‘You was born lucky, sister, else you’d been barbecued by this. If you’d fallen back inside that room when you passed out, the smoke were so dense the firemen who went up the ladder wouldn’t have seen you. The wood in them old houses burns like tinder. Time they got you down, the whole top floor were a ragin’ furnace.’
With the full return of consciousness the pain in her lower limbs increased. In a low voice she asked, ‘Am I badly burned?’
He grinned. ‘Your pants had caught, so the feller that brought you down had to give you a good spankin’ to put the flames out. But not to worry. You’ll be all right agin in a while.’
Soon afterwards the ambulance stopped and Linda was carried into a hospital. In the casualty receiving room she was asked her name, which she gave as Irma Jameson, then she was wheeled to the operating theatre and transferred to a table. A young doctor examined her, a nurse smeared her bottom and calves with a thick, yellow ointment that relieved the pain, a second nurse helped to bandage her, the doctor gave her a shot in the arm and, as she was wheeled away to a lift, she lost consciousness.
Early the following morning she was awoken by a nurse gently shaking her shoulder. She was lying on her stomach and, when she made to turn over, she found that she could not, because a broad bandage had been wound round her middle and the ends tucked in on either side of the bed. The nurse undid it for her, then she saw that she had been lying under a cradle. Screens round the bed told her that she was in a public ward. A doctor and an elderly Sister were standing at the foot of the bed. While the nurse took Linda’s temperature, the doctor felt her pulse. The result was apparently satisfactory, as the doctor said:
‘O.K. It will do her no harm to move her. Re-dress her burns and we’ll get her downstairs.’
As the nurse began to undo the bandages Linda was suddenly seized with panic. She had often heard that hospitals were so crowded that patients were sent home as soon as they were fit to be moved. The thought of again falling into Lottie’s hands terrified her, and she gasped:
‘Where are you going to send me?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But we have had special instructions about you. You’re not to be allowed to talk to any reporters and are to be collected by a private ambulance.’
‘I won’t go!’ Linda cried. ‘I won’t! I won’t! I’m not going back to that house. I demand police protection.’
‘Quiet, dear, please,’ urged the Sister softly. ‘You will disturb the other patients.’
‘I don’t care. I was kidnapped. I’m not going back. Nothing will induce me to. Get the police. Please! Please!’ Linda’s eyes were wild, and her fury had turned to pleading.
The Sister and the doctor exchanged glances. He nodded. The Sister signed to the nurse and the two women simultaneously flung themselves on Linda, pressing a towel over her mouth and holding her down. Meanwhile the doctor had picked up a syringe from a trolley at the foot of the bed and was filling it. A moment later Linda felt the slight prick of the needle. Almost at once the strength seeped from her limbs and soon afterwards she became unconscious.
When her brain started to function again, she was still in bed, but lying on her side. On opening her eyes she saw that she was no longer in a ward, but in a private room and, instead of the plain, cotton nightdress into which they had put her in the hospital, she was wearing a pretty one of pink chiffon. Her legs and bottom itched but no longer pained her. Sitting up, she looked round and found to her surprise that the room was not only comfortably furnished, but a vase of a dozen big chrysanthemums stood on a table near the window. On another table, beside an armchair, there were a row of neatly laid out magazines and a pile of paperbacks. Pushing back the bedclothes, she ran to the window and looked out. She was in a room on the first floor. Below lay a pleasant garden, but it was enclosed by a ten-foot-high wall.
Profoundly puzzled, she got back into bed. The place to which she had been brought had nothing remotely suggesting any connection with a brothel. And surely the very last thing that hideous hag Lottie would have done would be to have her removed to a luxurious private sanatorium? Yet who else could possibly be responsible? And the sinister fact remained that the ten-foot-high wall clearly indicated that the place was some sort of prison.
On the bedside table there were two thermos flasks. She found one contained iced milk and the other barley water. Preferring the former, she poured herself a long drink and as she did so noticed that behind the place where the thermos had stood there was a bellpush. Impatient to learn the best or worst about her new situation, she pressed it.
