Howard took to strolling about the campus and surrounding neighborhoods, constantly amazed at what his hand had wrought, and rather enjoying his secret knowledge that all of these precautions were futile. No one questioned his movements, of course, since he was a man, and no one, not even Jules, had ever suggested that the male population was in any danger.
It was on one of these strolls — two and a half weeks after the crime and when people were beginning to think and talk about other subjects — that Howard was startled by a strange and unusual sight. The time was eight o’clock, hardly late by normal standards, but more than two hours after dark and considerably late by the standards of this fear-haunted college town. The night was cloudy, damp, unpleasant, with patches of ground fog eddying about and half obscuring the glow of the street lamps. And it was in this grim setting that he saw the girl.
For a ghastly moment he even imagined that it was Rowena Stanley. As she passed under one of the lamps, her head, uncovered even in this chilly weather, shone bright and blonde. And though she was muffled in a heavy coat, she seemed the same size as Rowena. But of course it wasn’t Rowena. He had seen her coffin put aboard a train.
But what was this foolish girl doing abroad at this hour? Didn’t she know there’d been a murder? She was a student, because she was carrying books under her arm. What made her braver than the others? Strangely he resented her bravery.
And with an ungovernable curiosity he followed her. Across the quadrangle, then toward the Engineering and the Physics buildings. Howard’s heart began to pound faster. She was taking almost the same route that Rowena had taken on that fatal night. His curiosity mounting, he trailed after her. She was not walking too fast; he had to slow down to keep from closing the gap between them.
Then she did an utterly inconceivable thing. She abandoned the path and turned straight toward the short-cut to High Street. The madness of it appalled him. She was completely out of the light now, and only the dull glow of her blonde head, floating before him like a beckoning will-o’-the-wisp, allowed him to keep sight of her. He broke into a trot, but too late. The blonde head had disappeared. She was in the woods.
He wanted to shout to her, and he almost did, but at the last moment managed to control himself. He had almost committed a dangerous error. He couldn’t have the girl mentioning to anyone that she’d been hailed by Professor Hollis in the woods where Rowena Stanley had been murdered. Not even if he made it plain to her that he was concerned for her safety. No point in calling attention to himself that way.
Perspiring from an emotion he could not identify, he turned back. He stopped at the library, fiddled away some time, then at nine escorted Miss Jensen home. In the parlor nursing a cup of tea thoughtfully provided by Mrs. Finch, he waited for Jules. The psychologist arrived about ten-thirty and Howard pounced upon him.
“I’m very disturbed, Jules,” he began.
“How so?” The younger man was weary, but he submitted to the conversation.
“I saw a coed wandering about the campus after dark. She was quite alone.” He decided not to mention that the girl had entered the woods, for that would mean revealing that he had followed her.
But Jules perked up even without that. “What did I tell you, Howard? I knew the girls would get careless eventually.”
“But isn’t it dangerous? One oughtn’t to be careless about matters of life and death.”
“I thought you pooh-poohed the possibility of another murder.”
“Well, I still do.”
Jules smiled. “Then you shouldn’t worry.” The little psychologist stood up and commenced pacing the room. “I’m quite worried myself, however. A girl walks the campus alone after dark. Soon there will be others doing the same thing. This is the time I’ve dreaded. Our murderer will have another opportunity.”
“He won’t accept it,” Howard said with certainty. “He wouldn’t dare. If he’s still in town he must know that the police are on the look-out.”
Jules shook his head. “That won’t faze him. He’s used to taking chances. He took rather a chance when he murdered the Stanley girl, didn’t he? Why should he hesitate now? Besides, he really doesn’t have a choice. A man is not exactly a free agent when he acts under a compulsion.”
“Compulsion?”
“Of course. This man has to commit another murder.”
Howard stood up too. “That’s ridiculous!” he exploded.
“It’s perfectly logical. This first murder was committed out of revenge, resentment against society for society’s having rejected him. Have these conditions changed? In the past two weeks, do you imagine that this man has suddenly found new friends, a newer, happier existence? Of course not. He is more unhappy than ever. Society forced him to commit murder. Now he feels remorse. Also he knows that he can never again be a normal man. He has taken a human life. His hands are bloodstained. All these things are the fault of society too. Don’t you see? This man now has more of a grievance against the human race than he ever had before. So his compulsion is stronger than before, irresistible. No, Howard, I’m very pessimistic about this whole business. I feel like a spectator at a tragedy, where there is always more than one death. I have seen one already, but as a sophisticated member of the audience, I know there are others in store. It is as inevitable as the rising of the sun tomorrow morning.”
It was a moment before Howard could speak, and then he replied almost involuntarily. “You make it sound very convincing, Jules, very.”
The little psychologist nodded his acceptance of the compliment. “This is one of those times,” he said, “when I wish I was ill some other profession, when I wish I didn’t know so much about human nature.” He walked to the archway. “I’m very tired. Good night, Howard.” And then he was gone, up the stairs.
In his own room, Howard lay rigid and sleepless on his bed, staring at the black ceiling. His thoughts were chaotic, his emotions confused.
Of course Jules sounds logical, he told himself. But that’s because he is starting from a mistaken premise. A maniac did not murder Rowena Stanley. I did. And I purposely arranged things to make it seem like the crime was the work of a maniac. This is what Jules doesn’t know. Nobody knows. So one can’t blame Jules for going off on the wrong track any more than one can blame the women of this town for being frightened.
Except that blonde girl who took the short-cut. She was the crazy one.
Yes, Jules was logical if the original murderer had been insane, unbalanced, acting under that compulsion. And the compulsion for violence and revenge was also logical if the murderer had experienced a lonely, unhappy childhood, and especially painful adolescence, and then had grown to manhood still unappreciated, unaccepted by his fellows.
This thought plunged Howard into a sea of memories. He could admit this now, here in this solitary darkness, with no one to observe his tears. He’d been a mama’s boy. Yes, he had. He had adored his mother. Why? He didn’t know for sure. Perhaps because he’d never been very strong or athletic, and so never could do the things his father expected him to do. Or maybe it was simply because he had preferred his mother. She’d been so beautiful, with her long blonde hair.
Blonde! No, there was no connection whatsoever. Rowena Stanley had not resembled his mother. Rowena had been athletic, more like his father. The blonde hair was only a coincidence.
Why had his mother left him when his father died? He could have comforted her, become the man in her life. But she needed more than him. Possibly because she’d still been beautiful, and hadn’t wanted to waste her beauty. So she’d needed other men, one at first, and then many of them. It had been something of a scandal, and finally he had gone to live with an aunt, his father’s sister.