The Flood

by John Creasey

  Eve was saying: “I don’t know what the gas is, but my father once told me that it is an extract of curare. The muscles are temporarily atrophied, but the nerves and all the senses are alert. That’s how they are trained. That’s why there is little or no fear of them. The effect of the gas is always instantaneous. One man was mauled, as they would have been.” She stopped, as the keeper stood up but didn’t move away. “But I always feel terrified at this stage.”

  The panther began to struggle to its feet and the effort seemed to take all its strength. Once on all fours, it collapsed like a colt which had just left its mother. Up – down. The sleek black fur shimmered in the sun, with the movement and with the quivering of the great muscles which were coming back to life.

  Finally it kept on its feet.

  The keeper spoke to it again, and the sound of his voice travelled clearly, although they couldn’t distinguish the words. For all Woburn knew, he might be saying: “Be off with you.” He pointed towards a corner of the pasture, and the panther turned and moved off. It didn’t skulk or slink away but went quite normally, until it reached the shadow of a tree. It hesitated beneath the leafy branches, looked up, and then leapt. A moment later, all Woburn could see was a stretch of its back; it was nearly hidden by the leaves.

  He relaxed, very slowly.

  The keeper and Adam turned and looked up at the window, then waved. Eve didn’t raise a hand; Woburn acknowledged the gesture. Then the two men moved towards the door in the wall, and came into the rose garden.

  Five minutes later, Eve said: “I think we ought to go downstairs.”

  13

  It was like stepping out of one world into another.

  Woburn saw the three men who were waiting in the hall, and braced himself.

  There was Adam.

  He had put on a cream-coloured shirt, which was open at the neck. Woburn’s first impression was of a nice-looking, clean-cut youngster in the middle twenties. He was very fair, and his hair crinkled. If one were looking for physical perfection, this was surely the man. His grey eyes were large and the eyebrows were clearly marked. A smile added a pleasant touch to his handsomeness, but none of these things were really outstanding.

  Woburn had a distinct feeling of disappointment. He had seen young men like this by the dozen – by the hundred. It was a kind of machine-made product. Nice, healthy, wholesome and utterly undistinguished but for looks and physique. The eyes were clear enough, but there was no sharp look of intelligence; of mental vitality.

  The keeper was a different type, elderly, with almost white, bushy hair and a pleasant smile, blue eyes with a twinkle. He was smaller even than he looked from the window, and Adam was not really tall, was an inch or two shorter, in fact, than Woburn’s six feet.

  The third man was a personality.

  Slightly shorter than average, with broad shoulders, a figure so straight that he seemed almost to be leaning slightly backwards, dressed well in a pale grey suit, his quality showed in his eyes and in the set of his mouth. The odd thing was that with his first impression, Woburn hardly realised the thing of greatest significance.

  This man had coloured blood in him.

  It showed in his very full looks, broad nose, and the colour of his skin; he wasn’t really dark, but pale brown. That may have helped to add slightly to the distinction. His eyes were deep set, and honey-coloured. His hair, crinkly as a negro’s, was cut very short as if he were anxious to get rid of some of the tight little curls.

  He was in the middle of the trio.

  He came forward.

  “My dear Eve, how grateful we are for the warning.” His gaze shifted to Woburn and lingered with open curiosity. “And, naturally, to your friend.”

  “Paul, this is Mr. Woburn,” Eve said, “I told you about him last night.”

  “You did indeed,” said the coloured man. He had a rich, deep speaking voice, and there was a hint of American accent. His words were uttered slowly and very distinctly. “We are grateful to you on two counts now, sir – for saving our precious Eve’s life – and for saving Barney here from being badly mauled.”

  He didn’t mention Adam.

  Eve put in: “This is Dr. Faversham, Mr. Woburn.”

  The resident doctor . . .

  Faversham shook hands; his grip was firm and he didn’t linger; taken on its surface value, that was the grip of a man worth knowing. Oddly, none of them seemed to take any notice of Adam, and he stood a little way from the main group, quite content to stand. It was Faversham who remembered him.