Two minutes later the door opened, and a nurse came into the room. She was thin-faced and had a hard mouth, but she smiled and said, ‘So you are awake. How’re you feeling?’
‘Not too bad, thank you,’ Linda replied. ‘The places where I was burnt are itching and I’ve got a slight headache. But otherwise I’m all right.’
The nurse nodded. ‘The headache is the result of the injection you were given. It will soon wear off. So will the itching in a day or two. The places will peel, of course, but you were only scorched. You have a very healthy skin and in a fortnight or so there will be no trace of it ever having been damaged.’
‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ Linda smiled. ‘And now please where am I, and why was I sent here?’
‘You are a few miles outside Chicago. But more than that I cannot tell you. The staff here are strictly forbidden to discuss with the patients any matter other than their ailments. Now, as it is well on in the afternoon, I expect you must be hungry.’ The nurse produced a menu from her apron pocket and handed it to Linda. ‘There is always someone on duty in the kitchen, so anything you care to choose from that can be brought up to you in about half an hour’s time.’
The last meal Linda had eaten had been her dinner with Marco, well over forty hours earlier, and, as she ran her eyes down the list, she suddenly realised that she felt very hungry indeed. From an excellent choice she decided on omelette Portuguese, stewed turkey and chocolate soufflé.
‘And to drink?’ asked the nurse. ‘I don’t advise spirits, but you can have any wine or soft drink that you like.’
‘Champagne?’ hazarded Linda.
‘Certainly. We are giving Pol Roger Non-Vintage at the moment.’
‘Splendid!’ Linda laughed. ‘As long as I am not expected to pay the bill. I have no money with me.’
‘Oh, no. That’s all taken care of. Now I’ll go and order your dinner.’
‘Thank you. But there is one other thing. Before I have it I’d like a bath.’
The nurse shook her head. ‘No. Tomorrow perhaps. It wouldn’t do for you to sit in a bath yet. But I’ll take you to the bathroom, and you can wash yourself, provided you don’t wet your bandages.’ As she spoke she opened a wardrobe, took out a prettily-frilled, silk dressing gown and held it out for Linda.
In the bathroom Linda found everything she could want neatly laid out. Her hair had been screwed up into a bun on the top of her head. After washing her face and as much of her body as she could, she gave her hair a good brushing, then did it more becomingly. Not long after she was back in bed, her early dinner was wheeled in on a trolley by the nurse, each course being kept hot in a thermos container. It was an excellent meal. Linda enjoyed every morsel of it, and washed it down with two glasses of champagne; but all the while her mind was troubled. What could all this cosseting of her be leading up to? There must be a catch in it somewhere—a price to pay, and perhaps one that she would find hateful. That she was being prepared for something, she felt certain, but what? What? What?
When she had finished her meal the nurse came in again, wheeled out the trolley, then wheeled in another containing bandages, bottles and enamel basins. Having re-dressed and re-bandaged Linda’s burns, she went to the wardrobe and produced an expensive bed-jacket. As she put it round Linda’s shoulders, she said:
‘You needn’t wear this now, if you find it too warm; but you’ll need it later. I telep
honed while you were in the bathroom, to say that you are sufficiently recovered to receive a visitor, and in about an hour a gentleman will be coming to see you.’
Linda sat up with a jerk. Her brown eyes blazing, she cried, ‘Then this is a brothel! But a really expensive one.’
‘A brothel!’ the nurse repeated, staring at her in surprise. ‘Certainly not. Whatever gave you such an extraordinary idea?’
‘I escaped from one last night,’ Linda burst out. ‘Surely you know that? Then the people who ran it had me drugged in the hospital and brought here. They must have. Who else could have? I don’t know a soul in Chicago.’
