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The Golden Ghoul by Brant House

The Golden Ghoul by Brant House

(Secret Agent “X”, 16)

The Golden Ghoul – Secret Agent “X’s” far-flung, crime-crushing organization brought him whisperings of a fiend who meted out a death worse than death— a monster who called himself the Ghoul. For this Ghoul made men living prisoners in an amber-colored shroud of their own dead flesh. And even Secret Agent “X,” the man of a thousand disguises, a thousand surprises, was checkmated when he pried into the Ghoul’s palace of pain.

Book Details

Book Details

From the Records of Secret Agent “X” comes The Golden Ghoul (1935) written by G.T. Fleming-Roberts writing as Brant House.

The Golden Ghoul – Secret Agent “X’s” far-flung, crime-crushing organization brought him whisperings of a fiend who meted out a death worse than death— a monster who called himself the Ghoul. For this Ghoul made men living prisoners in an amber-colored shroud of their own dead flesh. And even Secret Agent “X,” the man of a thousand disguises, a thousand surprises, was checkmated when he pried into the Ghoul’s palace of pain.

Chapter I – Fangs of Death
Chapter II – Corpse of the Living
Chapter III – The Trap Is Baited
Chapter IV – Voice of the Ghoul
Chapter V – Suicide Pact
Chapter VI – Killers from the Clouds
Chapter VII – House of Black Smoke
Chapter VIII – The Graveless Dead
Chapter IX – Danger Below
Chapter X – Throne of the Ghoul
Chapter XI – The Master Stroke
Chapter XII – Betrayed
Chapter XIII – Death-Mask of Ah-Fang

G.T. Fleming-Roberts was the pen name for George Thomas Roberts (1910-1968), a prolific author of pulp mystery and crime fiction. Fleming-Roberts wrote nineteen of the forty one Secret Agent “X” novels.

SAX1935 07 The Golden Ghoul by Brant House
Secret Agent “X” 1935-07

Files:

  1. House-GoldenGhoul.epub
Read Excerpt

Excerpt: The Golden Ghoul

Chapter I

Fangs of Death

NIGHT had invaded the city. In the living room of suite 10B in the Hotel Empire a dozen powerful electric globes shed searing white light. The doors were locked; the shades were drawn. Gilbert Warnow had ordered it so. Night must not enter here.

There was a certain tenseness in the stale, stagnant air that was almost electric. Though Gilbert Warnow napped in a luxurious lounge chair, it was a sleep that brought no rest, that was often broken by nervous leg twitchings. The anxiety of the past three days and nights showed plainly on the deep lines that crossed his gray face. Three police detectives sat wakeful in chairs about the room, and smoked or idled through the pages of magazines.

The muffled sound of a buzzer was like a stab to the frazzled nerves of Gilbert Warnow. He sprang out of his chair, stood stiffly, unblinking eyes darting about the room.

On his feet at the sound of the buzzer. Detective Malvern spread his hands in a gesture that was intended to pacify Mr. Warnow. “Everything’s okeh,” he said. “Just somebody at the door.”

But Warnow was not to be comforted. He whispered inaudible words, his eyes followed the somewhat jumpy movements of Detective Malvern as the latter unlocked the door of the living room and crossed a small foyer. Gilbert Warnow’s Chinese valet, Ah-Fang, was about to unlock the hall door when Malvern’s ham of a hand swept the Oriental to one side.

“I’m tending to this, chink,” Malvern said bruskly. He yanked open the door to confront nothing more formidable that a small, square hat box on the door sill. The box was tagged for Mr. Warnow. The corridor was empty.

Malvern slammed the door and, carrying the box at arm’s length, returned to the living room. Ah-Fang, his inscrutable slits of eyes never leaving the box, followed Malvern soundlessly on slippered feet. An excited clamor arose in the living room as soon as Malvern had entered.

“Get that box out!” Warnow’s tight voice snapped. “A bomb—”

Malvern shook his head. “Too light” He regarded the box suspiciously. “You get way back in the corner, Mr. Warnow. We take the risks. That’s what we’re paid for. Keegan!” he rapped to one of his men. “Cut this cord for me.”

But before Keegan could obey, Ah-Fang stepped forward. A gleaming tongue of steel darted from the sleeve of his black silken jacket and lashed across the cord. Malvern scowled into the broad, yellow face. “What you doin’ with that knife, chink?”

Ah-Fang regarded the detective unblinkingly. “Always carry knife for the protection of honorable sir, and own worthless flesh.”

“Malvern grunted, peeled paper from the box, flipped up the lid and sprang back. Nothing happened. The box seemed to be stuffed with tissue paper. This paper, Malvern gingerly lifted. A curse snarled from his throat. The three detectives and the Chinese, who seemed possessed by insatiable curiosity, pressed around the table and stared into the box.

Resting on a cushion of yellow silk was what appeared to be a life-size mask. It had a hellish, pain-racked appearance—eyelids were sunken yellow veils; cheeks, chin, and nose were the color of amber. A downy mustache fringed the upper lip of a mouth that was distorted by a silent scream.

“What the hell!” gasped Keegan. “Looks like a Halloween false-face.”

The lean hand of Ah-Fang darted into the box, explored the surface of the mask to find it hard as stone. His finger grasped the mustache and gave it a vigorous twitch. He raised his eyes to meet Keegan’s face. “Humble opinion that this is face, but not false.”

“What the devil are you gettin’ at, chink?” Malvern grumbled. Then he called: “Come over here, Mr. Warnow. What is this thing?”

Gilbert Warnow approached hesitatingly and peeped over Ah-Fang’s shoulder. “Good—God!” he breathed. He struck his eyes with his shaking hand, shutting out the sight. “That— that isn’t a mask. That’s the face of Steven Bainbridge! The Amber Death! That’s a warning from the Ghoul. He wants me to know how I’ll look after—after—” And Gilbert Warnow dropped into a chair.”

Excerpt From: Brant House. “The Golden Ghoul.”

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The Golden Ghoul by Brant House
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