  “You have met Adam Reed at a distance, of course. Adam, Mr. Woburn.”

  “Glad to know you, sir,” Adam Reed said.

  Woburn had another kick of surprise, for the accent was Canadian. There was something unmistakable about the clipped, slow voice, as if the young man knew exactly what he wanted to say.

  “How’re you?” Woburn stood quite still, conscious almost of a feeling of fatuity. But – be normal. He looked at the keeper. “How had you the nerve to go and stroke the beast—”

  “That’s my job, sir.” Barney was English, from the heart of London. “Nothing to it, when you get to know them, and when you know you can rely on a bit of help.” He grinned and patted his pocket. “I just wanted to thank you for the warning, sir.”

  “I’m glad I happened to be there.”

  Barney grinned. “So’m I!” He turned to Dr. Faversham. “Is it okay if I go now, sir?”

  “Yes, Barney.”

  “Thanks. Hope the Boss soon cheers up a bit,” said Barney. He gave a little half-bow to Eve and Woburn, and then went out briskly, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. A door opened, and closed behind him.

  “How is my father?” Eve asked, quietly.

  “I’m very glad to tell you that he seems much better,” said Faversham. “I was with him only ten minutes ago. I gave him a sedative, of course, and that has helped – you’ll understand that he will have to stay in his room today, he shouldn’t get up and he shouldn’t meet anyone whom he doesn’t know. Otherwise,” Faversham went on, with a quick, open smile, “he would want to thank you himself, Mr. Woburn.”

  “That’s all right,” Woburn said. “I’m sorry he’s so bad.”

  “Now I hope you will excuse me,” said Faversham, “I’ve several things to do.” The smile flashed again. “I’ll look forward very much to seeing you at luncheon.”

  He went off.

  His movements, the way he planted his feet firmly on the floor, even the way he spoke and the way he looked, reminded Woburn of a film he had seen, of a robot-man. No one could doubt Faversham’s flesh and blood, but the deliberation of the movements couldn’t be missed; a kind of iron man. Even when he had gone, something of the stamp of his personality lingered. So did the effect of his last words.

  “I’ll look forward very much to seeing you at luncheon.”

  No threats, no menace, no hint of evil, but—

  Faversham was sure that Woburn was staying.

  It was twenty minutes to twelve.

  “Are you going to try to leave or not?” Eve asked.

  “Eve,” he answered quietly, “nothing’s altered. It’s much better for you to go.”

  “If I go out before luncheon, they’ll know at once that there’s something wrong,” Eve pointed out, practically. “Supposing they want you to stay to lunch, and then intend to let you go? What excuse would you have for staying behind?”

  He felt as if she’d struck him. He hadn’t thought of that, and he couldn’t find an answer.

  “You’ll have to go if you can,” Eve said. “I won’t try to leave. I may have more chance than you to search for the octi.”

  There were times when argument was useless. This was one of them. He had to try to leave; and Eve must stay behind.

  They went from the staircase hall into the other one. It was empty, but seemed to be peopled by ghosts; ghosts in paint, ghosts in the silks of tapestries, ghosts in armour. Pikemen and knights watched them.
Beautiful women watched them. And from the wall above the great front door there was a scene which made Woburn catch his breath. He recovered in a moment, and didn’t say a word, for a door was opened by the manservant who had admitted him. He had to hide his feelings, and he dared not look again without attracting too much attention, but he’d seen the picture and it would for ever remain as vivid as the scene out in the grounds of the hall.

  A tapestry of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden was fastened to the wall above the door. Both figures were naked. In Eve’s dark hair, a snake was coiled. In Adam’s hand, there was the apple.

  He said thickly: “I wish I could stay to lunch, Miss Davos, but I really must get back to my sister. I’ll be very happy to come to dinner.”

