The Hunt

Ingersoll sprawled on the chaise lounge in the living room of his town house, freshly bathed, swathed in his silk robe, sipping champagne and staring out at the Helgestrasse. The events of the day raced through his mind. He had awakened that morning feeling unusually stressed and tired. There were a lot of reasons. The picture was three days over schedule and there was another week to go. It had been a difficult shoot from the start. That new girl, whatever her name was, had been tense and insecure since the first day, requiring take after take - His makeup was more difficult than usual to put on and became painful after only two or three hours. Every muscle in his face ached after nine hours encased in the twisted mask of rubber and aluminum.

But the visit from Hitler’s envoy had made up for all that. Only two years before, Ingersoll had been one of the millions of dispirited, homeless Germans scrambling for a living. Now here he was, rich and famous, and Germany’s new savior wanted to meet him, indeed had invited him to the Eagle’s Nest!

Mixed blessings.

He felt both exhausted and elated. And restless. And the more champagne he drank, the more restless he became, the stronger the familiar stirring became. He knew the symptoms, just as he knew that before the night was over he would know both ecstasy and humiliation.

As always, he tried to fight off the compulsion. He thought of taking a sleeping pill—except the nightmares that accompanied his strange obsession were sometimes worse than the reality.

He held up the champagne glass and stared at it. His hand was shaking, an almost imperceptible tremor. He put the glass down and squeezed his hands together. The compulsion became stronger. The stirring began. Finally he buzzed for Heinz.

“I’ve changed my mind about dinner,” he said. “Will that be a problem for you, Heinz?”

“Of course not. I’ve just started cooking.”

“Good. Call the Ritz and get me a suite on the second floor, will you? Tell them I’ll be ordering dinner for two.”

“Right away. Will it be Mr. Sanders tonight?”

“Yes. And lay out my tuxedo, please. I feel a bit elegant tonight, Heinz. I feel like celebrating.”

“As well you should, Hans.”

“Yes. It has been a significant day, hasn’t it?”

“I’ll get things ready.”

After Heinz left the room, Ingersoll downed the rest of the champagne and went to a corner of the room. He slid back a tall bookcase and opened the safe behind it. Inside were thick envelopes of cash: American dollars, British pounds, French francs. Everything but German marks. With inflation as high as it was it would take a safe full of marks to buy a bowl of soup. He opened one of the envelopes, counted out five hundred British pounds and stuffed them in a pocket of his robe.

Two hours later, Ingersoll checked into the hotel where he was known as Harry Sanders, a fiftyish English art dealer with thick white hair and an elegantly trimmed beard. Sanders was a welcome guest. He usually arrived with only a small, black suitcase, ran up impressive bills, stayed only one night and always paid in British pounds. He went up to the suite, checked it out, then left the hotel immediately to begin cruising the Helgestrasse in his Mercedes.

Driving through the dark streets, he was light-headed with anticipation. Less than two blocks from the hotel he passed four brownshirts standing in front of a jewelry store. One held an old Jewish man by the collar while two others stood with their faces inches from his, berating the old man, who was wearing a yarmulke. The fourth uniformed storm trooper was painting a six pointed star on the wall beside the display window. Ingersoll stopped his car, turned off the lights and watched as the SA troopers began pushing the old man from one to the other, in a circle, spinning him around as they did. They pulled the skull-cap off and threw it in the gutter. Then they began punching the crying old man, spinning him and punching him until he fell to his knees. The biggest of the storm troopers stepped back and kicked the man in the chest. He fell to the ground, drawing up into a fetal knot with his hands over his head. The storm troopers were laughing as they circled their cowering victim, taunting him, kicking him, screaming insults at him. Then the big one picked up a garbage can and shattered the display window with it. The glass showered down in a rain of gleaming daggers and splashed across the sidewalk. The SA stood back and appraised their destruction. Satisfied, they went off down the Street laughing and singing.

The old man did not move. He lay curled on the sidewalk, shaking. Ingersoll sat for a few minutes watching him. Finally there was a stirring in the shadows; two men scurried out and helped him up.

Well, the actor thought bitterly, that old Jew learned his lesson.

For a moment, Ingersoll wondered about his dispassionate response, for he felt no pity for the helpless old man. Certainly he despised the drunken, brawling brownshirt louts. They were animal-like in their stupidity. But these were extreme times and extreme measures were necessary. Sooner or later the Marxist Jews would get the message. While the rest of the Germans wallowed in debt, the Jews grew richer, hoarding their money, controlling the banks, supporting the Communists who wanted to destroy the economy.

Sooner or later they’ll figure it out, Ingersoll thought as he drove on. Sooner or later they would all close up shop and get the hell out of Germany. And the sooner the better.

She had long, dark hair which was tied with a bow in the back but her skin was fair, almost pale, and she had exquisite deep brown eyes. She could be Italian, he thought, or Spanish. She definitely was not German. She wore very little cheek rouge and a modest amount of lipstick, not the heavy theatrical makeup the German whores troweled on. Greek maybe. He had been driving around appraising the whores on the Street for almost an hour and he was getting impatient. He stopped the car and studied her as she eyed the men entering and leaving a bar called the Happy Club.

