The Strange Story of Linda Lee (31 page)

Instinctively he realised that she was speaking the truth about herself, and the thought that she normally slept only with men she had fallen for inflamed his desire for her still further. After fingering his thin black moustache for a moment, he said:

‘O.K. then. I’ll start the ball rolling this afternoon.
We’ll dine together this evening, just to get better acquainted. With luck, tomorrow I’ll be able to give you what you’re wanting.’

Producing a slim notepad from his pocket, he went on, ‘Maybe, though, my friend wouldn’t be able to produce a British passport, so we’d best make it American. Despite your accent, with that to show you won’t need a work permit.’

On her agreeing, he took down particulars which she gave him about herself.
Name—Irma Catherine Jameson. Unmarried. Place and date of birth—Illinois, 6/7/52. Height, six feet. Colour of eyes—brown. Colour of hair—dark brown
.

When he had paid the bill he took her to a nearby photographer’s, where she had a passport photograph taken. Then, having agreed to meet at the Lido at eight o’clock that evening, they parted.

That afternoon Linda rested on her bed at the Sherman House, her mind filled with thoughts about Marco Mancini. She decided that she had been right to put her scruples behind her and do this deal with him. After all, once she had the passport she would not have to see him again. And for a single night he would be quite bearable, because his hands and linen had shown her that he was almost fastidiously clean and he had the cheerful live and let live disposition that usually goes with Latin blood. But she had a strong feeling that he was not to be trusted, and definitely made up her mind that until the promised passport was actually in her hands she would not let him take her to any place where they would be alone together.

That evening, at the Lido, he spared no expense on giving her a good dinner and did not bother her much with questions about her past. Most of the time he talked cheerfully about himself. He was a second-generation
American and his family came from Palermo in Sicily. He claimed to be descended from Olympe, one of Cardinal Mazarin’s nieces. She did not for one moment believe him, but thought the claim in keeping with his distinctly brash personality. As she knew Venice well, she was able to talk about the city and say how much she liked Italian people.

Toward the end of dinner, he tried to persuade her to go on to a night club with him, but she was adamant in her refusal. As an excuse she said she needed lots of sleep and that, if she stayed up late, she would be much less fun for him the following night.

Eventually he gave in, and took her back to the Sherman in a taxi. No sooner were they in it than he gave free rein to his amorousness. She let him kiss her and returned his kisses with sufficient ardour to let him know that she was not frigid by nature. But when he went further, she fought him off determinedly until he gave up his attempts and laughingly declared that, from her height and strength, he thought she must really be a man dressed as a woman.

The next day she felt restless and depressed and went for a long walk along the lake front, during which she endeavoured to put Marco out of her mind. But he persisted in returning to it and, as the day wore on, she came more and more to dislike the thought of spending the night with the flashy young Italian. Yet she knew that if he produced the passport she must now go through with it.

At eight o’clock they met again at the Lido, as they had arranged. As soon as he had ordered cocktails in the little lounge, her eyes asked him a question. Grinning, he produced the passport, opened it to show her her photograph, then slipped it back into his breast pocket.

The fact that he had really got it for her filled her with mixed emotions: elation and relief that she need no longer worry about how to keep herself in the future, but at the same time a feeling of annoyance and disappointment. Subconsciously she had been hoping that he had been lying and would fail to fulfil his promise, which would free her from having to fulfil hers. But now there was no escape from having to give herself to him.

Now that she must do so her sense of fair play insisted that she should give him as good a time as she could. If she had plenty to drink, that would not be too difficult and, as ever, when she went to bed with a man, she could close her eyes and think of her beloved Eric.

Putting her heart into her part she was as gay as any man could have wished over dinner; but toward the end her laughter became so loud, after the amount of champagne she had drunk, that Marco refused her a liqueur, saying that she had had enough liquor for the moment and that they would have more drinks later. Then he sent for the bill and, immediately he had paid it, took her arm to pilot her out of the restaurant.

