The Strange Story of Linda Lee

by Dennis Wheatley

  Her next thought was of San Francisco. Everyone she had ever met who had been there declared it to be the most delightful city in the United States. But Los Angeles offered her better prospects. It was imperative that she get a job within the next week or so and, as a typist without shorthand, she could expect only a salary that would barely keep her. On the other hand, although she could neither dance nor sing professionally, she had a lovely face and splendid figure. Surely one of the film companies would take her on as an extra?

  The dream had hardly come before it faded. Los Angeles was getting on for two thousand five hundred miles away. Cheap as railway and coach fares were in Canada and the United States compared to Europe, she knew she could not possibly afford the money for the journey out of the small capital that remained to her.

  Chicago then suggested itself. Few British citizens, except business men, ever went there. In such a great city she should be able to find a job, and could live there without fear of recognition. To go there would cost her only about a fifth of what it would to reach the Pacific coast, and it would be well worth that much to get right away from this area in which her description might at any time be circulated.

  After lunch she went to the Greyhound office and learned that a coach was leaving for the west at a quarter past four. Having now developed an instinct to cover her tracks even when there was little need to do so, she booked only as far as Cleveland, instead of taking a ticket to Chicago.

  She spent the better part of the next two hours in buying serviceable but inexpensive underwear, strolling along the main streets of the city, then packing and paying her hotel bill. Refusing to employ a porter, she carried her bag to the coach station and set off on the first stage of the journey. For the whole of the hundred and eighty-odd miles, the highway ran south-west parallel with the shore of Lake Erie, and she enjoyed the vistas in the gradually fading evening light.

  Over the long, straight highway the coach made good speed, so it was only a little after half past eight when it set her down in Cleveland. There she put up for the night at a small hotel near the bus depot, and the following morning at ten o’clock took another coach on to Toledo. It got her there in time for an early lunch and at half past one she set off on the last stage of her journey. The highway now left Lake Erie and crossed the neck of land that separates Erie from Lake Michigan, on the south-west corner of which lies the great, sprawling metropolis of Chicago. Traffic and crossroads slowed down the coach on the last twenty miles into the city, but by seven o’clock Linda was carrying her case to the Sherman House, in the block next to the Greyhound depot, where the hotel had been recommended to her as good, but not too expensive. She registered there as Irma Jameson.

  Even the price of a room with a shower on one of the lower, noisy and viewless floors was more than she felt she could afford for long, unless she could find a job; but she could economise by eating out, and a good address might stand her in good stead. She decided to take the room and that evening made do with hamburgers and a Coca-Cola at a delicatessen with a snackbar.

  Next morning she gave to exploring the city. She had always imagined Chicago to be a vast, hideous, industrial complex, so she was pleasantly surprised to find that, at least for the rich, it could be a very pleasant place in which to live. The famous stockyards, where thousands of animals were slaughtered and tinned daily, and their grim surroundings of dives and tenements, were a world apart, lying quite a long way from the city centre. On its other side lay the lake shore, along which extended several miles of public gardens varying in depth from one to several hundred yards. Looking out from them across the lake were fine blocks of luxury flats, hotels and skyscrapers. The lake was so broad that the opposite shore could not be seen, so this garden waterfront with its many, flower beds gave the impression that it was the sea front of an expensive watering place. The city also had the attraction of a river running through it, with a yacht harbour below two huge, circular skyscrapers, the lower floors of which were garages and the upper ones flats.

  Linda found, too, that Randolph Street, on which lay her hotel, had many fine shops, including the famous store of Marshall Field, where Gordon Selfridge had made his name before coming to London. There she bought a pair of shoes and a few other things she needed.

  After a three-hour walk she ate a frugal lunch, meanwhile looking through the ‘Situations Vacant’ in a copy of the Chicago Tribune and marking likely possibilities which were only a few blocks distant. During the course of the afternoon she made a dozen calls at offices, but without success. In some cases the vacancies had already been filled, others had no use for a girl who could not take shorthand, and others again turned her down because she was not able to produce any references.

  Next morning she again scanned a paper, this time ignoring the ‘Secretaries and Typists’ column and marking instead those for doctors, dentists and hotel receptionists. After several calls, she found that the medical people preferred women who had trained as nurses, and the hotels required receptionists to have had at least some experience. On the few occasions when there seemed a chance that she might be given a trial, her inability to provide references again caused her to be turned away.

  That evening, tired and dispirited, she returned to her hotel and ruminated anxiously on her future. Two of the business men who had interviewed her the previous afternoon had said that if she would like to have a little dinner with them, they could ‘talk things over’. But she knew what that meant, and had no intention of going to bed with anyone for a free meal and a dubious chance of getting a job at the lowest rate paid to typists; so she had promptly declined.

  The thought that she had had when, had she been able to afford the fare, she would have gone to Los Angeles then recurred to her. Hollywood would undoubtedly have been the most likely place where she could have earned a reasonable living by displaying her face and figure; but there must be a market in every big city for female attractions. There were musical comedies in which expert dancing was not required of the chorus, night clubs with floor shows in which the girls had only to strut about bedisened in diamanté bikinis and ostrich feathers, and striptease joints.