The nurse shook her head. ‘You must be imagining things. I know nothing about you. Perhaps this is delayed shock. When I was told that you had been in a fire I expected you to show symptoms of shock; but you are a very strong young woman physically and—it seemed to me—mentally, so …’
‘I’m not suffering from shock,’ Linda cut her short. ‘I tell you I was drugged and sold into a brothel. Then, at the hospital, I was drugged again and kidnapped. If any man tries to touch me, I’ll kill him, just as I …’ She suddenly faltered, fearing to admit that she had killed Bimbo.
Taking advantage of her pause, the nurse said sharply, ‘You may be telling the truth. But it is none of my business. I’ve already told you that the staff here are forbidden to discuss the patients’ private affairs with them.’ Then she walked out of the room.
Linda was breathing heavily. Again her mind was in a turmoil. Her recent terrible experiences, and the lack of any possible explanation about how she came to be where she was, other than that old Lottie had arranged for her to be sent there, led her to conclude that there could be only one reason why a man was coming to see her.
Immediately the thought of trying to escape sprang into her mind. But could she possibly get out of the house without someone seeing and preventing her? There was the window, and it was only about twelve feet up from the garden. She could hang from the sill and let herself drop, but she would probably break an ankle. Anyhow, she would never be able to get over the ten-foot wall. And she would have on only a dressing gown. Any attempt to get away from the place was stymied by the wall and the fact that she was in her night clothes.
Her headache was gone. The soothing ointment with which her burns had been dressed had reduced their irritation to a degree that made it almost imperceptible. The good dinner and champagne had restored her strength and courage. If need be, she would again fight off any man who attempted to take her by force. Her glance fell on the empty pint champagne bottle. The nurse had left it on her bedside table. Used as a club, it would make a formidable weapon.
In spite of her renewed resolution the hour that followed was one of the most trying that Linda had ever endured. Greatly as she dreaded the coming of this unknown man, with half her mind she was eager for his arrival; for, through him, she hoped to learn the answer to the mystery that surrounded her transfer from a third-rate brothel to this luxurious prison.
The hour seemed never-ending, but at last there came a knock at the door. Linda called ‘Come in.’ The door opened. She caught a glimpse of the nurse in the passage, then the door closed again as her visitor stepped briskly into the room.
He was a tall, thin man, probably about forty, Linda thought, as his face looked youngish although his hair was grey and thinning. His forehead was high, his nose prominent. Perched on it was a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. The lower features completed a strong, intellectual face and his clothes were in keeping with it: a well-cut, grey lounge suit, a scrupulously clean, faintly-patterned collar and shirt and, one splash of colour, a royal-blue silk tie.
For a moment he studied Linda, his face expressionless. Her face and voice were equally so as she asked, ‘What do you want with me?’
He smiled then, and it was a pleasant smile. ‘I am here on behalf of a person of considerable importance who has become interested in you.’
‘Indeed!’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you that person?’
‘Dear me, no. I’m only a fairly high-up cog in his machine. Nobody even knows his real name. He is spoken of simply as “The Top”.’
Reassured now that her visitor’s intentions were not of the kind she had feared, Linda smiled. ‘This all sounds very mysterious.’
‘It would to you, so perhaps I’d better explain. No doubt you have heard of Al Capone?’
‘Vaguely. Wasn’t he a big-time gang leader? But years ago. Long before I was born.’
‘That’s so. For years he controlled all the rackets here in Chicago. Well, The Top is the modern equivalent of Al Capone, although, of course, he is a very different type of person. Capone was a lower-class Italian born in Brooklyn. The Top is a highly-cultured gentleman. It is said that way back in the war he was a big shot in either our C.I.A. or the British M.I.6. Anyhow, there is little he doesn’t know about the workings of the F.B.I. and Security Services. You may have heard the expression “Top Secret”. That’s why he’s called “The Top”. After the war he devoted his talents to what, as a lawyer, I would term “illegal activities”. And he has built an empire out of the criminal elements in a great part of the United States. Very few people actually know him, but thousands of dope pedlars, brothel-keepers, bank robbers and every sort of hoodlum pay him tribute; so he is immensely rich and his word is law. Now, may I sit down?’
