The Strange Story of Linda Lee

by Dennis Wheatley

  Then she was seized with sudden consternation. Another thought had struck her. She had not, after all, yet crossed the last hurdle. The first criminals ever caught by a wireless message had been Dr. Crippen with Miss le Neve. Since then hundreds of others had been caught by the same means. There were nearly nine hours to go before she landed at Edmonton. Would the police be waiting for her there?

  Chapter 9

  Unhappy Exile

  On the Saturday morning Linda awoke in an eighth-floor bedroom of the Hotel Sheraton Summit in Calgary. It was a curiously-shaped room, for the hotel was a large, round tower, so all its rooms formed segments of a great circle.

  When Linda realised where she was, she stretched luxuriously, smiled and gave a sigh of happiness. She had pulled it off. The likelihood of her now being traced was comparatively remote, and she had got away with a fortune. Her mind ran back over the journey of the preceding day.

  Extraordinary as it seemed, she had left Heathrow at five minutes past two in the afternoon and had been carried the thousands of miles over Scotland, Greenland, Baffin Island and five-sixths of the vast territory of Canada to arrive at Edmonton only forty minutes later according to local time. In fact, however, the flight had actually taken nearly nine hours. Owing to her fear of being arrested at the other end, those hours had seemed interminable, the more so on account of the unvarying daylight as the aircraft virtually kept pace with the apparently western-travelling sun. In a vague way she had realised that Air Canada provided excellent service and tempting food, but worry had prevented her from enjoying them.

  At Edmonton she nerved herself to face the worst, but no official accosted her as she left the aircraft and reached the Immigration desk. On entering the Customs hall she almost choked with fear. Ladies do not often travel with twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of jewels in their luggage. The officer might well have been warned to look out for such a hoard. In any event it seemed certain that he would question her and make notes describing the most valuable pieces.

  Asked if she had anything to declare, she replied, ‘No, I’ve come to Canada only for a holiday,’ and, her heart beating wildly, unlocked the brief-case.

  The officer barely glanced at the toilet things under which lay the tissue-paper-wrapped jewel cases. Smiling at her, he said, ‘You’ve brought a lot of luggage for a vacation,’ and told her to open two of her suitcases. Finding only clothes in them, he chalked all her baggage, wished her a happy time and turned away.

  It was through a remark made by a man nearby she learned that the plane, after refuelling, was flying on to Calgary. That offered a chance to cover her tracks still further, so she bought a ticket for the onward flight, had her luggage relabelled and went back on board. Soon after seven o’clock a Calgary taxi-driver set her down at the Sheraton Summit. She had booked in there as Miss Lily Carter, then, too exhausted by the strain of the past day to face a meal, gone straight to bed.

  Getting up, she drew back the curtains sufficiently to see the view from the window. At least half the area she could see consisted of several vast car parks. Later she learned that Calgary was said to have more cars per head of population than any other city in Canada. Here and there, among the car parks, there rose sky-scrapers, but few other buildings.

  While breakfasting in bed, she thought over her next move. By now the police in London would be looking for Linda Chatterton. She had arrived in Edmonton as Linda Lee and in Calgary as Lily Carter. But to be on the safe side she must move again as quickly as possible, and take yet another name. Having flown over the endless wheat-fields of Alberta the previous afternoon, she could imagine nothing more dreary than starting a new life in such surroundings. Besides, a newcomer in any of its scattered towns was much more likely to arouse unwelcome interest than a solitary woman in a big city. To go still further west to Vancouver therefore seemed the obvious choice. That also offered the fascinating prospect of a journey through the Rockies.

  She had awoken early, so by nine o’clock she had bathed, dressed and was down in the hotel lobby. There she learned that the daily train for Vancouver left Calgary at 1.40 that afternoon. Having booked a drawing-room on it, she went to a nearby bank where she exchanged enough Swiss francs to pay for her ticket, her bill and leave her nine hundred Canadian dollars over. Returning to the hotel, in the ladies’ room she stuffed eight hundred dollars into her pochette, then decided that the best way to kill the morning was to go for a drive round the city.

  The hall porter produced a car with a pleasant, talkative young driver, who pointed out to her the sights of Calgary, such as they were: the tall Husky tower topped by its radio mast, the big Hudsons’ Bay Company store and the best shops that were on Seventh and Eighth Avenues. Within half a mile of them the streets grew strangely ragged. Occasional modern blocks stood with large vacant lots on either side of them or dilapidated-looking private houses with small gardens, evidently built forty or fifty years before. They then drove through tree-lined streets of suburbs, with much more pleasant homes, to a high ridge on which stood a fine group of buildings housing the university. From the ridge there was an excellent view of the Bow River which, hundreds of miles distant, flows into the Mississippi.

  Back at the hotel Linda had an early lunch in the Casa Lounge. It was a lofty, curved room, with dim lights and red walls, which gave it the atmosphere of a warm cave. The list of drinks produced by a pretty waitress surprised Linda by its size and variety. Among the recommended cocktails were El Toro, Brown Bull and Lady of Spain, all previously unheard of by her. She chose the last, which was one ounce of vodka, half an ounce of blackberry brandy, a dash of orange juice, a dash of Grenadine and a maraschino cherry. While it was being brought she wondered if the names of these strange drinks had been selected on account of the annual rodeo, for which Calgary was famous, in which tough cowboys seized young bulls by the horns and threw them on their backs.

