The Strange Story of Linda Lee

by Dennis Wheatley

  For all your new finery it isn’t no good you pretending you’re not who you are. Just as you walked off from me on Friday with your head in the air I catched sight of that little mole you got behind your ear. Identified you as good as a set of fingerprints it did. But I didn’t chase you because I don’t want to make no trouble. Saturday I got the lowdown though a pal of mine what is one of the hotel cleaners. You’ve struck it lucky and no mistake. Nearer the mark though to say you’ve learnt to lay on your back and open them fine legs of yours to the right kind of gent. No sleezy back rooms for you, old girl, eh? Mrs. Harrison, with her own fine bedroom. Living respectable, I don’t think. Whole staff knows you’re the fancy bird for mister moneybags Orson along the corridor.

  Well, ducks, that’s all right by me. Good luck to you I say. If he thinks you are the daughter of a Duke, I’m not telling him different. But it ain’t right to high hat your own brother. Blood’s thicker than water, ain’t it? All I want is a friendly chat about old times. That won’t cost you nothing and we’ll meet in a place where poor old Sid won’t disgrace you. Wear me best suit I will and we’ll have a cuppa in Marcel’s café on the Rue Notre-Dame. It’s a decent middle-class joint and only Frenchies go there. I’ll be waiting for you at five o’clock. If you’re tied up Monday I’ll be there again same time Tuesday. Looking forward to seeing you, lovie. Your affec. brother, Sid.

  Linda’s hand was shaking, and she had skimmed through the letter, so absorbed only the main points. Re-reading it carefully, she tried to assess what really lay in the writer’s mind. Although that damnable little mole behind her left ear had given her away, he had not followed her into the hotel and made a scene. He had found out that Big Bear was her lover, but said that he had no intention of embarrassing her with him. All he asked for was a chat about old times. Although they had never had any affection for each other they had, after all, been brought up together; so the request did not seem unreasonable, particularly as he had spent the past six years as an exile.

  Although she was most loath to meet him, she realised that if she refused his request he might change his mind about not making trouble. Big Bear was quite capable of throwing him downstairs and, no doubt, would think no worse of her for having been told that she came of a poor family. But that might not be the end of the matter. It would come out that she was, or anyway had been, Linda Lee, and that might lead to her ending up in prison.

  Clearly she must see Sid and the sooner she got it over the better. Although he had not asked for money she thought it certain that he would expect her to give him some, and she decided that it would be better to do so freely, otherwise there was the unpleasant possibility that he might resort to blackmail. So that afternoon, when she made her way to the Café Marcel, dressed in a skirt, high-necked sweater, and wearing a cloth coat instead of her mink, she had in her bag an envelope with two one-hundred-dollar bills in it.

  The place was half-empty and Sid was sitting at a table at the far end of the room. He did not get up as she approached him, but gave her a cheerful wave and said, ‘Well, ducks, nice to see yer. Take a pew and tell us how you come to strike so lucky.’

  He was now dressed in a shiny blue suit, a pale yellow shirt and a flamboyant tie that had evidently seen a considerable amount of wear. Although only six years her senior he looked a lot older than twenty-six, and reminded her uncomfortably of her father. He had the same mop of coarse black hair and pale, slightly protruding eyes. His face was lean, and his mouth bitter. Obviously fate had not been very kind to Sid.

  She waited until he had ordered tea and cakes for them both, then shrugged and, in an endeavour to keep the conversation on a light note, said, ‘It’s the old story—just like the song. “She was poor but she was honest victim of a rich man’s crime. ‘Twas the Squire’s cruel passion robbed her of her honest nime. Then she went right up to London for to hide her grief and shime. There she met another Squire, an’ she lorst ’er nime again.”’

  Sid’s thin lips broke into a grin. ‘Ma writes me now and then. Over two years ago she wrote me that yer’d hooked it on yer own to London and got a job as companion to a rich old woman.’

  ‘I never told her that; she just jumped to that conclusion—as I meant her to. Actually it was with a very nice middle-aged man who picked me up on the train. He died some months ago, and left me enough money to travel. I thought I’d like to see Canada, and after I’d been here for a while I met Mr. Orson. As I am free, and liked him very much, I saw no reason why I should not “lose my name again”.’

  ‘Gawd; if only I could lose my name for the pickin’s you’re gettin’. ‘E‘s the big shot in advertising in these parts, ain’t ‘e?’

  ‘Yes. But that’s enough about me. How have you been doing, Sid? I heard from Ma a long time ago that you’d married and had two children.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. An’ more bloody fool me. With that lot to feed and clothe, what chance has a feller got to save enough to set up for ’isself or buy a share in a promisin’ little business? Bein’ a refuse collector, as the sods who pay me call it, is one hell of a life; but I don’t see no way ter get nothing better.’

  Linda nodded, and produced the envelope from her bag. ‘You’ve had rotten luck, Sid. Now, look. My old friend did not leave me a fortune, only just enough to see something of the world in a modest way. And I wouldn’t be staying at the Ritz-Carlton if it were not for Mr. Orson. But, believe me or not as you like, he doesn’t give me any money, because we are really very fond of each other, and that would spoil our relationship. All he does is to buy me presents and pay my bill at the hotel. I refused to recognise you the other day because, to be honest, I didn’t want it known that my brother was a dustman. But I felt very sorry for you. So I went to the Bank of Montreal this morning and used my letter of credit to get these two hundred dollars for you.’

  ‘Strewth, Lindy! he exclaimed. ‘You’re a real brick, you are. I’m ever so grateful. Why, with that I’ll be able to buy meself a motor bike an’ sidecar, an’ take my old woman an’ the kids out for runs in the country when it comes spring again.’

  As he eagerly pocketed the money, she asked if he had heard from their mother lately.

  He nodded. ‘’Bout a coupla months ago. Things ain’t no better than they was when we lived at ’ome. Pa’s as big a slave-driver as ever, and ’as a skinful regular Saturday nights. The old girl is still sore about yer goin’ off on yer own an’ never even droppin’ ’er a line. But she did say in one of ’er letters as ’ow you send ’er a few quid to help out now an’ then. That’s decent of yer, Lindy. You always was a good kid. ’Fraid I didn’t make things any too easy fer yer. But you must blame Pa fer that. He used to work me something chronic, an’ at times I got so mad I used ter take it out on yer.’

  For a while they talked of the way they had slaved in the market garden, and of people they had known in the neighbourhood. Then Linda stubbed out her cigarette and said, ‘Well, it’s nice to have had our chat, Sid, but I must be getting back now.’

  As he produced some loose change to pay the bill, he gave her an earnest look, and spoke in a humble voice. ‘Lindy, it’s darned good of yer to give me this money; but there’s just one other thing I wish you’d do. I’d like yer to meet my missis an’ the kids. ’Ow about coming along one evening and having a bite of supper?’

  Imperceptibly Linda stiffened. ‘No, Sid. I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’ve agreed that it is better that we should go our separate ways.’

  ‘Oh, come on na. Don’t yer want to see yer little nieces? It would make ’em no end proud to know that their auntie is a fine lady like you, and put my stock up with Doris inter the bargain.’

  The last thing that Linda wanted to do was to meet Sid’s family, and she shook her head. ‘No, really. If you introduce me to your wife, she will probably ask me to come again, and expect me to take the children to a movie, or something.’

  ‘No, she won’t. I’ll see to that. And this means a lot to
me. Doris’s father is a builder. In a small way, but quite well off. ’E bought us the ’ouse we live in, an’ she’s always gettin’ at me about me not earnin’ better money, an’ ’ow superior her family are to the people I come from. You comin’ along in your mink and sparklers would put an end to that line o’ gab and teach ’er better. Come on, Lindy. Be a sport. It’ud be only for once, ’cause I’ll tell ’er that you’re off back to England in a couple of days’ time.’

  Put that way it was a request that Linda found it impossible to refuse, and Big Bear had to attend a conference on the coming Wednesday evening, so she agreed to Sid’s plea. With a stub of pencil he wrote down his address for her and said, ‘There yer are. It’s quite a way out, but it won’t break yer ter take a taxi. Thanks, ducks; you’ve proved a real pal.’

  After they had parted, she felt that Sid was not such a bad fellow after all, and that things had gone off well—except for this new commitment. That evening and all through Tuesday, the thought that complications might arise from it worried her; but she endeavoured to comfort herself with Sid’s promise that after this one visit he would once more disappear out of her life.

  On the Wednesday morning, feeling that she ought to take some presents with her, she went out and bought for Doris a quite expensive costume-jewellery brooch and for the two girls dolls that could be dressed up in a variety of clothes, and large boxes of candy.

  At six o’clock that evening, loaded with her parcels, she took a taxi out to the address Sid had given her. It was, as she had expected, in a poor district, but she was a little taken aback by the appearance of the house. That it was only a two up, two down did not surprise her, but the little garden in front was a tangle of weeds, the woodwork had not had a coat of paint for a generation and the window curtains were faded brown, one of them torn at the top.

  Sid had been watching for the taxi to drive up, and let her in. He greeted her with exuberance, took her coat and led her into the front room. It was shoddily furnished in appalling taste. On the walls there were several coloured lithographs of sacred subjects, from which Linda guessed that Doris was a Roman Catholic. She was making up the fire as Linda came in. Turning, she showed good teeth in a nervous smile, then instinctively ran her hands down her front, as though wiping them on an apron, before shaking hands with Linda. Doris had once been pretty in a flashy way, but looked older than Sid or, perhaps, was prematurely aged by work and worry. Linda’s experienced eye took in the fact that the gold of her hair had come out of a bottle and her blue dress was of artificial silk.

  The two little girls, aged four and three, were seated on the edge of the sofa. One was named Angelique and the other Bernadine, but it soon transpired that they were called Ang and Ber. The hair of both had obviously been crimped for the occasion and was kept in place by none-too-clean ribbons. Their clothes had been freshly ironed, but the frock of the younger one was so old that the colours had faded and the shoes of both were scruffy. Out of pinched little faces their big eyes were riveted on the visitor as though she were a being from another world.

  Sid had carried in Linda’s parcels for her and she now distributed them with smiles. Doris gawped at the piece of costume jewellery and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my! Ain’t that just too lovely. To bring me that was ever so kind.’ The children tore their parcels open, stared at the dolls for a moment then put them quickly aside and fell upon the candies like two small, famished wolves. They had devoured several while their mother was admiring her brooch. When she saw what they were doing she snapped at them:

  ‘Stop that, you two, or you’ll be sick. And I’ve no mind to clean up after you. Now thank your kind auntie, and behave proper.’

  Sid produced a bottle of Canadian red wine and, when he had filled three glasses, started on what amounted almost to a monologue. To Linda’s embarrassment, it consisted of a tissue of lies about a fine home in which he and she were supposed to have been brought up, designed to lead Doris to believe that they came of an upper-class family from which he had become an outcast owing to a quarrel with their father. At times he asked Linda questions about nonexistent rich relatives and, greatly as she disliked doing so, she felt bound to play up to him.

  How, with his awful speech, he could have the nerve to such pretensions, Linda could not imagine; but Doris, who remained almost silent, appeared to accept them. Her voice showed that she was better educated than he was, but that was the only evidence to suggest that she considered herself superior to her husband. Most of the time she sat there like a frightened hen and, as she said not a word about her own family, Linda decided that Sid’s statement that she was the daughter of a prosperous middle-class builder was a lie.