In the taxi he did not attempt to kiss her. She leaned back in her corner, taking no notice where they were going, but it seemed a long drive.

When the taxi pulled up she noticed only vaguely that it was in an ill-lit street, and seemed to be in a poor part of the city. He led her up the steps of an old, brownstone house. The door was answered by a huge Negro who grinned a greeting and said, ‘Number six is all ready for yo’, Mr. Mancini.’

They went up to the first floor. As Linda reached the landing, she glimpsed a blonde girl in a kimono going
into one of the rooms. Turning to Marco, she asked, ‘What is this place? I thought you were taking me to your apartment.’

His teeth flashed in a grin. ‘My landlady is mighty particular. She don’t allow fellers to bring dames along to stay the night. This is a rooming house, but quite respectable.’

As he spoke, he opened a door and showed her into a big room. The furniture was old-fashioned, and against one wall there was a large brass bedstead. At its foot was a table, with glasses and bottles. When he had closed the door, she sat down in an armchair. Walking past her to the table, he opened a bottle of champagne.

She lay back and closed her eyes, then opened them again as he said, ‘This is what you need, babe,’ and held out a full glass to her. Taking it, she smiled up at him.

‘Here’s to us.’ He lifted his glass and they both drank. A moment later Linda felt her head swim. Her limbs suddenly seemed to go limp. She dropped the glass and passed out.

When she came to she was in bed, naked and alone. Her head was aching as though it would split. Raising it painfully, she gave a bleary glance round. Curtains were drawn across a single window, but enough light came through them for her to see by. It was not the room in which she had passed out, but much smaller and had hardly any furniture. Wildly, she looked round for her clothes. They were nowhere to be seen, and the room had no cupboards.

With utter horror, the reason for her being there flashed through her mind. Marco had sold her into a brothel.

With every beat of her heart, Linda’s head gave a violent throb. She let it fall back on the pillow and shut her eyes again, endeavouring to concentrate in spite of the stabs of pain. It could not be true. She was the victim of an awful nightmare. She lay flat on her back, her arms stretched out limply on either side of her. Raising a trembling hand, she ran it over her stomach, up to her breast and pinched one of her nipples. Yes, she was both naked and awake.

Making an effort, she forced herself to sit up. Her head rolled on her shoulders, but she managed to steady it and got a clearer view of the room. It was only about ten feet by twelve. It had no dressing table or chest of drawers. There was a white-painted wooden wash-stand, with a chipped basin and an enamel jug. Underneath the washstand there was a slop pail and on top two bottles that looked as if they held disinfectant. There was a single chair and a dumb valet, on which a man could hang his clothes. A white-painted bedside table held a lamp with a pink shade, a brass ashtray with two cigarette stubs and a box of matches in it, and a pot of vaseline.

As she lolled back again, she saw, that in the ceiling above the bed there was a mirror about five feet by
three. Owing to the semi-darkness she had not noticed it before. In it she saw dimly reflected her tousled hair, gaping mouth and naked shoulders. It confirmed her worst fears. Big Bear had told her about his nights out after attending conventions in the United States, and that some of the more expensive brothels had six-sided rooms in which all the walls and the whole ceiling consisted of mirrors, so that copulating couples could see themselves from many angles. The mirror over the bed was obviously a makeshift in a cheaper kind of house.

Closing her eyes again she thought back over how she had let herself be trapped in this ghastly situation. Marco Mancini was obviously a professional pimp. His dark good looks and flashy clothes were just the things to attract girls who came from poor homes. And what better hunting ground could he have chosen to find likely victims? In theatrical agents’ waiting-rooms there were always passably good-looking girls, out of a job and willing to be picked up. In most cases she supposed he simply gave them a dinner, made them a little tight and persuaded them to spend the night with him, on the pretext of finding them work. Once he got them to this house, the rest was easy. He simply gave them a Micky Finn and collected his money.

In her case he had had to do more. But no doubt his nefarious activities brought him into contact with many types of criminal, and she had once heard Eric say that in every city forged passports were obtainable if only one knew where to go for them. Evidently Marco had thought it worth the expense of having one made for her, because he could get a very high price for a girl with her looks and figure. Bitterly she wondered how much he had got for her.

