The Time Trap. John Russell Fearn
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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN
1,000-Year Voyage: A Science Fiction Novel
Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel
The Crimson Rambler: A Crime Novel
Don’t Touch Me: A Crime Novel
Dynasty of the Small: Classic Science Fiction Stories
The Empty Coffins: A Mystery of Horror
The Fourth Door: A Mystery Novel
From Afar: A Science Fiction Mystery
The G-Bomb: A Science Fiction Novel
Here and Now: A Science Fiction Novel
Into the Unknown: A Science Fiction Tale
The Man from Hell: Classic Science Fiction Stories
The Man Who Was Not: A Crime Novel
One Way Out: A Crime Novel (with Philip Harbottle)
Pattern of Murder: A Classic Crime Novel
Reflected Glory: A Dr. Castle Classic Crime Novel
Robbery Without Violence: Two Science Fiction Crime Stories
Shattering Glass: A Crime Novel
The Silvered Cage: A Scientific Murder Mystery
Slaves of Ijax: A Science Fiction Novel
The Space Warp: A Science Fiction Novel
The Time Trap: A Science Fiction Novel
Vision Sinister: A Scientific Detective Thriller
What Happened to Hammond? A Scientific Mystery
Within That Room!: A Classic Crime Novel
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1952 by John Russell Fearn
Copyright © 2002 by Philip Harbottle
Also published under the title,
The Thirty-First of June
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For John Lawrence
CHAPTER ONE
UNFINISHED JOURNEY
The sound of revelry drifted into the mellow summer darkness on this June evening. The French windows of the great residence were open to the faultless lawns; shadows chased each other in the gloom. Festoons of Chinese lanterns glowed like fireflies and made the solitude of the romantic far too bright for their liking. The music of a dance orchestra, the clink of glasses, the buzz of voices, the laughter of guests.
Henry T. Mythorn was doing things properly, as he had done throughout his life. The millionaire industrialist was in the midst of a house-warming. Mythorn Towers was one of the few ancestral homes left in Britain and Henry T. had seen to it that it had become his. Now, after a year of renovation and improvement, he and his family had moved in—and gathered about them all the guests, friends, and intimates they could find.
Most of them were prepared to stay until the small hours, but not so Nick Clayton. He owned a London cabaret that opened at one in the morning, and he always made a point of being there, no matter what. And because Nick Clayton was worth several millions—earned by his father before him—he usually had his way.
Outside in the driveway stood his car. Beside it, utterly impersonal, his chauffeur-manservant Dawlish was waiting in rocklike calm. The car was a big, open one and capable of carrying five more passengers besides the driver. The four others who were congregated around Nick Clayton in the hall were ready for departure, though by no means anxious to go.
In fact, Bernice Forbes, Nick’s particular girl, friend—at the moment—openly said so. She looked rather like a big doll in her costly fur coat, her flawlessly made-up face slightly pinker than usual with annoyance.
“Can’t your manager look after the Club for once, Nick?” she demanded. “Things here are just beginning to warm up.”
Nick smiled. It was the smile of a rogue yet with generosity in it. He lived well and heartily and wanted everybody else to do the same. Blond-haired and passably good-looking, he was a playboy who, nevertheless, turned some of his huge financial backings into worthwhile propositions. And the Apex Night Spot was one of them.
“We’re going back, Berny,” he replied firmly. “I like to handle everything for myself.”
Bernice pouted and gave a shrug. Henry T. and his wife, both of them big and opulent, looked disappointed.
“If that is how it has to be, all right,” Henry T. smiled, shaking hands. “I don’t suppose the rest of us will disperse until the small hours. Pity you can’t stay.”
“He could if he wanted,” commented forty-year-old Harley Brand acidly.
“You said you’d be glad of a night’s rest for once,” Nick reminded him dryly, and Harley Brand scowled.
He was a financier in the city, heading for wealth too if certain plans matured. His wife, a pale woman of thirty-two, stood beside him without saying a word. In his climb to power the still young Harley Brand had forgotten one thing—to remember how much he owed to Lucy Brand’s long suffering patience.
“Well, let’s go!” Nick ordered cheerfully. “Just on midnight. We can make it in thirty minutes. Come on, Berny!”
He caught the girl’s fur-coated arm and she hurried beside him down the broad steps to where the huge land cruiser with its chromium-plated fittings was standing. Dawlish, the chauffeur, was so immovable he looked like part of the car. He swung open the gleaming doors as the party arrived.
“Hey, wait for me!”
Nick paused and turned as he was about to follow Bernice into the wide front seat. A girl in a light dustcoat, her red hair streaming in the warm night wind, came hurrying down the steps, breathing uncommonly hard for such slight exertion.
“Give me a lift to London, Nick?” she asked brightly.
“Sure thing, Betty. Squeeze in the back.”
“Okay. I’m not up to house-warming tonight. My ticker’s acting queerly.”
Harley Brand and his wife moved up a little to make room for the girl and she settled down beside them and smiled rather woodenly. They smiled back but did not speak. Betty Danvers was a problem girl, and only she knew why. She was twenty-five years of age, pretty, and spent her life in a whirlwind of pleasures and extravagance, drawing constantly on her father’s seemingly endless bank account. Some said she was worthless; others liked her brightness.
The chauffeur moved with stiff-necked dignity to the wheel, started up the engine, and then set the huge car gliding down the driveway and out into the lane which ran across country to the main London-south coast road. The wind sweeping past the car was nearly sub-tropical and the stars were gleaming in masked beauty through a high screen of mist.
Presently the car entered Little Brook village with its solitary new signpost saying very definitely—TO MYTHORN TOWERS. Trust Henry T. to think of that! The villagers had apparently retired and the car’s headlights swept across scrupulously whitewashed walls and then upon the ivy-clad bulk of the village church. The clock was just striking midnight.
“Ten—eleven—” Nick intoned, then at the twelfth stroke he frowned a little. Instead of booming out it seemed to cut itself off short, like a gong in a radio program suddenly switched out.
“Sounded queer,” Bernice agreed, seeing his puzzled glance. “Probably the bell’s as cracked as the village inhabitants.”
“Could be,” Nick admitted.
By this time the car was on the cross-country road that connected eventually with the main London-south