  “I do hope you will,” Eve said, “but if anything stops you, I’ll understand.”

  The footman was opening the front door. Eve’s hand clasp was quick and firm; her hand was very cold. She tried to hide her feelings, but couldn’t quite manage it. The tension touched them both as Woburn went to the porch.

  He nodded to the manservant.

  “Good-day, sir.”

  “Good-bye.”

  If they would let him go.

  Except for the lowered portcullis and the closed doors beyond it, there was nothing to suggest that there would be any difficulty. The courtyard was bright and hot in the sun, the brilliance of the flowers seemed to have taken on a kind of iridescence. The lawns shimmered. Walking across them were the peacocks, the cock’s tail folded now. Bees hummed, making a faint, familiar sound. There was another humming sound, of an aircraft flying very high.

  The hired Riley stood in the blazing sun. Woburn touched the paintwork, and snatched his hand away; it didn’t often get as hot as this. The metal handle didn’t sting so much. He opened the door and slipped inside; it was like getting into an oven. He slammed the door. His heart was hammering now; the next two minutes would tell him what chance he had.

  He started the engine.

  The old car quivered as he started off towards the closed gateway. The portcullis remained in position. He drove slowly and peered forward, trying to create the impression that he had only just noticed that the portcullis was down and the way out blocked.

  He stopped, two yards away, and looked round.

  A door in the wall opened. Woburn saw a small room beyond; it was rather like a sentry’s post in an old fort, and the walls here must be several feet thick. A man came forward smartly, dressed in navy blue and wearing a peaked hat, just like Barney.

  “Good morning, sir,” he greeted.

  “’Morning. Will you open the gates, so that I—”

  “Sorry, sir,” the man said. He didn’t sound even slightly sincere, but rather impatient. “The portcullis mechanism has gone wrong, we are working on it now. We hope to have it raised again soon after lunch.”

  Woburn bit on a sharp comment, and forced down his crowding fears. Remember, behave normally. Do and say what he would do and say if the situation were quite normal, if he had no reason to doubt the story of mechanical trouble.

  “Do you mean to say I can’t get out?”

  “It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “But it’s preposterous! I’ve an urgent appointment in Scourie.”

  “Very unfortunate, sir,” the porter said, “but there is no way of raising the portcullis or lowering the bridge. They were being tested this morning, and something has broken. As I say, a mechanic is working on them now, and we hope to have the door open again soon after lunch.”

  Don’t give in too easily.

  “But I tell you I must get away.”

  “Listen, sir,” said the porter, with the icy politeness of a man whose patience was at breaking point, “I didn’t make the thing break down. It’s just one of those things. Dr. Faversham wanted to go out, and he can’t. No one can get out. Unless you care to scale the wall,” he added sarcastically, “but it’s a four-mile walk to the nearest bus, and today—”

  Woburn cut in waspishly: “Is impertinence part of your job?”

  The man backed a pace, and stiffened. His expression changed, to one of complete blankness.

  “Sorry, sir. Only doing my duty, sir.”

  Woburn nodded curtly, and switched on the engine again. As he drove back towards the front door of the Castle itself, his heart was hammering with a violence that nearly choked him.

  He pulled up close to the wall, where there was some shade. He didn’t get out for a moment or two, but lit a cigarette. Here was the situation he had known was inevitable, but hadn’t really faced. He had the answer to one of Palfrey’s questions, but there wasn’t a way of getting word to Palfrey.

  Except. . . Eve?

  Woburn got out of the car and stepped into the burning sunshine. The doves weren’t in sight, nor were the peacocks; but two great siamese cats sat sleeping in the sun, and did not even open their eyes when he approached the great front door. He went up the steps, looking at the iron rings fastened to the walls; there, the torches had been placed in the old days, when atom and hydrogen bombs had not been thought of, when Noah and his ark had simply been history, and when Christians had believed implicitly in the story of Adam and Eve.

  That thought nearly suffocated him.

