The Strange Story of Linda Lee (35 page)

‘When your visitor comes in, you will ask him for the password. It is “Peace Pledge”. Remember that—“Peace Pledge”. You will then place on a table the packet of documents that I shall give you before we part. He will also place a packet on the table. You will then swap packets. His should contain two hundred and thirty thousand dollars in U.S. currency. You will count them through carefully while he is examining the documents. If all goes satisfactorily, he will go out and Gerta will come in. You will hand her the money and she will give you your two grand. You should, of course, have packed beforehand. You can then leave the hotel as soon as you like.

‘Should anything go wrong, or your visitor try any funny business, you will step on a small mechanism that Gerta will have fixed under the table, within easy reach of your foot. It will set going an electric siren which Gerta can’t fail to hear. She will alert our two gunmen and they will tackle your visitor before he can get away.

‘But remember, the papers you will be carrying are immensely important. You will be under surveillance the whole time. Should you get cold feet at the airport and decide to quit, we have people there who’ll gun you down in order to get those papers back at once. And when you reach Ottawa the same applies. Is that clear?’

Linda gave a wry smile. ‘Perfectly clear. When am I to start?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘In about an hour’s time. I’m afraid you will have to miss your dinner, but I’ll have some sandwiches and champagne sent up to keep you going.’ With a light wave of his hand, he left her.

The dressmaker had laid out the clothes Linda was to wear. The suitcases and all her other things had been taken downstairs to be packed there. The nurse brought her the wine, sandwiches and a plate of cakes. When she had eaten as much as she wanted, she went to the bathroom, made up her face very carefully, then returned to the bedroom and dressed.

At six o’clock the lawyer came for her. He was carrying a blue leather beauty box, with the silver initials C.C. on it. ‘This,’ he said, ‘contains the goods. It has a simple combination lock. The letter C is equivalent to the number 3. So I’ve set it with your initials, plus an extra C. You can’t possibly forget that. Turn the knob left three times to 3, right twice to 3, then once back to 3, and it will open. You had better try it.’

She did as he bade her and saw that inside the box there was nothing but a thick, sealed envelope. Shutting the box, she twirled the knob, locking it again.

‘We’ll go now,’ he said. The nurse was standing outside in the passage. Linda thanked her and shook hands, then accompanied the lawyer downstairs. A chauffeur-driven limousine was drawn up outside the front door. They got into it and drove a hundred yards, halted for two minutes while the gates in the tall wall were opened, then drove on along a road. After covering about three miles, the car drew up again. The lawyer signed to Linda to get out. Surprised and slightly
apprehensive; she did so. He pointed to another car standing at the roadside twenty yards ahead. As they walked toward it he told her that it was the car that would take her to the airport, and that Gerta Hoffman would accompany her. Then he added:

‘You will just say “Good evening” to Gerta as though you know her well. Then you will refrain from talking to her during the drive, and at the airport only as far as is absolutely necessary. Remember, although she is actually our watchdog on you, she is playing the part of your maid.’

Beside the car ahead a dumpy female figure was standing. In the faint light Linda could only guess that the hard-featured woman was about thirty. She made a slight bob and said with a heavy German accent, ‘Goot evening, Madame.’

Linda returned the greeting. The chauffeur from the first car was bringing along Linda’s luggage. When it had all been transferred to the boot of the other, the lawyer held out his hand to her and said, ‘It’s been a great pleasure to be of service to you, Miss Chanel.’

She replied, ‘Not at all. I’m happy to have met you.’ Then she got into the car, Gerta followed her, and it drove off.

A few minutes later they were in the outlying suburbs of Chicago. For half an hour they skirted the great city, then the car pulled up outside the airport—but not at the front entrance. Evidently The Top’s people had made special arrangements. An official met them on the far side of the building. With him there was a porter with a trolley, on to which the luggage was loaded. They followed the official for some distance to the entrance of a covered ramp. There he asked for their tickets. Gerta produced them from a heavy bag
she was carrying and they were given to the porter, who went off with the luggage while the others walked up the ramp into the glaring lights of the airport terminal.

Before leaving the sanatorium Linda had been quite satisfied with her appearance, but now she felt distinctly nervous. She half expected that everyone would recognise her as the famous film star, and feared that someone who knew Cherril might stop and speak to her. But she was wearing a scarf over the
blonde-cendré
wig and, except for a few men who looked after her in admiration, to which she was used, no-one gave her a second glance.