  By a quarter past one she was standing on one of the long, windy, seatless platforms of the railway station. The train was late, but at last it arrived and she clambered up into it. The drawing-room she had booked came as a pleasant surprise. It had a wardrobe next to a private washroom and, in addition to the two bunks which made up into a comfortable sofa during daytime, it had two large armchairs.

  Soon after leaving the city the train went round a long curve, and she was able to appreciate its make-up. The chain of long coaches seemed endless and above several of them there were large glass domes from which passengers could get an uninterrupted view of the scenery. As for some while it remained flattish and uninteresting, she did not bother to go along to one of them. But after about two hours they stopped at Banff, in the foothills of the Rockies, so she walked down the corridor to the nearest observation car, and went upstairs.

  It was the slowest train she had ever travelled in. She assumed this was because of the gradients it had to mount, but its snail’s pace gave ample opportunity, as it crawled round curve after curve, to take in each new vista. Except for the angle from which they were seen, the views had little variety. They consisted of lakes and creeks surrounded by rising ground densely covered with Canadian pines. Each scene provided a perfect setting for befeathered Indians paddling canoes; but not a human being or an animal, let alone a Redskin, was to be seen.

  Linda sat under the transparent, inverted bowl that covered the long omnibus-like coach until it was time for dinner, then she went down to the restaurant car, enjoyed an excellent meal, and went early to bed.

  After breakfast next morning, she went up again. The sun was shining on a rushing river far below, to the left in a deep gorge through which the train was winding. Again the scene consisted of endless slopes of pine trees, broken only occasionally by a smallish drift of snow on the higher peaks. After a while Linda decided that the Alps were incomparably grander and went down to get her things together. Soon after ten o’clock the train pulled into Vancouver Station.

  Having for so long been used to travelling de luxe with Rowle
y she had so far denied herself nothing and had instinctively engaged a private drawing-room on the train. But it suddenly struck her that, although she had a large sum in cash, she might find it difficult to dispose of more of the jewels, so she ought not to fritter away money by staying at one of the big hotels.

  Outside the station, when her luggage was brought out, she ripped off the labels while the porter was getting her a taxi. Then she said to the driver of the taxi, ‘I am a stranger to Vancouver and know no-one here. Can you take me to a hotel that is not too expensive? Quite a small one would do, provided it’s respectable and has passably good food.’

  The man glanced at her smart suitcases, hesitated, then replied, ‘My sister runs a place, the Astley it’s called, down on the bay. But it’s on the modest side. Might not be grand enough for a lady like you.’

  Linda smiled. ‘I’d be happy to try it, so please take me there.’

  As she had supposed, Vancouver was very different from Calgary. There were no vacant lots or decayed-looking houses in the streets through which she was driven, but block after block of good shops, restaurants and offices. Beach Avenue proved to be not much over a mile from the centre of the city. Most of the buildings there were old-fashioned, two-storied, clapboard houses, but a few were larger, with three stucco-covered storeys, and the Hotel Astley was one of these.

  The taxi-driver took her in and introduced her to his sister, Mrs. Burnaby, a plumpish, pleasant-faced woman with greying hair whose husband, it transpired, had once been a chef at the Ritz in Boston. Linda now decided to ignore the second initial on her suitcases, and said her name was Lucille Harrison, and that she had come up from Los Angeles where she had been for some time playing small parts in films. The lie was designed to allay any suspicion Mrs. Burnaby might have about the initial, because film actresses often married but retained their maiden names. Linda added that she had recently been ill, so wanted somewhere that was very quiet where she could rest for a few weeks. Her face and figure amply supported her statement that she was a starlet and she refrained from saying whether she was British or American, hoping that in spite of her lack of accent Mrs. Burnaby would assume anyhow that she had lived in the States for several years.

  They then discussed terms. Mrs. Burnaby said the only single room she had free was on the top floor at the back of the house, but it overlooked the bay, and Linda could have it for forty-five dollars a week, which would include full board; so Linda said she would like to see the room. It proved to be small and had a sloping roof, and she would have to go along the passage to a communal bathroom, to which she had long been unaccustomed. But the bedroom was quite pleasantly furnished. She was then shown two rooms on the ground floor. Both ran the full depth of the house. One, a lounge, had a reasonable number of easy chairs in it; the other, which was a dining-room, had one long table in the centre and six small ones along the sides. Linda guessed that, had she not so stupidly said she was a film actress, she could have got such accommodation for forty dollars or less, but staying at a good hotel would have cost her at the very least three times as much; so, having stipulated that she should be given one of the small tables in the dining-room to herself, she said that she would move in.

  Mrs. Burnaby’s brother obligingly carried up the seven suitcases. Linda tipped him handsomely and, having shaken hands with her, he went off grinning. The luggage almost filled the small bedroom, but the landlady said there was an attic along the corridor that Linda could have the use of to hang up some of her clothes and store the empty cases; then she left Linda to unpack.

