Curse of the Mandarin’s Fan by Brant House

Book Details

From the Records of Secret Agent “X” comes Curse of the Mandarin’s Fan (SAX,36) written by G.T. Fleming-Roberts writing as Brant House.

Chang was the lord of the Chinese underworld and Lim Toy was the goddess of the opium dens. Secret Agent X had no choice but to descend into the catacombs of the dragon.

Curse Of The Mandarin’s Fan (1938) – Chang, Lord of Chinatown’s secret catacombs, ruler of an empire of hell—held the dire curse of a fan of evil. And the blood of the innocent was shed with the blood of the guilty . . . And even Secret Agent X, nemesis of master criminals, found himself hopelessly entangled in the mad vortex of crime’s rival kings.

Chapter I – Queen of the Black Smoke
Chapter II – Room of Sudden Sleep
Chapter III – The Curse of Chang
Chapter IV – The Brass Boot
Chapter V – Death of Strange Design
Chapter VI – Blue Madness
Chapter VII – Master of Agony

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.

Brant House was the “house name” used by all of the authors of the Secret Agent “X” novels.

Curse of the Mandarin’s Fan has 16 illustrations.

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Excerpt: Curse of the Mandarin’s Fan

Chapter I

Queen of the Black Smoke

JOHN WORREL wrinkled his small nose in an effort to catch the aroma of steak and mushrooms, American style, that should have arisen from the platter which the Chinese waiter had just placed before him.

“I can’t say that I enjoy the smell of incense with my meals,” John Worrel said.

The odor of incense, for which The Café of Lovely Fragrance was famous, masked the wholesome odor of American food. It was a strange incense—a heavy, overpowering; sweetness, with just a subtle hint of something old and musty.

Arthur Lockland’s innocent-looking blue eyes stared about the room, then met those of Worrell, directly opposite him.

“I quite agree,” Lockland said. “The place is typically American for all its gilt and lacquer, its carved Buddhas and dragons. In that respect, it is like hundreds of American movie palaces that have been christened ‘The Oriental.’ But the incense—that’s China, tired, old China, where flowers die in neglected gardens.”

Seated beside Lockland, Lon Hunter dipped the gray tip of his slender black cigaro into the ash tray of blue pottery on the table. He smiled with a one-sided twist of his slender, black line of mustache. “There are many less pleasant odors in Chinatown. F’rinstance, in Hongkong Alley, Alley of Lingering Shadows, the Chinese call it—”

Lon Hunter’s very dark eyes were brittle with laughter. His friend, Lockland, knew that Hunter was enjoying a joke at some one else’s expense.

Lockland was a botanist, modestly unconscious of his own unequaled ability. He worshiped at the shrine of Lon Hunter, who was dark and dashing and everything that Lockland would have liked to be. Lon Hunter had found reporting for a San Francisco daily more exciting, and therefore more attractive, than the miles of traveling he had done along dusky, unknown lanes of the world.

“Were you prowling in Hongkong Alley again last night?” asked Arthur Lockland, a note of awe in his voice.

Hunter ignored Lockland’s question.

Worrel said: “I envy you newspaper men your imagination, your ability to see vicious villains in some of these parchment-faced old beggars of Chinatown. I’d like to be able to people these shadows with fearsome things. But I can’t. Barbery Coast is gone. The yellow man’s opium dens are gone. ‘Frisco is clean. Frankly, you writers are posers. You speak glibly of dope. We were speaking a moment ago of marihuana. You said, Hunter, that the weed is of Mexican origin. Actually, it’s as Oriental as hashish, to which it is closely related.”

“You’re rather up on such things, aren’t you, Worrel?” Hunter asked.

Worrel reddened. His heavy, red brows drew together in a knotty frown. He lifted knife and fork and plied them vigorously on the steak.

Lon Hunter inhaled deeply the powerful, acrid smoke of the eternal cigaro. He laughed aloud, his handsome, worldly face veiled for an instant as smoke rolled from his lips.

“We’re fourflushers, we newspaper men…. But I was in Hongkong Alley last night.” Hunter leaned far over the table, his eyes probing Worrel’s unlovely face. “And so were you, John Worrel. Why the heavy gun that bulges your coat? Not for attackin’ that steak, is it?”

“Lockland placed a hand on Hunter’s forearm—a sort of restraining gesture. Worrel’s undershot lip drooped a little. He put down knife and fork.

“I never,” Worrel said, “met a newspaper man yet who didn’t fancy himself an amateur sleuth. Come, what else have you deduced about me?”

HUNTER’S VOICE dropped into a restaurant whisper. “That the gun you carry bears the mark of the federal government. That you are a federal narcotic agent You know as well as I that while outwardly Chinatown may have gone chamber-of-commerce, beneath the surface there’s something else. Sort of a slime below. I’m diggin’ in that muck, trying for a story that will up-end this town. You’re diggin’ in the muck—for Uncle Sam. Drugs? You’ve come to the right place. ‘Frisco is filthy with dope.”

John Worrel remained uncomfortably silent, and Lockland hastily filled in with: “So that’s the reason for your mysterious actions of the past month, Lon. I might have known. You’ve got that hell-for-leather look in your eyes. Lord, man, you’re juggling dynamite! You’ll end up with a hatchet in the back of your skull.”

Lon Hunter said nothing. Fingers on his right hand made a rapid motion that was scarcely more than a gesture toward the cuff of his coat sleeve. Then there was a knife in his hand—a long-bladed, keen-edged instrument of silent death. Another gesture and the long blade was quivering in the lacquered booth-panel above Worrel’s head.

John Worrel raised his eyebrows slightly, but there was no other indication of surprise on his face. He dislodged the knife, thumbed its edge, and returned it to Lon Hunter.

“You’d make a better friend than enemy,” Worrel said.

Lon Hunter smiled. “I only wish others would take your attitude. But I find that in dealing; with the Oriental, a knife is a far greater threat than a gun. When, of course, you can use a knife.”

John Worrel lost interest in his meal. He leaned back to watch Lon Honter. Finally he said: “All that you have said is true.”

Hunter shrugged. “Then why aren’t we uniting forces? Have you any idea whom you are up against?”

“A ghost of an idea,” muttered Worrel. “Just a ghost. Never had any luck chasing phantoms.” Clumsily, the Fed’s fingers pulled out a cigarette. He lighted it deliberately, leaned across the table. The breadth of his shoulders was impressive, especially to the slightly built Lockland.

“Nearly a year ago,” Worrel said, “a man was supposed to have left Limehouse. Man, god or ghoul. Word came to Washington from Scotland Yard that he was on his way. Yet none of the high Scotland Yard officials would go so far as to say that they had seen him. The only definite information came from a Limehouse policeman who was found in the street, wounded, dying, half mad from some insidious torment, the creation of an Oriental mind. Before dying, this British cop spoke of the ‘King of Limehouse.’ Almost his last words were: ‘You will know him when you see him. He is the Chinese wrapped in cold flame. His name is Chang. He has the most hideous brain in the world.’ ”

Excerpt From: Brant House. “Curse of the Mandarin’s Fan.”