It was not until they were ushered into the V.I.P. waiting-room that anyone took any special notice of her. The air hostess on duty stared at her for a moment, then exclaimed in a voice of awe:

‘Why, surely you are Miss Cherril Chanel?’

Linda smiled and nodded. The girl hurriedly led them to comfortable armchairs in a corner and asked what they would like to drink. Linda asked for rum and coke, Gerta for coffee.

While the drinks were being brought, Linda had her first chance to take a good look at her personal maid, and she was not favourably impressed. Apart from being physically unattractive, there was something mean about Gerta’s face. She was a blonde, with pale blue eyes and a small, pursed-up mouth. Her neck was short and thick where it merged into her heavy body. But she was dressed appropriately for her part, in a dark-blue coat and skirt, good but heavy shoes, a white blouse with a modest gold brooch, and had her dull fair hair drawn flatly back into a bun.

Bowing his excuses, the official said he must leave them for a few minutes. To account for her silence, as
soon as the drinks were brought Linda picked up a magazine and pretended to read it. Covertly, she saw that two other air hostesses had been brought in by the first, to gaze at her from a distance.

The official returned with the baggage checks clipped to the tickets. Gerta took them and put them in her capacious bag. A few other people came in. One couple evidently thought they recognised Linda, and could not take their eyes off her. Presently the air hostess came over and said:

‘Miss Chanel, there are some Press men outside. They are anxious to have a word with you.’

Gerta spoke at once in her heavy German accent. ‘No interviews. You say Madame iss too tired after her journey.’

A quarter of an hour later their wait was over. The official led them out. A group of about eight, mostly young, men were outside. Several had cameras. Linda was assailed with a barrage of questions:

‘How was Fiji, Miss Chanel?’

‘Why you goin’ to Canada?’

‘How d’you leave Ricky Maloney?’

‘Give us a line on your next film, do.’

Linda remained silent and shook her head, but she gave a sweet smile and halted for a moment while the cameras took her. Between them, the official and Gerta pushed a way for Linda through the little crowd. Ten minutes later she was welcomed into the aircraft by a broadly-grinning steward, who led them to bulkhead seats. Everything had gone without a hitch and Linda was rather enjoying playing the part of a celebrity.

During the six-hundred-mile flight she had plenty to think about. With luck, by this time tomorrow the end of this dangerous mission would be several hours
behind her. She would be on her own again, but with ample money. But where should she make for? Even if she got rid of the blonde wig, it would be too big a risk for her to stay in Ottawa because she bore such a strong resemblance to Cherril Chanel. Somehow she must try to get out of Canada. Suddenly she remembered the U.S. passport that Marco Mancini had procured for her. She had never seen it again after he had shown it to her in the Lido. What a fool she had been. If only she had asked the lawyer to get it for her, or another similar, she could have returned to the States and had it visaed for any country she liked. But it was too late to think about that now.

Dinner was served, which made the flight pass swiftly. By the time the aircraft began to come down, she had decided that she would go to Quebec. No-one knew her there and, as she had money, she might somehow manage to get herself smuggled aboard a ship.

At the Ottawa airport Gerta produced two passports and, as soon as the Immigration officer opened Linda’s, he gave her a broad smile. In the Customs hall she was recognised. A chubby young officer asked her casually, ‘Anything to declare, Miss Chanel?’ When she said, ‘No, nothing,’ he chalked all her bags, touched his cap and wished her a good time in Canada.

Outside the hall they were awaited by a group of reporters. Again the barrage of questions. Linda refused to speak, but posed smiling for her photograph. A uniformed chauffeur had come up and led them, with their luggage, to a limousine. Linda noticed that he was a very broad-shouldered man with an aggressive but boyish face. He drove them straight to the hotel and, while the bags were being unloaded, Linda heard him say in a low voice to Gerta, ‘If any trouble blows
up, call Room seven-seventeen.’ So she knew that he must be one of The Top’s watchdogs. At the Château Laurier they were given a two-bedroom suite on the seventh floor. In all the rooms there were flowers with the Manager’s compliments. Gerta tipped the porter, and as the man left the room Linda picked up the telephone.