  For a few minutes Linda gazed out across the beach at the Pacific. It was not blue, as she had hoped, but there were several ships in the distance and, nearer the shore, four small yachts, which gave the view a pleasant animation. She had only freshened herself up with a wash, redone her hair and unpacked her overnight bag when a gong sounded downstairs, evidently indicating lunch.

  In the dining-room there were two elderly couples and one middle-aged pair, seated at small tables, and two Chinese men at the larger one. They all eyed Linda with interest as she was shown to her table by a pert, teenage waitress; but she gave only the slightest of bows on passing the nearest couple, then settled herself to read the menu. It was handwritten and offered no choice, simply stating: Cauliflower Soup, Macaroni Cheese, Strawberry Ice. When the waitress brought the soup, Linda asked for the list of drinks. The girl’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Drink list! We don’t have them sort o’ things here. No licence. But you can bring in yer own if you like. I could do you a Coke, though, or a Seven-Up.’

  A shade ruefully Linda settled for a Coke. While she was eating the meal, which proved quite passable, two ladies, who looked like spinsters, and a bald man with a limp came in and took separate places at the big table. Linda had, in any case, decided to keep herself to herself as much as possible, and what she had so far seen of her fellow guests strengthened her determination.

  Having been up so early, by the time she had finished lunch she felt very tired, so she went up to her room and lay down on the bed to sleep. When she woke it was close on five o’clock. Although she did not feel like going out, to drink cocktails and wine had become such a habit with her that she could not face the prospect of a drinklcss evening, so she dressed for the street and went in search of a wine merchant’s. Failing to find one in the neighbourhood, she enquired of a policeman, to learn to her dismay that in Canada there were none. One could buy liquor only from the State stores, and these shut at five-thirty.

  A little further back she had passed a quite large hotel, so she retraced her steps, went in, settled herself in the lounge and beckoned over a waiter.

  Smiling, he shook his head. ‘No drinks served here, Miss, nor in the rooms. The only parts of an hotel like this that are licensed are the dining-room and the bar downstairs.’ Marvelling at this evidence of barbarity in an otherwise civilised country, she made her way down to the bar. There were only a few people there, so she took one of the unoccupied tables and ordered a White Lady. As she drank it, a man nearby started to ogle her. Looking straight through him, she froze him with her stare, then ordered another cocktail. As she lingered over the second, she was beginning to wonder if she had been wise to choose Canada as her place of exile. For a single woman, and a very attractive one, who could get a drink only by going into bars where she was likely to be pestered by men, life there did not promise to be very pleasant.

  By the time she got back to the Astley she found that she was late for the evening meal. The dining-room was now nearly full, but the guests she had not previously seen appeared to be as dull as those who had been there for lunch. Again, although there was no choice on the menu, the meal proved quite good, and she noted with relief that on several tables there were bottles of wine, so she would not be remarked on if she brought her own in. Afterwards she felt that she could not face the lounge, so went straight up to her room and read a paperback until she became drowsy enough to go to sleep.

  The following morning she unpacked two of her suitcases but left the rest untouched, taking them along to the attic to get them out of the way; because as yet she was by no means certain that she would stay on at the Astley. Her trouble was that, for about the same money, she would encounter similar conditions in any other small hotel, and she was reluctant to make serious inroads into her capital by staying for any length of time at a big one. For the same reason she resisted the temptation to go out and lunch at a good restaurant, instead of eating the unexciting but adequate meal she was already paying for, because that might become a habit.

  But immediately after lunch she telephoned for a taxi and when it arrived, taking with her the brief-case in which she kept the precious jewels, she asked the driver to take her to one of the banks in the centre of the city. He set her down at the Bank of Montreal, and there she arranged to hire a safe-deposit box. Into it she put the jewels, except for a few minor pieces to wear if the occasion arose, and the rest of her Swiss francs.<
br />
  After that she had a hair-do, which made her feel much more cheerful; then, having spent an hour window-gazing in Grenville and West Georgia Streets, she went into the big Hudson’s Bay Company store, where she bought chocolates, fudge, butterscotch, sweet biscuits and several paperbacks.

  Her last visit was to a State liquor store. To her great annoyance she found the price of French champagne prohibitive and even European still wines were very expensive. Mistrusting the wines with names unknown to her, she bought two bottles of rum, two of gin and one each of sweet vermouth, brandy, Cointreau and Benedictine. With the rum she could spike Cokes to drink with her meals and the other half-dozen bottles she reckoned would keep her going for quite a time with a variety of cocktails which she would mix in her room.

  As she returned to the hotel in a taxi with her purchases it occurred to her that, although she had become a criminal, she could at least console herself with the thought that, had she not become one, she would now be living in a London boarding house which would be less comfortable than her quarters at the Astley, and leave her next to nothing to spend on such luxuries as books, drink and chocolates.

  During the day the thought that had worried her most was that she would have to spend her evenings in the lounge with her unattractive fellow guests; but a way had occurred to her of avoiding boring conversations.

  That evening at dinner when the little waitress asked her a question, she pretended not to hear it clearly. The girl repeated it louder and added: ‘Didn’t know you was deaf.’