The Third Man by Graham Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

and this jeep—it was terrible, terrible. The driver braked, but he didn't stand a chance. Have a Scotch, Mr. Martins. It's silly of me, but I get shaken up when I think of it." He said as he splashed in the soda, "I'd never seen a man killed before."
           "Was the other man in the car?"
           Cooler took a long pull and then measured what was left with his tired kindly eyes. "What man would you be referring to, Mr. Martins?"
           "I was told there was another man there."
           "I don't know how you got that idea. You'll find all about it in the inquest reports." He poured out two more generous drinks. "There were just the three of us—me and Mr. Kurtz and the driver. The doctor, of course. I expect you were thinking of the doctor."
           "This man I was talking to happened to look out of a window—he has the next flat to Harry's—and he said he saw three men and the driver. That's before the doctor arrived."
           "He didn't say that in court."
           "He didn't want to get involved."
           "You'll never teach these Europeans to be good citizens. It was his duty." Cooler brooded sadly over his glass. "It's an odd thing, Mr. Martins, with accidents. You'll never get two reports that coincide. Why, even I and Mr. Kurtz disagreed about details. The thing happens so suddenly, you aren't concerned to notice things, until bang crash, and then you have to reconstruct, remember. I expect he got too tangled up trying to sort out what happened before and what after, to distinguish the four of us."
           "The four?"
           "I was counting Harry. What else did he see, Mr. Martins?"
           "Nothing of interest—except he says Harry was dead when he was carried to the house."
           "Well, he was dying—not much difference there. Have another drink, Mr. Martins?"
           "No, I don't think I will."
           "Well, I'd like another spot. I was very fond of your friend, Mr. Martins, and I don't like talking about it."
           "Perhaps one more—to keep you company."
           "Do you know Anna Schmidt?" Martins asked, while the whisky still tingled on his tongue.
           "Harry's girl? I met her once, that's all. As a matter of fact, I helped Harry fix her papers. Not the sort of thing I should confess to a stranger, I suppose, but you have to break the rules sometimes. Humanity's a duty too."
           "What was wrong?"
           "She was Hungarian and her father had been a Nazi so they said. She was scared the Russians would pick her up."
           "Why should they want to?"
           "Well, her papers weren't in order."
           "You took her some money from Harry, didn't you?"
           "Yes, but I wouldn't have mentioned that. Did she tell you?"
           The telephone went and Cooler drained his glass. "Hullo," he said. "Why, yes. This is Cooler." Then he sat with the receiver at his ear and an expression of sad patience, while some voice a long way off drained into the room. "Yes," he said once. "Yes." His eyes dwelt on Martins' face, but they seemed to be looking a long way beyond him: flat and tired and kind, they might have been gazing out over across the sea. He said, "You did quite right," in a tone of commendation, and then, with a touch of asperity, "Of course they will be delivered. I gave my word. Goodbye." He put the receiver down and passed a hand across his forehead wearily. It was as though he were trying to remember something he had to do. Martins said, "Had you heard anything of this racket the police talk about?"
           "I'm sorry. What's that?"
           "They say Harry was mixed up in some racket."
           "Oh, no," Cooler said. "No. That's quite impossible. He had a great sense of duty."
           "Kurtz seemed to think it was possible."
           "Kurtz doesn't understand how an Anglo-Saxon feels," Cooler