In an instant Gerta was beside her, grabbed her arm and asked throatily, ‘Who you gointa call?’

Linda shook her hand off and replied, ‘I’m going to order myself a nightcap. Would you like anything?’

‘No. I nefer trink. It is not goot for pusiness. But I will order; not you.’

When a brandy and soda arrived, Linda took it into her bedroom. There she found that, with German thoroughness in playing personal maid, Gerta had unpacked for her the few things she would require for the night. When Linda had thanked her, she said:

‘You make use off bathroom soon, please. After, I haf to lock your door. It is an order.’

Linda shrugged. Evidently, just on the remote chance that she had been got at, The Top’s people were taking no chances. For fun she decided to take her time, and ran herself a bath. Gerta looked sullenly angry, but discipline restrained her from any protest at being kept out of bed for another hour.

Quite early in the morning Linda was woken by the sound of Gerta unlocking the bedroom door, but she turned over to doze again, then, at half past eight, had Gerta telephone down for breakfast. When she had finished she dressed again in her travelling clothes and did her own packing. When she went into the sitting-room carrying the precious beauty box, which she had never let out of her reach, she found Gerta reading a
heavy-looking book. The manager had sent up more flowers and a pile of newspapers. Linda tried to read one of them, but found it impossible to concentrate. Now that the time for the big deal was approaching, she could not keep her mind off it.

It was close on midday before the telephone rang. Gerta answered it. After a moment she put her hand over the receiver and turned, frowning, to Linda. ‘It is not a man who asks for you, but a woman. What you wish I say?’

Linda shrugged. ‘Tell her to come up. If she is a reporter you can send her away. If she is the person we are expecting she will be able to give the password, and we’ll know things are all right.’

Having given the message, Gerta rang Room seven-seventeen, and said, ‘Someone comes. Make ready.’

Two minutes later a bell-boy showed the visitor into the room. She was a large, fair woman, with an oval face and blue eyes. To Linda’s surprise she was wearing a black cloak, below which showed a chauffeur’s uniform and long, shiny, black boots. She was carrying an attaché case and a chauffeur’s cap. As the door closed behind her, she gave a jerky bow and said, unsmiling, with a heavy accent, ‘Greetings, lady. I come as arranged. Peace Pledge.’

‘You are welcome, Madame,’ Linda replied. Walking over to the table, she laid the beauty box on it and took up a position where she could immediately put her foot on the small alarm device, which looked rather like a mouse-trap, that Gerta had placed there in position. Then she signed to Gerta, who walked out into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

The visitor placed her attaché case on the other side of the table. With a cautious glance at each other they
unlocked their cases. Each of them took out a thick envelope and pushed it across to the other. Linda opened the one passed to her. It contained a two-inch-thick wad of thousand-dollar notes. She began to count them. Having got to one hundred, she placed that wad aside. As she did so her glance fell on the papers that the woman opposite her was examining.

For a moment she remained quite still. Her eyes lifted to the big bust and pink face of the powerful woman on the other side of the table. She felt sure the woman was a Russian.

When her glance had fallen on the documents she had seen at once that they were not leases or lists of names with figures in dollars opposite them. They were complicated algebraical calculations.

Although she had not understood them, she had many times seen similar arrangements of symbols made by Rowley while she had acted as his secretary. This was not a transfer of interests from one gang leader to another, but something very different. She was assisting in selling nuclear secrets to an enemy of the Western Powers.

Linda’s brain began to work overtime. She had fully realised that by acting as The Top’s representative and collecting money on his behalf, she was performing a criminal act. The lawyer had made that quite plain. Although she was only too well aware that she was a jewel thief wanted by the police, all her instincts were those of an honest, law-abiding citizen. In normal circumstances she would have rejected indignantly any proposal that she should handle the assets of an organisation built up by robbery, prostitution and peddling dope. But, short of being framed and sent to prison, she had had no option. She had not been required to take any part in The Top’s criminal activities. She had been picked on by him only by chance to act as his courier, because she happened to resemble a famous film star. Had she refused, it was certain that he would have found someone else, who would appear to be equally above suspicion, to get these papers across the frontier. She did not feel that any fair-minded person, knowing the circumstances as they had been presented to her, and her own at that time, could possibly blame her for seizing on this chance both to avoid being sent to prison and once again to escape the anxieties of being on the borderline of destitution.