For ten minutes she lay, still suffering both physical
and mental misery. Her head continued to ache abominably and she had a foul taste in her mouth. It was this last that rallied her into getting out of bed. As she did so she staggered, but grasped the back of the chair, and so reached the washstand. Having gulped down two glasses of water, she dipped the corner of one of the rough towels into the jug and scrubbed her teeth as well as she could. Then she filled the basin and spent several minutes alternately plunging her face into it and drawing deep breaths. That made her feel a little less awful, but no less desperate about her situation.

She tried the door, but, as she had expected, it was locked. Going to the window, she drew back the cheap cretonne curtains, to find that the room she was in was high up, probably on the fourth floor and at the back of the house. Below was a builder’s yard, but no-one was to be seen there. Beyond, the prospect consisted of grimy buildings and a small section of mean street. The window was open a few inches at the top, but when she tried to open the lower half, she found that it was screwed down. Even if she could have got it open she thought it unlikely that anyone passing in the section of street would hear her cries for help, as it was quite a long way off.

As she turned away in despair, her glance fell on a hook at one side of the window, just showing beyond the edge of the curtain. Her eyes dilated with horror. It held a whip.

Turning, she ran to the door and hammered hard on it with her fists, crying, ‘Let me out! Let me out of here!’ at the top of her voice. For a good five minutes she continued to batter on it until her hands were bruised and sore, but there was no response.

Breathless and shaking, she staggered across to the
bed. As she pulled back the sheets to get in, she saw a corn plaster. Vividly there sprang into her mind Marco in the shop to which he had taken her to get the photographs for her passport. He had stubbed his toe against the counter, giving an ‘Ouch’ of pain, and exclaimed, ‘Jesus! That got my corn.’

A moment later she saw other evidence that he had been in bed with her while she was unconscious. Wrenching open the bedside cupboard she was just in time to grab the chamber pot and be sick in it.

It was a horrid bout, but at length she managed to pull herself together and washed her face again. Then, so shattered that she could not even relieve her agony of mind by tears, she crawled back into bed.

After a while her headache eased and her bout of vomiting had rid her of the bile resulting from the Micky Finn. Yet she racked her brains in vain for a way to escape the ignominy that threatened her. Even if she could have got a message smuggled out by some servant in the place, or by pleading with the first man who paid to make use of her, there was no-one to whom she could send for help; for it was certain that neither a servant nor a customer would take a message to the police, and she had not a single friend in Chicago.

Worn out with misery, she presently fell asleep. When she awoke, it was dusk. Not long afterwards the key turned in the lock, the light was switched on and a middle-aged woman came into the room.

She was pear-shaped, her breasts and stomach sloping off into enormous hips. Her hair was brassy, her face heavily powdered and her cheeks rouged. Between them she had a small, beaky nose and below it a rattrap mouth and a chin that hardly protruded from her thick throat. Without preamble she said in a deep voice:

‘Get up, girl.’

Linda sat up and, holding the sheet across her breasts, angrily demanded her clothes.

The woman ignored her outburst and repeated harshly, ‘Get up, I said. I saw you last night, but I want to take another look at you.’

‘Fetch me my clothes!’ Linda cried again. ‘And you’ll let me out of here. If you don’t, I’ll get out somehow, sooner or later and, by God, I’ll have the police arrest you for kidnapping.’

‘So that’s your tone.’ The woman’s thin mouth curved into an evil smile. With a speed surprising for her bulk, she darted across the room, grabbed the whip that hung beside the curtain and brought it down with a cruel swish across Linda’s shoulders.

With a scream of pain, Linda cowered back. The harsh voice came again, ‘Now will you get up, you stubborn bitch?’

Sobbing from the searing lash she had received, Linda slithered from the bed and stood up, still holding the sheet round her.

The woman raised the whip again. ‘Drop that sheet and walk towards me.’