‘Of course, please do. I should have asked you to before.’ As the lawyer lowered himself into the armchair and crossed his long legs, Linda went on, ‘All this sounds frightfully like a “thriller”; but lots of people do seem to think that modern crime is organised by a few big brains that no-one would even dream were connected with that sort of thing. All the same, I can’t think why this Mr. Top should have become interested in me.’
‘It is your good fortune that he happened to see you.’
‘When did he do that?’
‘He chanced to be dining at the Lido the night before last, when you dined there with Marco Mancini before he took you to that house.’
‘Marco! That little swine! I’d give a lot for the chance to pay him out for having sold me into that ghastly place.’
‘You needn’t worry. He’s been rapped, and hard, for acting contrary to standing orders. The job of these dirty little ponces is to pick up lower-class girls who are more or less on the rocks. Most of them have run away to the big city from homes in small towns, so they have no family or rich friends to worry about what has become of them. They may create a scene or two to start with, but they soon resign themselves to life in a brothel. Women like yourself are different. They nearly always make trouble. In your case you caused thousands of dollars’ worth of damage and, still worse, led to a house that was paying well having to be written off. Marco knew damn’ well that you were not the type that he could sell down the river without the risk of burning his fingers; but I suppose he was tempted by the big money he could get for a girl with your looks.’
‘I see.’ Linda smiled. ‘Well, it’s good to know that little rat is now paying for his mistake, but …’ Linda’s smile changed to a frown. ‘What about your Mr. Top? Having seen me, I suppose he took a fancy to me and has sent you to collect me for his harem.’
The lawyer laughed. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I take it you have heard of Cherril Chanel?’
‘The film star? Yes, of course.’
‘Has it ever struck you that you are very like her?’
Linda hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose I am in a way. But she is blonde, whereas I am a brunette.’
‘That is easily remedied. Anyway, when The Top saw you at the Lido, he was immediately struck by the resemblance. At the moment, Cherril is on vacation with her latest boy friend in the Fijis. But she might quite well suddenly have had enough of him and fly in to Chicago. For a few days you are going to impersonate her. At least, I hope so.’
‘Why does this man Top wish me to do that?’
‘It is a matter of getting some highly secret
documents over the border into Canada. The Top has a big organisation there as well as in the States; but for a year or more he has been having a lot of trouble with a rival group there, and he has decided that it would pay him better to sell out than start a really bloody gang war. These documents are leases of many properties, lists of sources of income and pay rolls of his people, which he is turning over to the other side. The Feds know that this deal is about to take place, so they are watching like hawks everyone here who has either a criminal record or is suspect. If these papers fell into wrong hands, not only could Canadian police smash the biggest crime ring in Canada, but the Feds would have leads to many people back here; perhaps even to The Top himself. So you see they have got to be taken through by somebody who is absolutely above suspicion.’
‘Why can’t you smuggle them across the lake by night in a fast motor launch?’
‘That has been considered. But it is too risky. If the launch was caught by a patrol boat, the game would be up. No, they’ve got to be carried through Customs by some well-known person who will be bowed through with smiles, while the Press boys take photographs. Cherril Chanel could do it and, posing as her, so could you.’
‘What happens if something went wrong and I was caught?’
The lawyer smiled a little wryly. ‘That would be just too bad. You could swear that the stuff had been planted on you without your knowledge. But it would be bound to come out that you weren’t the real Cherril Chanel. So they wouldn’t believe you, and the odds are you would be sent down for a term of years.’
‘Then why should I take that risk?’
‘Because for you it is the better alternative.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Exactly what happened in that house run by old Lottie Finkestein no-one will ever know—unless you tell them. When the Negro’s body was recovered, it was simply a charred corpse. How you succeeded in knocking him out I just can’t think. But I take my hat off to you for it, and when The Top was told he thought it one of the best jokes he’d ever heard. He doesn’t even hold against you what the fire has cost him. But the Negro’s death is neither here nor there. The thing that does concern you is a matter of arson.’
The Strange Story of Linda Lee Page 26