. Yo’s a real peach, sweetie. Ah could keep on layin’ yo’ till the cows come home.’

  At last she found her voice and croaked, ‘Get out! Get out!’

  He slowly shook his head. ‘Yo’ got it all wrong, honey bunch. I’m heah to gi’ yo’ a real good time. An’ I’m not leavin’ till yo’s as limp as lars’ week’s washin’.’

  He was clad only in a singlet and a pair of shorts. In one swift gesture he pulled the singlet over his head of crisp, black curls and she heard the electricity crackle as he did it. A moment later he had kicked off his shoes, undone his belt and was stepping out of his shorts. As he again came erect, Linda got a full sight of what Lottie had referred to as his ‘weapon’. She had seen those of only four men, and had never dreamed that any man could possibly possess such a formidable organ. Horrified but fascinated, she stared at it as he said:

  ‘Jus’ look what the very sight o’ yo’ has done to ol’ Bimbo. Now for it, honey. Spread yo’self out on that there bed and thank da good Lord for what he’s sent yo’.’

  ‘I won’t!’ she yelled. ‘I won’t!’ But she was standing with her back to the edge of the bed. He took one stride forward, gave her a push with the flat of his great hand, and she fell backward at full length u
pon it. Next moment he was on top of her and his stink came sickeningly to her flared nostrils.

  As his big, fleshy lips came down on hers, she pulled her mouth away, began to scream with all the strength of her lungs and strove to cross her legs. But the weight of his on top of her made that impossible. Raising one knee, he jabbed it hard down between hers, forcing apart her thighs. His movement as he partly lifted himself gave her her opportunity.

  She had never forgotten how, when she had told Rowley about the schoolmaster having raped her when she was sixteen, he had said that no girl who had courage and a fair degree of strength need allow herself to be raped. The lorry-driver had never got his breeches down, but the Negro was naked. As he raised his knee, her right hand shot down and grasped his testicles.

  They were as hard as solid rubber balls, but she gripped them with as determined a clutch as a drowning man would have seized the cord of a lifebuoy, then squeezed them with all her might.

  Rearing up, he let out a howl of rage and pain. With wild, distended eyes, she saw him lift his fist to bring it crashing down on her face. Just in time she jerked her head aside. He gave another agonised yell, and strove to wrench his body away from hers, but he could not break her vice-like clutch on his testicles. Great beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead and were dripping from his chin. His eyes were bulging, their whites stark against his black skin. Again he raised his fist, but again she was too quick for him and, to protect her face, thrust it up against his neck. Opening her mouth to its fullest extent, she bit him savagely under the ear.

  He bellowed, yelled, screamed, but she had him now as firmly as a snake could wrap itself round a large warthog that had trodden on it, and with all the venom of an injured cobra. In vain he rolled about the bed, alternately on top of and beneath her. With her hand she crushed his testicles and her strong teeth bit deep into his neck. Blood spurted from the wound, filling her mouth. Choking and half suffocated, she swallowed it rather than let go.

  To her this terrible conflict seemed to last an age, but actually it could not have been more than two minutes before his screams subsided to groans and a whining moan, the spasmodic jerking of his limbs lessened to an agonised squirming. She knew then that she had won, relaxed her hold, unclenched her teeth, and lay, half-fainting from exhaustion, beside him.

  For several minutes she lay still, drawing her breath in harsh gasps. Then she raised herself on one elbow and looked at him. His great limbs were twisted in an unnatural heap. Blood was still pouring from the wound in his neck, making a crimson pool on the white sheet. She then realised that, by pure chance, her savage bite had torn open his jugular vein. He was still breathing, but his eyes had turned up so that only the whites were showing. She needed no telling that in a matter of minutes he would be dead.

  Then it struck her that she had murdered him. She felt no regrets about that, only new fears for herself. But no; as far as the law was concerned, she had no need to worry. No jury would ever give a verdict against a white woman who had killed a Negro while he was attempting to rape her. In any event, the owner of the brothel would never dare bring such a case to court. But that was the least of her anxieties.

  It seemed probable that anyone who had heard Bimbo’s screams had taken them for a continuation of her own, while still endeavouring to fight him off. Even so, Lottie might come in at any moment, to see how things were going and to watch the sport. Big Bear had once said that in brothels people often paid to watch erotic spectacles.

  Slipping off the bed, Linda stumbled to the door, opened it, took out the key then put it on the inside and locked the door. The house was old, and the door a stout one, so it would take a lot of forcing. That would at least give her more time in which to think.

  Yet how could thinking help her? She was no better off than before Lottie had come to the room and said her piece about the life led by girls who had been sold into brothels. In fact, far worse; for when they eventually broke the door in and found that she had killed Bimbo, God alone knew what they would do to her.

  Unless they had a crook doctor who would give a certificate that the Negro had died from a heart attack, or something of that kind, they would not dare invite an inquest with her teeth-marks in his neck and his testicles bleeding from where her nails had pierced them. The only course open to them would be to get rid of the body clandestinely. Perhaps by lowering it into the sewers. If so—ghastly thought—they might avenge themselves on her for having killed him by throwing her, too, into the sewers.

