The Strange Story of Linda Lee

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Because he had never made a new will as he had promised he would, making provison for me. Everything went to Elsie. I had only about one hundred and eighty pounds in the bank, and no proper qualifications for any sort of decent job. In a few months I should have been living in some squalid boarding house, on a wage that would barely feed me, let alone buy any clothes. After the sort of life I had been leading, I couldn’t face the thought of poverty, and I knew the combination of the safe. It was as simple as that.’

  ‘Yes. That I understand. But what I don’t, is why you didn’t get in touch with me.’

  ‘I should have, and I know you would have looked after me. I realised that afterwards, when it was too late. But you had gone abroad, and refused to leave your address with the idea that if I could not write to you I would the sooner forget you. And I thought a letter addressed simply care of the Foreign Office would probably take months to reach you.’

  Eric shook his head. ‘What a tragedy. I told you that I’d applied for a job abroad only because I knew that if we kept on seeing each other it would prove too much of a strain and things would be bound to blow up. Actually I was here all the time. I’ve been in this job for the past nine months.’

  ‘Oh, if only I’d known! But I had so little time to think. To me, then, it seemed a choice of stealing the jewels within an hour, or facing the future almost penniless.’

  ‘Yes, I see that; and, of course, your mind was not working normally. Rowley’s death must have been an awful shock to you.’

  ‘It was terrible. Absolutely horrifying. Far worse than you could know. He actually died on me.’

  ‘Good God! But I thought that because of his heart you weren’t going to let … ’

  ‘Well, I did. I know it was crazy of me. But we’d been out to dinner and had quite a lot to drink. When we got home he tried to persuade me, but I refused and went up to bed. He stayed downstairs for quite a while, knocking back more brandies. Then he came to my room, knelt down beside the bed and pleaded. He wept like a child. It was heartbreaking. I simply couldn’t stand it and, in the end, gave way.’

  ‘How ghastly! Neither Arthur nor Elsie told me a word about that.’

  ‘They couldn’t, because they didn’t know. Nobody does. You see, if his dead body had been found in my bed, the Lucheni couple might have talked. I wasn’t going to risk it getting round that a highly respected man like dear Rowley had died that way, and with a girl who was young enough to be his daughter. So I carried him down to his own room.’

  Eric gazed at her in admiration. ‘God alone knows how you managed it. But it was splendid of you.’

  ‘I owed him that. After all he did for me, it was the least I could do.’

  When the waiter had cleared away the dinner things, they settled themselves side by side on the sofa. She told him about how she had escaped from England and of the places she had been to in Canada, but nothing of her personal life. She did not feel like doing that unless the future held some hope of their seeing more of each other. In due course they got on to the subject of how she had succeeded in getting away from Ottawa, and she said:

  ‘It was only by threatening to make a diplomatic incident of it, if they held me up, that I managed to bluff my way through Immigration on the Russian woman’s passport. But I’d stand no chance of bluffing my way out of England with it, and I don’t suppose that, without references, I could get a British one.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not a hope. Whatever name you used to apply for one, you would have to send in a photograph of yourself; and that would be as good as asking to be sent to gaol. You see, the department that issues passports has books of photographs of everyone wanted by the police, and the people there go through those books so often that it’s at least twenty to one that the likeness would be spotted and you would be pulled in.’

  ‘Then I’m stuck in England for good. What chance do you think I’ve got of keeping out of the clutches of the police?’

  ‘That depends on where you live, and what sort of life you lead. London would be out of the question. There are so many people there: friends of Rowley’s, waiters in restaurants, shop assistants and so on, who used to know you, that within a few months you would be certain to be recognised by someone; and that bitch, Elsie, has offered five hundred pounds reward for anyone supplying information that would lead to your arrest.’

  Linda frowned. ‘How typical of her. And, naturally, that would be a big temptation to many people if they recognised me.’

  ‘It would. Again, a village would be almost as dangerous, because you are terribly handicapped by the fact that you are a very beautiful girl, and villagers are always curious about newcomers who have no obvious background. Remember, it’s less than ten weeks since your photograph was in all the papers, and that makes you very vulnerable to people who have little to do but speculate about their neighbours.’

  ‘I’d stand a better chance then in some provincial city?’

  ‘Yes. Somewhere in the Midlands would be best. Not Scotland or Wales, because in either you would be, in a sense, a foreigner, so again a subject for speculation. But, wherever you settle, you will have to lead a very quiet life. Almost become a recluse in fact, because the more people you get to know, the greater the danger. The trouble is that, after a while, you will feel so secure that you will begin to take risks. That is why nearly all criminals are caught in the long run. Out of boredom, you will be tempted to join a tennis club, go to subscription dances or even take up charity work. Then, sooner or later, you will run into someone who used to know you in London.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ Linda gave a heavy sigh. ‘It sounds too awful. I’m not yet twenty-one, and to be condemned never to have any fun any more just doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  He lit another cigarette, then said quietly: ‘Of course, there is an alternative. You can give yourself up.’

  ‘But then I’ll be sent to prison.’

  ‘Yes, there would be no escaping that.’

