The blonde girl emerged from the library almost precisely on schedule, her arms loaded with books. She passed within thirty feet of Howard, her head bent low against the wind, the dim light from a street lamp shining dully on her yellow head. Howard caught a fleeting glimpse of her profile, enough to give him the vague notion that he didn’t know her. That pleased him, the thought of killing a stranger. He received other quick impressions also. Her legs did not seem particularly attractive, nor was her walk graceful. That satisfied him too. His grudge was not against just the beautiful girls. And this was perhaps why she dared to go alone at night — she imagined her unattractiveness was a protection.
He let her get something of a start and stay well ahead of him as she crossed the quadrangle. But as she passed between Engineering and Physics, he lengthened his stride and began to catch up. By the time she’d reached the edge of the woods he’d almost overtaken her. But she did not seem to be aware of his approach, because of the howling of the wind.
There was just enough starlight and reflected glow from High Street and the campus to give some illumination as the woods closed in around them. The blonde head bobbed ahead of him like a beacon. But he was not impatient. He waited until they were well within the concealment of the trees. Then he closed the gap, treading almost upon her heels, and measuring his distance, he sprang.
He landed with his hands already around her neck, not with as good a grip as he had hoped, but good enough to stop her scream. The impact of his weight bore her to the, ground, with him on top. But she fought valiantly, and she was strong. Only then did he realize his mistake. An approach from the rear is not the best when trying to strangle someone. The thumbs, not the extended fingers, need to be placed on the windpipe. He let go for a second, and tried to roll around to a better position.
That was his second error; The girl seemed to be trying to reach inside her purse. What did she have there, a whistle? Desperate now, he sought his second hold, the fatal one, with thumbs at the throat. A fraction of a second late. A word issued from his victim’s mouth, a single, word, not really loud, not really dangerous even, but a word containing a whole revelation.
“Help!” Not a woman’s voice. But a familiar voice. Belonging to Psychology Instructor Jules Manson.
A wig, a disguise, easy enough in the bundling-up winter weather. Jules Manson, so sure that the killer would strike again that he offered himself as bait.
Howard bent low, snarling into Jules’ face. “You made me do this... you talked me into it... you damned pedant... you expert... you deserve to die... I’m glad it’s you...”
The explosion was muffled by the closeness of their two bodies. Howard felt a sharp stab of pain in the fleshy part of his left arm. Jules had a gun. Well, it didn’t matter. Howard’s thumbs pressed down hard, and the gun didn’t fire again.
When he let go finally, when there was no longer any need to hold on, there were shouts coming from High Street. Somebody had heard the report. All right... all right... he could never have explained the gunshot wound anyway.
He rolled off Jules’ inert body, and fumbled in his pocket for the little knife. It wasn’t sharp, but it managed to open the veins in his wrists. Then he crawled away a little off the path, under some bushes where they wouldn’t find him in time. He lay there, feeling his life drain out of him.
His life... Jules had been wrong... what did Jules know about anything? He had had a very happy life.