  Quaking with terror at the thought, she bit her thumb hard to prevent herself from giving way to a fit of hysterics. To unlock the door and venture out into the passage would only precipitate whatever frightfulness was in store for her. From the fourth floor she could not possibly hope to get down several flights of stairs and out of the house undetected. Besides, she was still stark naked.

  In both men and women nakedness, more than any other factor, paralyses action. On an impulse she snatched up Bimbo’s shorts, stepped into them, drew the belt tight round her waist, then put on his singlet. Normally she would have been revolted at the idea of wearing a Negro’s sweat-stained garments, but now she did not give it a thought. On the contrary; she no sooner had the clothes on than they had the psychological effect of modifying her sense of panic. Even so, she felt certain that she had no chance at all of getting downstairs unseen and escaping from the house.

  She ran to the window. It was now pitch dark outside. There were lights on in most of the buildings and in the section of street, but none of them was less than two hundred yards off. On the floor, one of the heavy shoes Bimbo had kicked off lay upside down. The heel was nail-studded. Snatching it up she broke the window-pane with it, then hammered frantically away until she had smashed out all the triangles of glass from the window frame. Leaning out she began to yell for help.

  She shouted in vain until she was hoarse. Under an are light she could see figures moving in the street; but they were either too distant to hear her or, if they did, took her cries for those of some woman involved in a drunken brawl which was no concern of theirs.

  Withdrawing her head she stood back breathless, racking her brains for a way to raise the alarm. The very word ‘alarm’ brought her inspiration—fire alarm!

  Running to the bed, she seized the dead Negro by one ankle. Exerting all her strength, she dragged his heavy body towards her till it fell with a thud on the floor. Getting her hands, under the end of the bed, she lifted it and, step by step, drew it, with its trailing, blood-soaked clothes, across the door. Taking the lamp, ashtray and matches from the bedside table, she threw the table, chamber pot and all, on to the bed. Throwing aside the still half-full enamel water jug, she heaved the washstand alongside them, then tore down the cretonne curtains and added them to the pile.

  Her dishevelled hair had fallen over her sweating face. Shaking it back, she picked up the matches, lit three one after the other and pushed them under folds in the curtains. Within a minute three flames shot up, surrounded by wisps of smoke. Two minutes later three small fires were spreading rapidly. The dry wood of the cheap old furniture caught, then the bed and bedding beneath it. There came a loud crackling, sparks flew, clouds of smoke billowed out.

  Satisfied now that no-one could force the door without getting badly burned, Linda ran back to the window, leaned out as far as she dared, and shouted, ‘Fire! Help! Fire!’ at the top of her voice.

  But still no-one in the distant street took any notice. The blaze behind her began to roar. She heard a furious knocking on the door and someone shouting ‘Open up! Open up!’ But she could not now, even if she had wanted to. The door itself was on fire and smoke must be pouring under it into the passage.

  Pulling in her head for a moment, she saw that the room was full of smoke. Had she not known the direction in which the door lay, she could have found it now only by the flames that licked about it. The smoke made her eyes smart and caught her in the throat. She was seized by a bout of violent
coughing. Quickly she thrust her head out again to gasp in the cold, fresh air.

  It relieved her only temporarily. The room was now so full of smoke that it was billowing past her out of the window. There was still no sign down in the street that anyone had noticed the conflagration. A few more minutes and she could no longer see the lights there. The smoke pouring from the window had become so dense that it blotted everything out.

  For some minutes she had felt the heat increasing behind her. Although she leaned out as far as she could, it was beginning to scorch her legs and backside. Panic again seized her. She had feared for her life before and had sought this desperate means of escape. Now it seemed she was to lose it for certain. She had trapped herself and would be burnt to death. There was no way out except by throwing herself from the window. But she was up on the fourth floor of the building, and had long since decided that to jump was certain to prove fatal. She would land in the builder’s yard, a heap of mangled flesh and broken bones. Coughing racked her until she thought her lungs would be torn to pieces. Still leaning as far as he dared out of the window, she began to lose consciousness.

  Her last thought was that she had failed, and failed miserably. She had counted on the fire brigade arriving on the scene, running up a tall ladder and rescuing her. But if they came now, it would be too late. Either Lottie’s people would smash down the burning door, put out the fire and drag her out, then inflict some ghastly death upon her, or she would be roasted alive. Then she fainted.

  Chapter 18

  Drugged and Kidnapped

  When Linda came to, she was lying on her back and her first sensation was one of movement. An electric bell clanged loudly somewhere above her head. She then realised that she was in an ambulance. The lower part of her back and her legs hurt. The fire and the desperate peril she had been in returned to her. As she opened her eyes, she saw that a man in a white coat was sitting beside her. Seeing that she had come out of her faint, he smiled and said: