The Glass Skulls by Barry Perowne

Book Details

The Glass Skulls – A murdered man in a limousine leads to a trail of murdered men and a collection of glass skulls.

The Hon. Rick Leroy stumbles across a man shot in a limousine. This starts him on a trail of multiple murders and multiple attempts to steal the eery glass skulls that appear at each murder. These skulls must hold some sinister secret – but what?

The Glass Skulls (1932)
An Enthralling New Novel Of Intrigue And Thrills

Chapter 1. – Murder In Shadwell.
Chapter 2. – The Mysterious Doctor.
Chapter 3. – Cornered!
Chapter 4. – Terrimann’s Chance.
Chapter 5. – The Frightened Russian.
Chapter 6. – On The Docks.
Chapter 7. – Night Alarm!
Chapter 8. – “The Game’s Up!”
Chapter 9. – News Of Dr. Mort.
Chapter 10. – The Shrine Of Skulls.
Chapter 11. – Secret Faces.
Chapter 12. – Return Of The Wrecker!

Barry Perowne (1908-1985), born in the New Forest area of Wiltshire, England, was a pseudonym of the British writer Philip Atkey, best known for his crime fiction. He was educated at St John’s College, Portsmouth. Another pseudonym he used was Pat Merriman and he also published books under his own name. By agreement with the E W Hornung Estate, he continued the A. J. Raffles series after its creator E. W. Hornung’s death, as well as other stories with his own characters.

The Glass Skulls contains 11 illustrations.

Files:

1. Perowne-GlassSkulls.epub

Excerpt: The Glass Skulls

Chapter 1.

Murder In Shadwell.

“PERISH the thought,” said the Hon. John Roderick Leroy to himself, “that I should ever fall a victim to the spirit of idle curiosity! But what, exactly, have we here?”

He peered through the dark at the looming shape of what appeared to be a large and luxurious limousine car.

Now, in that web of narrow streets which intertwine with each other and tangle and criss-cross between the North Quay, London Docks, and Commercial Road East, a large and luxurious limousine is at the best of times a rare spectacle. But when the hour is somewhat after one o’clock in the morning, and the limousine in question shows neither tail nor side-lights, even the most incurious of observers may be pardoned a passing wonder.

The Hon. John Roderick Leroy, of Half Moon Street, W., was not incurious. He had a mind like a question mark.

It was his sense of curiosity which had caused him to be dismissed the house and favour of his father. Lord Culvershaw of Cairnmoor. Rick had wondered if his father would stand for a son with a taste for fighting and a bias in the direction of the Foreign Legion. His father wouldn’t—but Rick had joined up, anyway.

Returning after some years, very lean and brown, and with his curiosity and his urge for excitement still unquenched, he had joined the “Daily Cry” as a police reporter. From that he had graduated to writing special articles on crime and criminals. His curiosity, now, turned out to be an asset; he had made quite a name for himself—a good name with the public of the “Daily Cry,” and a horrid bad name with the criminals he wrote about.

His work became so much in demand that a secretary was clearly indicated. His secretary had blue eyes, that could look at you very straight, and hair that made you think about April sunshine, so gold it was. Her name was Nancy—Nancy Fergus. One thing led to another. Rick bought a ring and went on a honeymoon.

When he came back he launched the Leroy-Fergus Detective Bureau, and, for a start, wangled for the firm the appointment of London agents to Messrs. Paragon, the big New York private inquiry concern.

The Leroy-Fergus Detective Bureau had now been in existence just under a week; and it was a small job, cabled over from Messrs. Paragon, New York, which had brought Rick down here to-night into the East End. He had completed the job on hand—a tame, uninteresting sort of a job— and was walking back through Peak Street when he spotted the unlighted limousine, and:

“This,” Rick told himself gently, “will bear inquiry! Yes, indeed!”

He looked up and down Peak Street. Peak Street was one of those thoroughfares of the Shadwell district which are given over to small and dingy establishments specialising in the manufacture of “Paris models ” for ladies. It was long and narrow, and, at this hour, deserted. The street lamps, widely spaced, starred the close, hot darkness of the summer night. The dingy shop-fronts were shuttered and blank. Way off, in Commercial Road, a late car tooted once, and hummed into silence.

Rick, hesitating ten yards from the limousine, lit a cigarette. The flame of the match, showing red between the fingers of his cupped hands, glowed on his brown, lean face, his firm mouth, his grey eyes that had the good lines of laughter about them. He wore an easy-fitting grey suit, and his grey felt hat was pushed back, for the atmosphere was breathless.

He tossed aside the match, and, inhaling deeply, strolled forward to the limousine. He glanced up at the shuttered building before which the car was parked. No light showed there; the building was silent. He stepped closer to the car, peered in at the side window. The car appeared to be empty. He hesitated a moment, pulling at his cigarette; a red spot of light, the reflection of the cigarette, glowed and waned in the window.

At that moment, while Rick hesitated, there came suddenly from inside the car a sound which sent a quick chill down his spine.

Very low, but unmistakably, the sound was a moan!

For one second Rick stood frozen. Then, abruptly, he threw down his cigarette and wrenched open the door of the car. His matches rattled as he fumbled for them and struck one. The small flame, flickering up, showed the interior of the car.

A man lay on the floor. He was doubled up, his head at a queer angle, one cheek pressed to the mat. His lips were drawn back from his clenched teeth, very white in his swarthy face; blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

The match burned Rick’s fingers. He dropped the match, swore, and struck another. Kneeling on the running-board, he slid his hand inside the man’s waistcoat. He brought the hand away wet with blood.

The man, who was well-dressed and looked like a Turk or an Armenian, had been shot. If there was any life left in him, it was so faint as to be indistinguishable in his heart-beats.

Rick, his mouth dry, a pulse racing in his throat, struck a third match. Something bright, glinting on the mat close up under the seat, caught his eye. He picked the thing up, glancing at it cursorily. It was a miniature skull, perhaps two inches by two, fashioned out of solid glass. He slipped the thing into his pocket.

The match burned out, and he ducked back from the car, straightened and turned. Without warning, something struck him violently, blindingly in the face. He fell back against the car, vaguely aware of a heavy figure grappling him, of hot breath against his face. Instinctively he hit out, felt his fists drive home—and the figure was gone!

Dazed, he clutched at the door of the car; then, as his eyes cleared, he saw other figures coming on—three of them—out of the shadows. He leaped for the driver’s seat, fumbled desperately for the switch, the starter.

The engine screamed through the silence. Rick slipped the gear-lever into first. The car started with a jerk, rolled forward. There was a shout. A figure was on the running-board. Rick hit out. His fist landed. The figure disappeared.

Rick roared the car up, changed gear, roared up, changed gear again. Then he felt for the light switch, and a white glare shot far forward down the street.

Rick settled back in his seat. He swallowed hard and blew out his cheeks. About now he told himself, he would wake up.

But his heart was thudding like a triphammer. What had happened was no dream!

Excerpt From: Barry Perowne. “The Glass Skulls.”