He had started across the patio, directly towards the bedroom, but had stepped into the soft loam of a new lawn that had recently been planted. The soil had been thoroughly wet down by the gardener that evening and the man had sunk halfway to his ankles. He had taken a few step, then had turned and retraced his steps to the cement. Then he had walked directly towards the bedroom. The cement retained tracks of the loam-covered feet.
He had tiptoed up the stairs.
The girl had been standing there in her lingerie in front of the mirror, making herself beautiful, planning the clothes she was to wear, putting on face cream, powder and lipstick, fixing her eyebrows and eyelashes.
Suddenly she had become uneasy, conscious of some presence behind her. She had started to turn.
It was too late.
One of her own silk stockings had been thrown over her head and around her throat, twisted tight; a cruel merciless knee had pushed into her back, against her shoulder blades. She had tried to scream but no sound would come. The silk stocking had been twisted tighter, tighter, tighter.
There had been a futile, feeble struggle.
Suffocating, she had tried to flail with her arms and legs, but the cruel knee in her back crushed her to the floor. Sinewy, strong hands twisted the silk stocking tighter and tighter. There had been a few convulsive motions, and then silence.
The silence of death.
And then the murderer had turned her over on her back, had bent over her and had kissed her. The smeared lipstick on her lips told the story of that last kiss.