  Linda was reluctant to resort to this means of livelihood, not on account of false modesty, as she was justly proud of her beautiful figure, but because it would mean that night after night she would have to be bored by the company often of drunken men, and then annoy them by refusing to go to some sleazy hotel with them in the early hours of the morning. And, as she had once heard it expressed by an actress she had met in the South of France, she was definitely not prepared to take a job in which ‘the couch was in the contract’.

  But by now she had become unhappily aware that beggars could not be choosers. The only alternative to some form of night life appeared to be to become a sales girl, and the idea of standing behind a counter eight hours a day for a pittance was more than she could bear.

  Accordingly, next morning she ran through the papers for the addresses of theatrical agents, took down three, made herself as attractive as possible and went out on her third day’s search for employment.

  At the first agent’s to which she went, the office had only just opened; so, after giving the name under which she had registered at the Sherman House to a pimply youth, he showed her in almost at once to the manager’s office. There, a big, bald man sat in his shirt-sleeves behind a large desk littered with papers. In the corner of his mouth there was an unlit cigar, and he eyed her appraisingly out of watery eyes beneath which were heavy black hollows. After a moment he asked:

  ‘Waal, kiddo. What’s your line?’

  ‘Modelling,’ she lied. ‘But I’m sick of undressing and dressing again all day to show clothes off to other women. I thought it would be a change if I could get on the stage or in a floor show.’

  ‘Kin you dance or sing?’

  ‘Both, a little, but not sufficiently well to do solos. With a little practice I feel sure I could pull my weight in a chorus.’

&nb
sp; ‘Pull your weight, eh?’ he smiled. ‘That’s a queer expression. You don’ sound to me as if you was an American.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she felt compelled to admit. ‘I’m Irish.’

  ‘Waal, I’ve nothing against the Micks. Let’s see your work permit.’

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  His large mouth turned down at the corners, and he shook his massive head. ‘You got the right curves. I could place you easy, and get you plenty. But being a foreigner, not without a work permit. Take your passport round to City Hall and get one. Then come back and see me.’

  Endeavouring not to show her disappointment, she thanked him, smiled and left his office.

  Out in the street she felt greatly perturbed at this new obstacle which had suddenly arisen as a requisite to her securing employment. As, she now recalled, had been the case in Canada, to be able to produce a passport was essential to getting a work permit. She could only hope that all agents were not so particular about regulations. The second address she had taken down was some way off and when she reached it she found half a dozen people sitting in the waiting-room. Two were men talking together, one very tall and thin, the other very short and fat, so she put them down as a pair of comedians. All four of the women had good figures. In the daylight the three older ones looked slightly blowsy under their make-up. The fourth was a young Negress with a pert little face, but thin, unattractive legs.

  Linda had to wait half an hour before her turn came to be shown into the manager’s office. He was a small, round-shouldered Jew, wearing heavily-rimmed spectacles, and had an abrupt manner.

  Their opening dialogue was very similar to that which had taken place in the first agent’s office. He then said to her:

  ‘Pull up your skirt.’

  She lifted it several inches.

  ‘Higher,’ he said.

  Again she obeyed. Getting up from his desk, he came round to her, pinched one of her thighs, then laid a hand on one of her breasts to squeeze it.

  Stepping swiftly back, she snapped, ‘Stop that! Keep your hands to yourself.’

  He grinned, showing a gold tooth. ‘Vot you think I’m up to, eh? This is pusiness. I don’t lay dames in my office. All I vant is to be certain you ain’t padded. I bin had that way before. No, you’ll do. But you ain’t American, that’s for sure. Where’s your work permit?’

  Again she had to admit that she had not got one.

  His dark eyes behind the spectacles suddenly filled with anger, and he snapped, ‘Vot the hell you vaste my time for then? Get the hell outa here.’

  This second defeat sent her spirits down to zero. Out in the street again, she wondered if it was worth while to go to the third agent whose address she had taken. But it was not far off, so she rallied her courage to try once more, in the hope that the old saying, ‘third time lucky’ might work and that the agent would be willing to risk placing her without a permit.

  The waiting-room was more crowded than at the agent’s she had just left. Of the dozen people in it eight were women, ranging from old-stagers to pretty, youngish girls. Three of the four men were middle-aged, the fourth looked to be only about thirty. He was tall, slim, olive-complexioned, well dressed in a rather flashy way and had a black, hairline moustache. Linda put him down as an Italian.

  Having given her name to a long-haired youth who was addressing envelopes at a small table, Linda sat down to wait her turn. Every five minutes or so, from a glass-panelled door marked ‘Private’, people emerged, looking smugly pleased or slightly peeved, and the young man showed others in to be interviewed.

  After a while the youngish Italian-looking man came over to Linda, politely tipped the soft hat he was wearing at a rakish angle, and said, ‘Hiya, sister. You’re new here, ain’t you?’

  She gave him a brief smile. ‘Yes, but how did you guess that? Do I look so unlike the others?’

  ‘You sure do; but it wasn’t that. My name is Marco Mancini, and I’m a journalist. I hang round this joint quite a bit to pick up paras about theatrical folk, so I know most of the regulars by sight, and I’ve never seen you before. Mind if I sit down?’

  His manner was pleasant and Linda liked his smile, which displayed even, gleaming-white teeth, so she said, ‘By all means do. As I’m new at this sort of thing, perhaps you may be able to give me some useful advice?’

  ‘Sure, I’d be happy to if I can.’ As he took the chair next to her, he went on: ‘What’s your line?’

  Linda repeated her story that she had been a model, but was fed-up with changing her clothes twenty times a day and that she had no stage training, but hoped that her face and figure might get her a job in a chorus.

  His teeth flashed again. ‘You’ve got what it takes, baby. And if I was you I’d ask plenty. That face and them legs of yours will land you a contract in any city any day.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that. I’ve been turned down by two agents this morning already.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ His well-marked eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘How come?’

  ‘I gather that anyone who is not an American citizen has to have a work permit. I’m not, and I don’t think I could pass as an American, unless I could produce evidence that I had been naturalised.’

  ‘You certainly could not. The moment you opened your mouth I said to myself, “Marco, this babe is English, or else she was reared there and brought over by some lucky guy.” ’

  ‘You’re right,’ Linda conceded, then elaborated on the supposition he had formed. ‘But the guy wasn’t all that lucky. I had known him in England and came over to marry him. I’d no idea that he was mixed up in a gambling syndicate, but he was. He met me when I arrived in New York, flew me here and took me to his apartment. He told me then that his money came from graft and that he was having trouble with his past associates. Two days later, when I returned from shopping I found him gone. He’d left a note for me saying that he had had to clear out because his life was in danger. He left no address, but I was scared stiff that the men who were after him might think he had, turn up at any moment and take me to pieces in the hope of getting it out of me. So I packed as quickly as I could and moved to an hotel. We were to have been married, at least that’s what he’d said; but perhaps he never meant it. As it is, I’ve been left high and dry.’

  Marco shook his head. ‘You poor kid. But why didn’t you go back to England?’

  ‘I hadn’t enough money for the fare. And I know no-one in England whom I could ask to lend me that much. You see, my parents aren’t at all well-off, and I left home when I was seventeen. Either to get back or go on living here I’ve simply got to get a job, but the trouble is that I haven’t a work permit.’

  ‘You could get one at City Hall.’

  ‘No. They wouldn’t give me one unless I produced my passport, and I haven’t got one. It was in my friend’s safe. I didn’t know the combination, so had to leave it there.’

  ‘You’re in a jam, baby; you’re in a jam.’ Marco jerked his head in the direction of the door marked ‘Private’. ‘Old man Jutson in there won’t give you a job without you got a permit. That’s for sure. If he did, and it came out, he’d be liable to lose his licence as an agent. He’ll not risk that, so you’re just wasting your time sitting here.’

  Linda sighed. ‘In that case I’d better go back to my hotel. Perhaps I could get a job as a shop assistant, but I’d hate to have to do that. Is there nothing you can suggest?’

  Again Marco shook his head. ‘Seeing you’re a foreigner, you couldn’t even get work in a store without a permit. Still, for those who know the ropes, anything is possible. Have you no friends in Chicago?’

  ‘No, I don’t know a soul.’

  ‘I’m well-off in that respect. A Press man has to be. I’d like to help, and I just might be able to pull a few strings. How about coming round the corner and having a cup of coffee while we talk it over?’

  Linda accepted at once. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’d be most grateful for anything you
can do.’

  Ten minutes later they were seated opposite each other at a table in a pâtisserie. As soon as they had been served, the handsome Marco wasted no time in beating about the bush. In a low voice he said:

  ‘Now listen, baby. If you’ve no friends and not much money, you’re up against the wall. But I can put you in the clear if you’re prepared to play along. As I’ve said, I’ve plenty of friends and some of them can do pretty well what they like in this little old city, law or no law. I can get you a passport so you can get a work permit, and a well-paid job into the bargain. But you’ve got to treat me right. I’ve taken a real fancy to you. We could have fun together. You’ve got sex written all over you, and I’ll bet you’re a damn’ good lay. I’ll trade you a passport against you coming to bed with me cheerful and willing.’

  From the way he had been looking at her Linda was not very surprised at his making this proposition, but she did not reply at once. With her eyes cast down she forced herself to consider his offer dispassionately.

  She had got to know Big Bear quite well, and had come to like him a lot before she had accepted his invitation to go with him to Victoria Island. Colin’s gallantry and generosity had touched her so deeply that she had felt a spontaneous urge to repay him in the only way she could. Both of them had also been of the world that she had entered on becoming Rowley’s mistress.

  But this was different. There was nothing repulsive about Marco physically. In fact, he was good-looking, although he was not of a type that attracted her, and he was certainly not of the class to which Rowley had raised her. His clothes were flashy, his manner slick. She felt sure that he would never have been accepted into what was termed ‘polite society’. It was quite possible that he had been brought up in a better home than she had; but she had acquired new standards and, absurdly snobbish as it might seem, she knew instinctively that for a long time past it would never have entered her head to have an affair with a man of his kind.