A THAW SET in that night, and all over Vienna the snow melted, and the ugly ruins came to light again; steel rods hanging like stalactites, and rusty girders thrusting like bones through the grey slush. Burials were much simpler than they had been a week before when electric drills had been needed to break the frozen ground. It was almost as warm as a spring day when Harry Lime had his second funeral. I was glad to get him under earth again, but it had taken two men’s deaths. The group by the grave was smaller now: Kurtz wasn’t there, nor Winkler – only the girl and Rollo Martins and myself. And there weren’t any tears.

After it was over the girl walked away without a word to either of us down the long avenue of trees that led to the main entrance and the tram stop, splashing through the melted snow. I said to Martins, ‘I’ve got transport. Can I give you a lift?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ll take a tram back.’

‘You win. You’ve proved me a bloody fool.’

‘I haven’t won,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost.’ I watched him striding off on his overgrown legs after the girl. He caught her up and they walked side by side. I don’t think he said a word to her: it was like the end of a story except that before they turned out of my sight her hand was through his arm – which is how a story usually begins. He was a very bad shot and a very bad judge of character, but he had a way with Westerns (a trick of tension) and with girls (I wouldn’t know what). And Crabbin? Oh, Crabbin is still arguing with the British Council about Dexter’s expenses. They say they can’t pass simultaneous payments in Stockholm and Vienna. Poor Crabbin. Poor all of us, when you come to think of it.

The Fallen Idol

THE FALLEN IDOL

Preface

Preface

The Fallen Idol unlike The Third Man was not written for the films. That is only one of many reasons why I prefer it. It was published as The Basement Room in 1935 and conceived on the cargo steamer on the way home from Liberia to relieve the tedium of the voyage. The Fallen Idol is, of course, a meaningless title for the original story printed here, and even for the film it always reminded me of the problem paintings of John Collier. It was chosen by the distributors.

I was surprised when Carol Reed suggested that I should collaborate with him on a film of The Basement Room because it seemed to me that the subject was unfilmable – a murder committed by the most sympathetic character and an unhappy ending which would certainly have imperilled the £250,000 that films nowadays cost.