  Again there ran through Linda’s mind the thoughts she had had so often of all the grim discomforts and privations she would have to suffer. At length she asked in a low voice, ‘How long do you think they’d give me?’

  Eric gave an unhappy shrug. ‘It’s difficult to say. A great deal would depend on the mentality of the judge who tried you. If he is broad-minded he might let you off fairly lightly. If not, to put it frankly it would weigh against you that you virtually prostituted yourself to a man old enough to be your father, in order to lead a life of luxury, then unscrupulously robbed his heirs. He might send you down for three years.’

  ‘Three years!’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t think it would be as long as that, because there is one good card we can play for you. This remarkable coup that you’ve pulled off against the Russians. Of course, that can’t affect the fact that you will be tried for having stolen the jewels, and the law must take its course. The judge must pass sentence on you. But you have rendered your country a very valuable service. It can also be argued that you could have got away on the Russian’s passport to South America. Instead, from entirely patriotic motives, you took an aircraft to Europe. Then, fate having brought you to England, you decided to give yourself up; and surrendering to justice will get you another good mark. So, with luck, you might be given only a year.’

  ‘Even that is twelve months—three hundred and sixty-five days of scrubbing floors, porridge, cabbage, greasy stew, coarse clothes, only one bath a week, and the other women. No, I don’t think I could. Anyhow, I must have time to think.’

  ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘Could I … could I take a week?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I don’t like it. You can hardly stay up here all the time, and down in the public rooms someone might well spot you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean here. I’d go to some quiet hotel in the country.’ Linda paused for a moment, then added in a rush of words, ‘Eric, you were in love with me. You told me so that night.
Has my being a thief quite killed it? Or … or do you still love me a little?’

  He took her hand and kissed it, ‘My dear, what you did doesn’t make the least difference, because I understand why you did it. Anyway, I’ve never ceased to love you. And you are the only woman I’ve ever really cared for since I fell out of love with my late wife.’

  Her big eyes smiled her delight into his. ‘Then couldn’t we go away together? I don’t mean for good, but just for the week, while I’m making up my mind. I haven’t been altogether a good girl since I ran away, because, you see, I didn’t expect that we would ever meet again. But I haven’t been a very bad one. I’ve not done anything I am ashamed of. And an unofficial honeymoon with you would mean so very much to me. Whether I give myself up or not, I’d have that to look back on. It would be a memory to treasure all my life.’

  Eric put his arms round her and kissed her very gently on the little mole behind her ear. ‘Bless you, darling. You couldn’t have thought of anything more wonderful. I’m due for some leave. But I’ll have to spend tomorrow clearing up.’

  She nodded, ‘Yes. I’ll need tomorrow, too, to buy myself some clothes.’

  ‘Not on your life!’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not letting you risk arrest in London, even for an hour. If I work all-out in the morning, I can spend most of the afternoon in the West End. But, wait a minute. It’s Saturday, so it will have to be the other way round; and you’ll have to make do with things off the peg; but give me your measurements and I’ll get you everything you’re likely to need.’

  ‘That’s it! You shall buy me a trousseau,’ she laughed. ‘All the pretty things you think I would look nicest in. And I’ve got lots of money for you to pay for them. That is, if it would be all right for you to change one of my thousand-dollar bills?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, why not? I don’t think there can be any come-back about my doing that. As the Russians had used them to pay for stolen documents, they can’t claim that the notes were stolen from them, and the people who were selling the documents certainly dare not claim them.’

  ‘Splendid, darling, splendid! Then I’ll give you one of them and my measurements for everything. My leg is excuse enough for me to stay up here all day tomorrow. You’ll come and dine with me again in the evening, and I’ll try on all the pretty things you get for me. Then Sunday morning we’ll set off. But where shall we go?’

  ‘Devonshire,’ he replied promptly. ‘I know just the place there where we will be as snug as bugs in a rug and feed off the fat of the land. It’s called the Gypsy Hill Hotel, and it’s at a little place called Pinhoe, near Exeter. It is run by two old friends of mine: a Mr. and Mrs. Jack Grout. For many years he was the manager at Brown’s in Dover Street, where foreign royalties and good old county families often stay. But he left and bought this place in Devonshire at least a year before you came to London; so, even if you dined at Brown’s now and then with Rowley, the Grouts wouldn’t know you.’

  Twenty-four hours later, in an ecstasy of happiness, Linda had tried on all the clothes Eric had bought for her, and had packed them in two new suitcases.

  Early next morning, with Eric at the wheel of his car, as light-hearted as a schoolboy starting his holiday, they set off for Devonshire. He had telephoned for rooms the previous day, and when they arrived at the hotel the Grouts gave them the warmest possible welcome.

  For the five days and nights that followed Linda determinedly put the future out of her mind. Brief as it had to be, this was the honeymoon she had so often longed for; and, when Eric made love to her, she no longer had to shut her eyes and just imagine that it was him. She could keep them open and smile into his adored face while he smiled back his adoration of her.

  Every day they drove out in the car or went for long walks over the moors or through the woods. The weather was now cold, and at times it rained, but they were so blissfully happy that they hardly noticed.