Twenty-three or four at best. Nice legs and a trim little ass. His groin tightened. He drove up beside her and stopped the car. She leaned over and looked in the window.

“Well, now ain’t you the fancy one,” she said. The accent was cockney. He was surprised but it was definitely cockney. Ingersoll was an expert on dialects and accents.

“And aren’t you the English one. London I’d guess.” “Well ain’t you the smart one, too, ducks. East End, actually.”

“What are you doing in Berlin?”

“Now what does it look like I’m doin’, dearie?”

“I mean, why here,” he said caustically. He could not deal with street whores pleasantly, as hard as he tried.

“Say, you’re an English toff, too, ain’t you?”

He ignored the question.

“What are you doing over here?” he repeated.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m on holiday and

I’ve run a bit short. And let me give you a hint, sweetie, I can show you a few tricks these German ladies ain’t never heard of. Why, I doubt they could imagine the kind o’ time I can show you.”

“And what is this extraordinary performance going to cost me . . . ducks,” he said with a sneer.

“Y’know, that’s a problem with me. I still haven’t worked out this business about marks .

“Tell me in pounds, I’ll work out the equation.”

“Gaw, you do have a way of talkin’, don’t you, luv?”

“The price,” he said coldly.

“Tell you what, we’ll start off with a massage. That’ll take yer edge off. Then you can really enjoy the rest of the show.”

He felt degraded and unclean but he was growing hard thinking about what would follow. This would be enjoyable, he thought.

“How much?” he demanded again.

“Ten pounds and the massage is free.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Now look ‘ere

“You never got more than a flyer in your life, dearie. I’ll pay you sever-fifty for the night.”

Negotiating was part of it, part of the compulsion.

“Aw, now, I gets twenty fer the night, you know that’s fair. Seven-fifty for one trip.”

“Ten for the night.”

“‘Ere now,” she whined, “give a girl a break, whyn’t ya? Don’t have to be such a tough one. Make it fifteen and throw in a smile.”

“Twelve-fifty. You can forgo the massage and I’ll forgo the smile.”

“You’ll be sorry about the massage.”

“Get in the car.”

He was a weird one, she thought. Usually her parties wanted to get right to it. This one had called up a fine dinner, then ordered her to take a bath, had given her fresh clothes and even a bottle of perfume. He wasn’t in any rush. So here she was in a suite in the fanciest hotel in town, staring at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress was Victorian, draped to the floor. The black corset underneath squeezed and shoved her breasts until they bulged over the top of the dress. A garter belt supported the black hose he had given her.

I look like I just came from the theater, she thought to herself as she dabbed the perfume behind her ears and knees and in the crook of her elbow.

She walked back into the bedroom and stopped in surprise. The older gentleman was gone. In his place a younger man sat on the sofa in the opposite corner of the room. He had short blond hair, was clean shaven and was wearing a black mask that covered the upper part of his face down to his lower lip.

“Where’s the other gentleman?” She demanded.

“I am the other gentleman,” he said.

“What’s this all about?”

“Harmless games. Do you object to a little playacting?”

“Gaw, you are a strange one, all right.”

“Come over here.”

She crossed the room and stood in front of him with her hands on her hips.

“Now reach up under the dress and masturbate,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “But don’t let me see you. Keep the dress down over your hand.”

“Wha—”

“Do it.”

She slid both hands up her thighs until he could see the edge of the corset. She shook her hands and the dress flopped over them.

“There is no hurry,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself.”

He began to sweat. His heartbeat increased. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temple.

“No hurry,” he repeated.

“C’mon, guy, you reach a certain point, you can’t slow down, y’know.”

“What do you like best about it?”

“Why, comin’, o’ course. Don’t we all? Ain’t that the best part for you, luv?”

His blue eyes glittered behind the mask. He licked his lips.

“The best part is after.”

“After?”

He was breathing heavier and was almost out of breath.

“Reach out with one hand and take off my tie.”

When she did he could smell the musky odor of her se on her fingers. She slowly drew one end of the tie until it fell loose. The hand under her dress was moving faster and her legs were beginning to quiver. She closed her eyes, lowered her chin to her breasts and licked the top of them as she stroked herself faster.

“Yeah, guy, oh yeah,” she groaned.

“Stop,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Stop. Unbutton my shirt.”

“C’mon now.

“Do it.”

She was out of breath and her face was flushed but she did what he asked. Her hands shook as she undid the buttons. When she was finished he took the shirt off. He sat on the sofa and leaned back on his elbows.

“Undo my pants .. . now reach in and stroke me for awhile now you can do yourself again .. . stop! No, not me, you...

take off the dress. . . yes, now the corset. . . slowly, no hurry. .

He saw her full breasts burst free of the tight corset, watched her as she slid the corset down, stared at the black triangle of hair that glistened a few inches from his face. Her hands stroked him to life. He lay back.

“Now you again. . . yes, like that... not so fast, build up to it again

She couldn’t control it.

“Can’t wait, luv.” She closed her eyes. Her arm was moving spasmodically.

He watched her hand moving faster and faster, watched her stroke him with the same cadence. She began to tremble, to stiffen and he felt himself about to explode.