  To Linda’s added discomfort the crowded little parlour brought back to her an unpleasantness of which she had been unconscious before she left home, but had soon afterwards come to regard with aversion—the smell of warm, rarely-bathed bodies. To her relief, after about twenty minutes, Sid said:

  ‘We eat early, Linda ducks. ’Ave to because of the nippers. Sorry we ain’t grand enough ter give yer supper in a dinin’-room, but the eats taste just as good in the kitchen. Doris ’as it all ready, so let’s go feed our faces’

  They then all trooped into the back room. There the kitchen table was already laid for five, and an attempt made to give it a festive air by arranging brightly-coloured paper serviettes so that they protruded like fans from the glasses. While Sid opened another bottle of the red wine, Doris took from the oven a big casserole that proved to contain an Irish stew plentifully laced with onions. Sid’s table manners were no better than Linda remembered them to have been at home, but Doris’s were genteel. She helped herself only to a small portion and used her knife and fork with her little fingers stuck out sideways. Ang and Ber laboured awkwardly with spoons, receiving a sharp rebuke from their mother each time they spilt food on their bibs or on the red-checked table cloth. The stew was followed by a blancmange highly flavoured with vanilla. When the last of it had been demolished by the two children, Sid said to his wife:

  ‘While yer put the kids to bed an’ wash up, Lindy and I’ll have a cosy ’eart-to-’eart in the parlour.’ Linda dutifully kissed Ang and Ber good night, then followed Sid into the other room.

  As soon as he had shut the door behind them, he said in a tone from which all the joviality had disappeared, ‘When I said you an’ I would ’ave a ’eart-to-’eart I weren’t joking. You’ll have guessed by now that Doris don’t come of a family any better than ours, but it were a good excuse ter get yer on yer own here to ’ave a showdown. I didn’t want no scene in a public place like that cafe; much less the Ritz where they would ’ave thrown me out on me arse.’

  Linda’s heart missed a beat. Staring at him in consternation, she stammered, ‘Showdown; what … what do you mean?’

  He gave a nasty laugh. ‘Yer must be dumber than yer seem not to have tumbled to it that I know all about yer making off with them jewels.’

  The blood drained from Linda’s face. ‘How … how could you?’ she gasped.

  ‘Why, from Ma, of course.’

  ‘But … she knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Be yer age, girl. When that there Mrs. Spilkin what yer robbed askt yer fer an address to forward yer mail, yer give her Ma’s, tellin’ ’er that she was yer aunt and yer was goin’ back north ter live with ’er.’

  Linda then saw the awful blunder she had made. Caught off her guard by Elsie, she had given Ma’s address as the only one she could think of from which a letter from Eric could be forwarded on to her, failing to realise at the time that when Eric knew what she had done he would not write to her and that, even if he did, she would not dare to let Ma know where she had gone, so that a letter could be forwarded to her.

  Meanwhile Sid was going on: ‘It follows, don’t it, that when the police was put on to yer, Mrs. Spilkin gives them Ma’s address. Ma couldn’t ’elp the ’tecs when they questioned ’er, but she learns from them about the sort of life you been livin’ as an
old buffer’s doxy, an’ ’ow ’im forgetting you in ’is will, yer makes off wi’ all them jewels. Twenty-five thousand smackers’ worth, so they say, an’ a month or more back Ma writes me all about it. Strewth! What a lucky day it was for yours truly when I runs into yer.’

  ‘Why?’ Linda demanded tersely. ‘What I’ve done is no affair of yours. But you were lucky in that I’ve given you two hundred dollars.’

  ‘Come orf it! That ain’t no more than two hundred dimes to yer now. I want a proper cut. An’ I’m goin’ ter have it, if yer want me ter keep me trap shut.’

  Linda looked at him aghast. ‘D’you mean … d’you really mean that you would split on me to the police?’

  ‘You’ve said it! There never was much love lost ’tween us. Wouldn’t cause me a wink o’ sleep if they put yer in the can. Fer years past you’ve been ’aving a high old time as a gilded whore, while I’ve been livin’ like a rat. Fer me this is the chance of a lifetime. You’re goin’ ter set me up in a nice little garage. Cost abart thirty thousand dollars, I reckon. That’s less than half what you got. Added to that yer can go on selling the goods yer peddle fer plenty more.’

  ‘I won’t get thirty thousand dollars, or anything like it,’ Linda protested. ‘I sold only a few of the jewels in London and … Anyhow, the greater part of them is in a bank.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m not telling you.’

  ‘Well, get ’em out, and sell some more.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. No-one could sell stolen jewels to raise the amount of money you are demanding without exciting the jeweller’s suspicions that they might not have been come by honestly.’