Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

She tried to close the door with his arm still in the opening, pinning him there, sending pain reverberating into his system. He wondered if the bone had been broken. With a sudden jerk, he pulled the arm free, felt the sting of tearing flesh. The door closed. He thought how odd it was that a ribbon hanging from the wreath had the words Seasons Greetings. His thumb was cut. Blood dripped in small drops onto the porch.

He stood there, staring intently at the door, his face vacant. He perspired. His head ached.

“Crazy. Crazy!” The woman’s high-pitched scream came clearly through the frosted glass. “I’ll call the police.”

The police. Of course. This was America. In America, he could go to the police for help.

Hurriedly, Fischer left the porch and walked one block back to Sixth Street where he found the beat cop, a smiling, heavy-shouldered young man with a wide jaw faintly corded with muscle, standing under a canopy out of the rain.

“Come with me,” Fischer said, gesturing. “Hurry.”

“What was that?”

“Why do you stand there?” Fischer said, the words tumbling from quivering lips. “You must come with me. I will show you where a criminal is hiding.”

“Criminal?” The smile faded from the policeman’s face, his eyes darkened. “What criminal? What did he do?”

“His name is Erich Haller.”

“Haller?”

“Yes. At first I thought he was some trick my mind was playing. But I followed him. You’ll see.”

“Slow down, buddy. You ain’t making much sense.” The policeman’s eyes shifted, watched a drop of Fischer’s blood splatter on the sidewalk. He became conscious of the chill in the air. The policeman had seen a lot of things, terrible things, but that single drop of blood made him shiver. He said, “Maybe we’d better go down to headquarters. They’ll want to hear about this Haller guy.”

Fischer’s face changed. “There’s no time for that.”

“There’s time.” The policeman looked at him piercingly.

“No!” Fischer backed away. “You don’t believe me.”

“Sure I believe you.” He smiled. “Come on, now.”

Fischer could think of only one thing to do. He moved suddenly, lowering the violin case like a battering ram, slammed it into the policeman’s groin. The policeman groaned, stared at him as if dazed, fell toward on his knees. He ran, swung down a side street, knees thumping hollowly against the violin case clutched awkwardly against his chest. Sweat stung his eyes and he could not get enough air into his lungs. He came to another corner and tried to make the turn too fast. He went down, slamming heavily against the packed snow. The violin case slithered out in front of him. Grit ripped into the flesh of his palm and he stifled a cry as a sharp object wrenched at his knee. He rolled against one shoulder to stop his forward momentum, came to his feet, stumbled against a wall. He picked up the violin case, forcing his weight on the leg with the hurt knee, and almost went down again.

A man detached himself from the shadows of a doorway and came toward him. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He brushed the snow from his coat, glancing behind him.

The subway entrance was just a few steps ahead of him. He would be safe there. He fumbled through his pockets at the ticket booth, grabbed his change as a train thundered into the station, fell in with the jostling crowd that poured through the turnstile. When he glanced over his shoulder he felt a quick squeeze in his heart. The policeman stood at the turnstile. Finally he was inside the car. He took a seat near the window. He could see the policeman, running toward him. Why don’t the doors close, he thought. What are they waiting for? Everyone is ready. Everyone is sitting here. Why don’t they close?

He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the train was moving. The car was crowded and most of the seats were occupied. A young girl sat opposite him. She had blue eyes and long, yellow hair.

She put out a small hand and said graciously, “Is that your violin?”

“Yes.”

“Will you play it for me?”

“No. I used to play. Now I only teach young people to play — like you.”

“Will you teach me to play?”

“It is very difficult.”

“I would work very hard.”

“Would you?”

“Oh, yes.” She clapped the tiny hands together.

“Then I will teach you.” He wrote his address on a scrap of paper and gave it to her. “Here. Tell your mother that you are going to become a great virtuoso on the violin.”

The train came out onto an elevated. As he looked into the blue eyes, a scene long lost of some happier time in his boyhood flashed across his mind, vanished as the train lurched to a stop. People came into the car. Rain slashed against the windows. He put his head back. The trembling in his chest had stopped. He relaxed. There no longer was any element of doubt in his mind. Now he knew. He could kill a man. There was a look of sadness on his face. He looked out of the window, thinking how odd it was that it should be raining now.