  Just beyond the door was that tapestry.

  He rang the bell, this time. There was a pause before the manservant opened it. He must have known about the portcullis, but he managed to look surprised. Woburn, studying everyone more closely than he had done, saw that he looked hardy; an out-door type.

  “Did you forget something, sir?”

  “The damned gates are closed, and I can’t get out.”

  “Can’t get out,” echoed the footman. “How unfortunate!” He looked across at the portcullis, and rubbed his chin. “But I’m sure you’ll be very welcome to stay until it’s put right.”

  Woburn said: “I must get back to Scourie.”

  “Very sorry, sir,” the footman said. “I’ll let Miss Eve know you’re back.”

  He went off.

  He was fooling Woburn, as the other man had fooled him; laughing at him, mocking at him.

  The man came back, alone.

  “Will you come this way, sir, please?” He led the way, but in a different direction, to a door which Woburn hadn’t seen before. There was something different; almost an atmosphere of menace. The manner of the servant made that clear. Woburn’s nerves began to get very taut.

  There was a flight of stairs, leading downwards, a passage, another doorway – and then a small room, where a white- smocked man stood with two others in the blue uniform of the keepers in the glen. Now there was no shadow of doubt; it was as if they had taken the gloves off.

  Woburn drew back, but the door had closed behind him.

  “Mr. Woburn,” the unknown man said smoothly, “I have to ask you a few questions, and I am sure you won’t mind answering.” He was tall, fat, and unhealthy looking; not hardy, like the others. “And I assure you that if you will just sit here and take everything quietly—”

  He had a hypodermic syringe in his hand.

  He was smiling.

  Woburn said roughly, angrily: “What is all this? What—”

  “We can get this little job over in a few minutes,” said the man in the white smock, “or it can take a long time. These men can make you—”

  “Listen,” Woburn said between his teeth, “I came here to inquire about Miss Davos. I’ve seen her. I’d like to know—”

  “All we want is a truthful statement from you about your reasons for coming, and another about your interview with a Dr. Palfrey last night,” the man smiled again. “You’ve no objection to telling the truth, have you?”

  Woburn roared: “You’ve no right to hold me here. Let—”

  The two men in blue moved swiftly; as the animals moved. Woburn hadn’t a chance, and realised it. With his right arm held behind him and forced upwards, he might be badly hurt if he struggled too violently. />
  He stopped.

  One man bared his arm, and in a flash the needle went in.

  “Just a little. . .” the white-smocked man said.”The truth drug. No one should object to the truth drug, should they?”

  He smiled.

  Woburn thought: “So it’s over as quickly as this.”

  He had one fear; that they would ask him to talk about Eve, while the effects of this damnable drug were still on him. He must not talk about Eve. He must not—

  “Now, Mr. Woburn,” the man began, “how long have you known Dr. Palfrey?”

  Woburn, sitting upright in a wooden armchair, answered huskily: “I met him last night for the first time.”

  “Oh. Will you please tell us exactly what he said?”

  Woburn began to answer, question after question, and at first he was close to despair. Then, gradually, he began to feel less hopeless. The truth dawned on him slowly, and he had time to school his emotions and his reactions.

  He was telling the rehearsed story. He was lying. The drug hadn’t worked.

  They released him, not long afterwards, as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary.

  One man took him back to the hall.

  Eve came out of the morning-room, to meet him. She managed to look puzzled and surprised, but there was the look of strain in her eyes. Woburn couldn’t tell her the truth, and he must not. He couldn’t show his almost wild elation; that the truth drug hadn’t worked. All the polite words, the smooth apologies about the gate, the polite regrets, meant nothing; they were superimposed upon hopes as well as fears which were growing with every minute.

  Eve telephoned Dr. Faversham, about the gates, and Faversham was obviously in control of the household now that Davos was ill. She listened for a few seconds, rang off, and told Woburn: “He says that he knew about the portcullis, that’s why he was so sure you would be staying.”