Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“Yes. Why should he tell me anything else?” Liebermann got out the herring, tore off a piece of brown wrapping paper, put the fish on it. “Don’t tell me you know Schulze from the Old Country. It’s a small world, eh, Heinrich?”

“Yes. Yes. A small world.” His voice rose. He felt a little ill. “Quickly. Tell me where he lives.”

“Schulze?”

“Haller! I tell you, his name is Haller.” He held his fingerless left hand for Liebermann to see. “I could never forget the man who did this to me.”

Liebermann looked at him. “Perhaps he only looks like the man. It’s been a long time, Heinrich. People change. Tell me — have you ever seen such a herring, eh?”

Fool. Fischer did not wait to argue. He ran back out onto the street. The rain was coming down. There were not many people. He saw Haller crossing the street at the end of the block. He hurried after him. He had been a fool to waste time talking with Liebermann. Because of the stupid delay, Haller might disappear again from the face of the earth, just as he had disappeared during those frenzied days following the war.

Fischer quickened his pace, vaguely conscious of the rough brick fronts of the buildings sliding past, his feet making crunching sounds in the snow. The slush had become icy. His breath came in short gasps. There was a wild thumping in his chest and he knew that the pain there was caused by the cold air rushing into his lungs. He suddenly lost sight of Haller’s broad back as a bus spewed people onto the sidewalk between them. He lunged forward, bumping a woman carrying an umbrella, ignored her exclamation of disgust.

He broke through the crowd, scanning the sidewalk ahead through burning eyes. He stopped. He was in the middle of a long block. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, feeling himself slipping into a delirium of hopelessness.

There was no sign of life along the street.

He stood there, the rain falling on him. He was dimly aware of the wetness. He thought, can this be some terrible trick of my mind? Is it possible? No! It is him. I know it. He has only gone into one of the buildings.

He shuffled quickly past the clouded store fronts — a cleaners with the word CLOSED FOR XMAS soap-smeared across grimy glass, greasy spoon cafes, a barber shop with empty chairs — seeing nothing. At the corner, he paused, getting his bearings. He was about to continue up Sixth Street when he spotted Haller, hanging close to the cheap apartment buildings on Trimble Street, pressing in out of the rain.

“Erich Haller. Stop! Butcher!” His voice was little more than a womanish screech, unintelligible. He turned the corner, staggered rubber-kneed along Trimble Street, narrowing the gap between them.

He was about to call again, when suddenly Haller dropped to one knee, as if struck by a bullet. Fischer squeezed his eyes again. They did not seem to focus right. He saw Haller pick up an object from the sidewalk, one of the packages probably, and disappear through the entrance to a rundown brick house near the end of the block.

When Fischer reached the spot, he paused at the bottom of a short flight of steps. A cardboard sign tacked to one of the pillars supporting the delapidated porch said FURNISHED ROOMS. His knees nearly buckled as he climbed the steps. He tried the door. It was locked. A faded Christmas wreath hung there from a nail. Frantically, he pounded against the frosted-glass panel in the door, a soundless scream building in his throat.

There was the sound of a chain being slid into place and he felt a shudder go through him. He stepped back a pace. He wondered what Haller would do when they suddenly came face to face.

The door opened. It stretched taut the length of chain, leaving an opening five or six inches wide. A woman’s face appeared at the opening. The skin on her face looked like a thin layer of wax. She was shoddy and cheap. There was a patch of rouge on each cheek. She looked at him suspiciously through slitted eyes. “You trying to break the glass?”

“Haller,” Fischer said breathlessly. “You will only get into trouble if you hide him. I saw—”

“What do you want?”

“Erich Haller. I told you. I know he is here.”

The face became frightened. She tried to look past him. “There’s some mistake. There’s no Haller here.”

“You’re lying! Why do you lie?”

“Please,” she said nervously. “If you don’t go away I’ll have to call the police.”

“Liar!” With his right hand he reached for her throat, cursing, a horrible tremor in his voice. He was nearly blind with passion and fury. “Liar! Liar! Liar!”