“Stop!” he cried out. But she paid no attention.

“Stop it!” Her gripped the hand that was stroking him around the wrist. His grip was so tight it hurt her but she still didn’t stop. Instead she stroked herself faster and began to moan.

Ingersoll rolled slightly to one side and lashed out with a vicious right cross, punching her in the mouth as hard as he could. Her head snapped back, her body sagged; she fell sideways to the floor and lay there unconscious.

He sat up on the sofa and took a deep breath, composing himself. His chest heaved, twice, three times, then he was calm. He stared down at her, watching the bruise on her jaw turn black, and he began to chuckle.

She came around slowly and just as slowly became aware that her hands and legs were tied to the four corners of the bed. He was inside her, thrusting like an animal. Her mouth was gagged with a cotton cloth. She looked up, terrified. He was leaning over her, his mouth half open, sweat pouring from his chin and when he saw her look up he straightened up and hit her again, not as hard this time but enough to split her lip. She could feel the lip going numb, the salty flow of blood in her throat. She tried to scream. He hit her again and now he began to pant as he hit her, punching her in the chest and ribs and face, although the blows became less and less brutal as he built to a climax with each punch. She was almost unconscious again when she heard him cry out and felt him fall forward on top of her. His head fell beside hers. His heart was pounding against her bruised ribs. She could feel him begin to soften inside her. She began to moan in pain. If he heard her he paid no attention.

He left her tied and bleeding while he went into the bathroom to shower. When he came back the white wig and beard were restored. He untied her but left the gag in place; her shattered lips were swollen around it. He helped her get dressed, threw the bloody dress and corset and the black mask in the suitcase.

“We’re going to leave by the back stairs, the way we came in,” he whispered in her ear. “I want you to keep your head down, understand me? Understand?”

She nodded.

“You act drunk. If we pass anybody, don’t look up. You make one sound and I will break your neck like a dead twig.”

He held her up with one arm and carried his bag in the other. She kept her head down as he had ordered but no one saw them. He shoved her roughly into the front seat of the car and slammed the door, then drove back toward the Helgestrasse in silence. She stared at the floorboard, pressing a towel to her shattered lips.

Two years, chasing rules on freight trains, sleeping under railroad bridges and in the corners of dark tunnels, stealing to eat. Sometimes there had been laboring jobs, brutal work moving railroad tracks or clearing brush for a handful of marks that would barely buy a good meal. And sometimes there had been enough left over to pay one of the whores that lived near the rail yards—old whores, too sick or burned out to appeal to anyone else, smothering his rage in momentary passion while the humiliation burned his soul like a branding iron. A good-looking man like himself; a handsome man, a war hero for God c sake! Reduced to haggling over pennies with filthy, smelly human relics no self-respecting man would endure, screwing in tattered tents or on the ground when the weather was warm enough. But since no respectable woman would have anything to do with the wanderers, it was a momentary relief from the agony of poverty.

He could no longer remember exactly where he was that night. Brandenburg, perhaps, or Münster. Days and places had become a jumbled nightmare in which every place looked the same. Littered rail yards with feeble campfires to keep warm. Hands scabbed and blistered and encrusted with dirt. The endless sound of coughing. A warm summer night. Soft grass underneath them. And he looked up and saw the faces, lined up and peering over the edge of the ravine. Grinning, tooth-rotten mouths and hollow eyes, lined up and peering from the darkness. His rage had been tumultuous. He had thrown pieces of coal at them, grabbed’ one by the hair and flogged him with a stick.

“We paid her to watch,” the feeble voice pleaded.

And turning back he saw her lying there, her dress around her waist, laughing at him.

“You want a show, I’ll give you a show,” he bellowed. He had mounted her as a bull mounts a cow, roaring with anger, striking her with his fist as he thrust himself into her until he was spent and collapsed on tap of her and only then did he realize she was dead.

His first instinct was to run. But the old men had seen him. So he dragged and carried her to a nearby overpass and waited until a train came, hoisting her limp body over the railing, dangling her at arm’s length until the train was almost on him, then dropping her in its path.

By morning he had hopped another freight and was miles away and the dead whore was an ugly dream. But it was a dream that would not die and so when he was obsessed, when the compulsion would not go away, he relived the nightmare. And when it was over there was no remorse, no guilt, no anger left in him. Only blessed relief and dreamless sleep.

He returned her to within a block of where he had picked her up, pulled up to the curb and turned off the car lights.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

She stared at the floor of the car for several seconds but the softness of his voice made her finally look up at him. One side of her face was black and blue. Her eye was almost swollen shut. Her lips bulged.

He held up a sheaf of pound notes and wiggled them in front of her good eye.

“Two hundred pounds, luv. Now which do you want? Do you want this two hundred quid or do you want me to drive to the police station so you can turn me in for whacking you about? Two hundred, luv, think about it. Couldn’t make that in a fortnight, could you?”

She looked at him for a long time before she slowly reached out and took the money.

“Get out,” he ordered.

The girl moved painfully out onto the sidewalk. Ingersoll pulled the door shut behind her and the tires squealed as he raced off into the darkness.