The Temple of Terror by L.C. Douthwaite

Book Details

The Temple of Terror (1929) – From Canada to London, England, beautiful young women have disappeared and a mysterious cult is feared to be responsible. A number of deaths are marked by the evil sign of the upside down unicorn, and because George Lacy rescued a woman from a building on fire, he finds himself in the middle of it all.

Chapter 1. Death.
Chapter 2. Never Seen Again.
Chapter 3. The Unicorn.
Chapter 4. Another Victim.
Chapter 5. The “Yard” Man.
Chapter 6. The Gang Of Hooligans.
Chapter 7. The Final Warning.
Chapter 8. An Agent Of Evil.
Chapter 9. The Charge.
Chapter 10. A New Terror.
Chapter 11. The House Of Fear.
Chapter 12. Another Mask.
Chapter 13. The House Of Curtains.
Chapter 14. Too Late.
Chapter 15. A Terrible Ordeal.
Chapter 16. Planning A Trap.
Chapter 17. Prisoners Of The Unicorn.
Chapter 18. The Crook Commands.
Chapter 19. Devotee Of The Unicorn.
Chapter 20. The Fanatical Cult.
Chapter 21. The Unicorn.

Louis Charles Douthwaite (1878-1948) was born in Hull, England to Robert and Henrietta Douthwaite. About 1901 he moved to Canada. He served in in the Canadian army in World War I. After the war he became a writer. He was first published in 1923.

The Temple of Terror contains 14 illustrations.

Files:

1. TempleOfTerror.epub

Excerpt: The Temple of Terror

Chapter 1.

Death.

THE car passed along Fenchurch Street— deserted at this hour—Aldgate, Commercial Road, sharply to the right to Dean Street and Shadwell, and from thence down a narrow and incredibly dirty thoroughfare which was lined on either side by broken-down, and, for the most part, derelict warehouses. At the far end Dawson drew up.

“Stay around a few minutes, Tweenie,” he said. “This car of mine isn’t exactly a twin-sister to a Rolls-Royce, but someone might take a fancy to it. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour anyway—with a job fixed up for you, I hope.”

Dawson moved off towards the docks, with the intention of finding a post aboard for his companion. That was the express purpose of their journey to this locality.

It was raining, a steady downpour which in more than one place penetrated the time-worn hood under which George Lacy shivered. In front of him the river ran sullenly, distinguishable only by the riding-lights of the Zanzibar, and one or two other craft anchored near by.

Apart from the beat of rain, the occasional hoot of a siren far down the river, everything was peculiarly still.

Seated there in the shabby car, his thoughts almost at a standstill through hunger and the exhaustion of his long search for work, George became conscious of a strange feeling of tension. In some curious fashion it seemed the world was hushed; that something in which his own fate and future was inextricably involved, loomed imminent. And even as the thought stabilised, the thing happened.

Except that it was a shade more dejected than the rest, he had noticed only casually the warehouse against which, across the narrow strip of pavement, the car was parked. But now, through the grime-blurred windows, showed for a moment a harsh yellow glare. Then, more quickly than his realisation, a flame shattered the window. While he still hesitated the same occurred to the window on the further side of the door.

George looked quickly up and down the street. There was no soul in sight; he sprang to the pavement only to discover that the door was secured by padlock and staple. He paused uncertainly. Either the fire downstairs had penetrated the ceiling, or another had started. And suddenly a shadow passed between the light and the window in that upstairs room.

George yelled “Fire!” and made a running kick at the door. It held, and a fusillade of other kicks met with similar lack of result.

He dashed to the car’s tool-box. Inside was a wrench of tempered steel. Applied to the staple, the door swung open, and a gout of smoke bellied out to meet him.

Facing him was a staircase, which he mounted three steps at a time. On the landing, smoke-wreaths eddying beneath a door, behind which he thought he hoard a distinct moan. The door was locked, but he kicked in a panel, and, inserting his arm, turned the key.

The room was barely furnished with a strip of cheap and threadbare carpet, a couple of sagging cane-seated chairs, a deal washstand-cum-bureau, dressing-table containing, surprisingly, a set of delicate tortoiseshell brushes—and a single wooden bed, in which a girl was lying.

As George flung the clothes aside he started back, exclaimed something unprintable below his breath. She was bound tightly with cords that cut deeply into her flesh; a gag had been thrust over her mouth. Whether she was dead or only unconscious he was unable to determine.

The cords fell away under his knife. On the washing-stand was a ewer, and before gathering her into his arms he dashed the contents over her. As he passed through the door he saw what, in his haste, he had overlooked on the upward journey—a flight of back stairs Obviously it was by these the ”shadow” had escaped. It was fortunate for the girl, George reflected, that her assailant had happened to pass the window on his way to the door.

The flames downstairs had not yet penetrated to the passage, so that though the heat was intense, he succeeded without mishap in carrying his burden to the still deserted street.

“Billy Dawson is going to be unlucky,” he reflected. There was no time to wait for his return, and, depositing the girl in the rear of the car, George drove off to the London Hospital.

He stopped to give the fire alarm, and instructed a policeman as to where the building was blazing. Then he went on.

He was only a few yards from the corner of Clamis Street when, above the rattle of the engine, came one of those harsh detonations with which the war had rendered him familiar. An angry, high-pitched whine passed close to his ear. A bullet crashed through the wind-screen.

The shot came diagonally from the rear. Reckless with sudden anger, George peered out from the side of the car. Standing beneath the gas-lamp at the corner was a figure, arm upraised, something bright glinting in the hand. George drew back, and the second bullet wasped above where a split second previously had been his head. But in that one glance George had recognised the face of the man who fired, and it was of one for whom he had been searching a long time.

Excerpt From: L.C. Douthwaite. “The Temple of Terror.”