The Crooked House | Page 8

come.
Monsieur Dupont blocked the way.
"No, no--it would be a waste of time. I have come from there."
"To the river, then," the manager cried, bearing him round. "He may be
trying to get across."
He was evidently familiar with the intricacies of the garden. In a few
minutes, after a dozen turnings, they reached the gleam of water.
"Keep your eyes open for the next flash," the manager directed.
He peered about. A moment later the lightning lit up the calm stretch of
the river and the broad lawns sloping down to it. Monsieur Dupont
detected no form or movement--but with a startling shout, the manager
bounded away from him across the lawns.
Monsieur Dupont blinked after him in astonishment.
He was alone again--in a new and even darker part of the endless

garden.
CHAPTER IV
DESTRUCTION
A deep-toned clock in the house struck twelve.
Rain began to fall. A few moments later the financier hurried across the
lawns with his collar turned up. The danseuse followed him. She
seemed a disappointed and indignant woman.
"It's almost an insult," she complained overtaking him.
"Noth a penny more," said the financier firmly.
They both turned quickly. Her hand gripped his arm convulsively. Wild
shouting arose in the darkness, and the sound of someone forcing a
headlong way through hedge and bush.
The Reverend Percival Delamere was rushing towards the house as if
the entire penalties of sin were at his heels.
"A corpse! A corpse by the river! Miss Manderson has been
murdered!"
The danseuse uttered a terrified cry. The financier shook.
"Murderedth?" he gasped, shrinking back.
The clergyman was shattered by horror.
"By the river ... almost torn to pieces...."
The danseuse screamed loudly. A figure bounded up behind them, and
a hand seized the clergyman's throat in a savage grip. The furious,
distorted face of George Copplestone glared down at him. He struggled,
freeing himself with all his strength.

"Copplestone," he choked, "something dreadful has happened to Miss
Manderson. I found her by the river ... horribly torn...."
From another direction, Tranter reached them, breathless.
"What is the matter? What has happened?"
The financier clung to him.
"Mith Manderthon ... murderedth."
Tranter shook him off, and stood very still. The agony on his face
passed unnoticed. As the theatrical manager and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe
arrived at a run, Copplestone, with a sound like the cry of a raging
animal, grasped the unhappy clergyman by the arm, and dashed off
towards the river.
The others followed. They found her lying a few yards from the water's
edge. The manager struck a match, and they looked down.
The danseuse shrieked, and fainted. Mrs. Astley-Rolfe sank on her
knees, sobbing, and covered her face with her hands. The financier
sickened, and turned away, trembling violently.
"God!" Tranter cried--"some one must have stamped on her!"
He bent down. "Thea...." he whispered.
Something like a sob shook him. But the others did not see.
"It must have been a wild beast," shuddered the clergyman.
"It is the work of a madman," said the manager hoarsely. "He has
utterly destroyed her--as he threatened."
George Copplestone stood without a tremor. As he looked down at the
broken form all his frenzy disappeared. The distortion of his first fury
faded from his face, leaving it set in a pallid, lifeless mask. He
contemplated the dreadful destruction at his feet without a sign of

horror, or even of pity. He was perfectly steady. Not a quiver escaped
him. Stooping down, he asked quietly for assistance to carry the body
to the house.
"Wait a bit," said the manager, looking at him curiously. "She ought
not to be moved before the police come."
Copplestone straightened himself, and remained silent.
"Let Gluckstein take the women in, and telephone to the Police
Station," the manager suggested.
Mrs. Astley-Rolfe raised her bloodless face.
"Yes, yes," she sobbed. "Let me go. It's too horrible. I can't bear it."
Tranter raised her up. The danseuse had recovered consciousness, and
was crying hysterically. Suddenly the financier startled them in a thin
high voice, pointing a shaking finger into the darkness.
"Someone ith moving! Out there behind uth! Whoth there? Whoth
there?"
They swung round, straining their eyes into the blackness.
"Who's there?" the manager called.
An answering voice reached them. The manager struck another match.
On the edge of the darkness they saw an enormous figure.
"It's Monsieur Dupont!" Tranter cried.
"My friends," exclaimed Monsieur Dupont, "at last I find you! What is
the matter?"
Copplestone looked at him steadily.
"The matter," he said evenly, "is that Miss Manderson has been
murdered."

Monsieur Dupont uttered an extraordinary exclamation. He was
instantly galvanized into a condition of seething energy. With what was
almost a snarl, he brushed the financier aside, and reached the white
mangled form on the ground.