  During their long walks and in the evenings, seated beside a cheerful log fire, she told him all that had happened to her while she was abroad, concealing nothing. About Vancouver and Big Bear, about the happy fortnight she had spent in Montreal, of her disastrous encounter with Sid and how he had robbed her, then by his folly forced her to take to flight again, of Lake Louise and The Fisherman’s Paradise, where she had felt herself safe. She told how, to amuse herself there, she had started to write a novel based on her own life, except that the heroine had stolen bearer bonds instead of jewels, and that it was to have a happy ending because it turned out that her middle-aged lover had made a new will after all, leaving her the bonds, of her arrest and escape, of her night in the forest and terrible experience the following day with the brutal lorry-driver, about her narrow escape from the police on arriving in Toronto and how Sir Colin Galahad had got her across Lake Ontario into the States. She continued with her few days in Chicago, telling of Marco and the horror from which she had saved herself after he had sold her into a brothel, about The Top and how she had bought her freedom by posing as Cherril Chanel and, unaware of what the documents really were, taken them across the frontier to Ottawa. And, finally, how she had overcome both Anna and Gerta, failed to get the papers to the High Commissioner but succeeded in fooling the Russians and getting away on the plane flying to Norway.

  Inevitably there came their last night at Gypsy Hill. The halcyon days were over. Linda could no longer delay her fateful decision. At breakfast next morning she said to Eric:

  ‘While I was in Canada, in spite of my being hunted like a hare, there were at least some bright spots. But here, if I go on the run again, I’ll still be hunted yet never dare mix with the sort of people I should like to know. Only some dreary job, boredom and the never-ending fear of being caught would lie ahead for me. So I’ve decided to give myself up.’

  ‘I’m glad, darling,’ Eric said quietly. ‘I haven’t sought to influence you, but I’m sure that will prove best for you in the long run. And I’ll be waiting for you when you come out.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you,’ she smiled. ‘Knowing that, I can stand up to anything. The only sad thing is that we won’t be able to marry.’

  ‘Dearest, of course we shall get married.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no! We’d never do that, I couldn’t possibly allow you to marry an ex-gaolbird.’

  He laughed. ‘Nonsense. You will have paid your penalty for what I know to be only a moment of folly. I’ll be proud to have for my wife, not only the most lovely but the most courageous woman in the world.’

  They spoke little on the way back to London. That night Linda slept in a cell. The next morning she was brought before a magistrate and sent for trial. She found the remand prison not uncomfortable, and the wardresses were kind. Eric secured for her a leading criminal barrister to whom, during several sessions, she told everything.

  A fortnight later she appeared at the Old Bailey. The judge gave the impression of being severe. The men on the jury eyed her with admiration, but there were five women on it and only one of them looked at her with sympathy. In any case she had pleaded guilty. The counsel for the prosecution described her as a cynical, unprincipled young woman. Elsie was in court, gloating; but not Arthur. And, to Linda’s surprise and dismay, neither was Eric, for she had counted on his presence for moral support through her ordeal.

  The trial was well under way when Eric did arrive. He was carrying a long, thick paper. Hurrying over to Linda’s counsel, he held a whispered conversation with him. Together they looked at the document. When the prosecutor finished his opening speech, Linda’s man stood up and addressed the judge:

  ‘M’Lud. Most opportunely, new evidence has just come to hand. The late Mr. Frobisher did make a later will. I have it here. By its terms he left my client all his jewels and capital sufficient to bring her in an income of approximately one thousand pounds a year. I submit that there is no longer a case to answer.’

  The will was handed up to the judge. He studied it for a few minutes, then said, �
��The case is dismissed. Release the accused.’ The woman on the jury who had looked kindly at Linda smiled at her and waved her hand. Linda burst into tears.

  Ten minutes later she was in a taxi with Eric, on their way to the Savoy. With her head on his shoulder, she whispered, ‘Oh, darling, how did you do it? How did you do it?’

  He laughed. ‘You did it yourself, my sweet. You remember the novel you started to write when you were up at Lake Louise? Last night, when I was thinking about you, that came back to me and I wondered if there could be anything in it. A sort of second sight. Anyhow, I decided to take a chance. In my job, it is easy to get a search warrant although one can get into serious trouble if one does that without any justification. First thing this morning I made up a story and got one entitling me to search Arthur’s office. I made him open Rowley’s deed box, and there was the will. I don’t doubt that Elsie had persuaded him to suppress it. But the idiot had neglected to destroy it.’

  ‘How wonderful. How absolutely wonderful.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m the lucky one. I’m getting a lovely wife with a private income and lots of jewels.’

  ‘No. I’ve lost the jewels, darling. As I told you, I had to leave them in the bank in Vancouver. The police must have found out about that. Elsie would have been notified and she’s probably sold most of them by now.’

  ‘Oh no, she hasn’t. They are still in Vancouver. The bank would never release them until you had been tried and found guilty, and it had been proved that they were Elsie’s property.’

  And so there came about the happy ending of The Strange Story of Linda Lee.

  A Note on the Author

  DENNIS WHEATLEY Dennis Wheatley (1897–1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world’s best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.

  Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.