How quickly one becomes aware of silence even in so silent a city as Vienna with the snow steadily settling. Martins hadn’t reached the second floor before he was convinced that he would not find Lime there, but the silence was deeper than just absence-it was as if he would not find Harry Lime anywhere in Vienna, and as he reached the third floor and saw the big black bow over the door handle, anywhere in the world at all. Of course it might have been a cook who had died, a housekeeper, anybody but Harry Lime, but he knew-he felt he had known twenty stairs down-that Lime, the Lime he had hero-worshipped now for twenty years, since the first meeting in a grim school corridor with a cracked bell ringing for prayers, was gone. Martins wasn’t wrong, not entirely wrong. After he had rung the bell half a dozen times a small man with a sullen expression put his head out from another flat and told him in a tone of vexation, “It’s no use ringing like that. There’s nobody there. He’s dead.”
“Herr Lime?”
“Herr Lime of course.”
Martins said to me later, “At first it didn’t mean a thing. It was just a bit of information, like those paragraphs in The Times they call News in Brief. I said to him: When did it happen? How?’”
“He was run over by a car,” the man said. “Last Thursday.” He added sullenly, as if really this were none of his business. “They are burying him this afternoon. You’ve only just missed them.”
“Them?”
“Oh, a couple of friends and the coffin.”
“Wasn’t he in hospital?”
“There was no sense in taking him to hospital. He was killed here on his own doorstep-instantaneously. The right-hand mudguard struck him on his shoulder and bowled him over in front like a rabbit.”
It was only then, Martins told me, when the man used the word rabbit that the dead Harry Lime came alive, became the boy with the gun which he had shown Martins; a boy starting up among the long sandy barrows of Brickworth Common saying, “Shoot, you fool, shoot. There,” and the rabbit limped to cover, wounded by Martins’ shot. “Where are they burying him?” he asked the stranger on the landing.
“In the Central Cemetery. They’ll have a hard time of it in this frost.”
He had no idea how to pay for his taxi, or indeed where in Vienna he could find a room in which he could live for five English pounds, but that problem had to be postponed until he had seen the last of Harry Lime. He drove straight out of town into the suburb (British zone) where the Central Cemetery lay. One passed through the Russian zone to reach it, and a short cut through the American zone, which you couldn’t mistake because of the ice-cream parlours in every street. The trams ran along the high wall of the Central Cemetery, and for a mile on the other side of the rails stretched the monumental masons and the market gardeners-an apparently endless chain of gravestones waiting for owners and wreaths waiting for mourners.
Martins had not realised the size of this huge snowbound park where he was making his last rendezvous with Lime. It was as if Harry had left a message to him, “Meet me in Hyde Park,” without specifying a spot between the Achilles statue and Lancaster Gate; the avenue of graves, each avenue numbered and lettered, stretched out like the spokes of an enormous wheel; they drove for a half mile towards the west, then turned and drove a half mile north, turned south. The snow gave the great pompous family headstones an air of grotesque comedy; a toupee of snow slipped sideways over an angelic face, a saint wore a heavy white moustache, and a shako of snow tipped at a drunken angle over the bust of a superior civil servant called Wolfgang Gottman. Even this cemetery was zoned between the powers: the Russian zone was marked by huge statues of armed men, the French by rows of anonymous wooden crosses and a torn tired tricolour flag. Then Martins remembered that Lime was a Catholic and was unlikely to be buried in the British zone for which they had been vainly searching. So back they drove through the heart of a forest where the graves lay like wolves under the trees, winking white eyes under the gloom of the evergreens. Once from under the trees emerged a group of three men in strange eighteenth century black and silver uniforms with three cornered hats, pushing a kind of barrow: they crossed a rise in the forest of graves and disappeared again.
It was just chance that they found the funeral in time-one patch in the enormous park where the snow had been shovelled aside and a tiny group were gathered, apparently bent on some very private business. A priest had finished speaking, his words coming secretively through the thin patient snow, and a coffin was on the point of being lowered into the ground. Two men in lounge suits stood at the graveside; one carried a wreath that he obviously had forgotten to drop on to the coffin, for his companion nudged his elbow so that he came to with a start and dropped the flowers. A girl stood a little way away with her hands over her face, and I stood twenty yards away by another grave watching with relief the last of Lime and noticing carefully who was there-just a man in a mackintosh I was to Martins. He came up to me and said, “Could you tell me who they are burying?”
“A fellow called Lime,” I said, and was astonished to see the tears start to this stranger’s eyes: he didn’t look like a man who wept, nor was Lime the kind of man whom I thought likely to have mourners-genuine mourners with genuine tears. There was the girl of course, but one excepts women from all such generalisations.
Martins stood there, till the end, close beside me. He said to me later that as an old friend he didn’t want to intrude on these newer ones-Lime’s death belonged to them, let them have it. He was under the sentimental illusion that Lime’s life-twenty years of it anyway-belonged to him. As soon as the affair was over-I am not a religious man and always feel a little impatient with the fuss that surrounds death-Martins strode away on his long gangly legs that always seemed likely to get entangled together, back to his taxi: he made no attempt to speak to anyone, and the tears now were really running, at any rate the few meagre drops that any of us can squeeze out at our age.
One’s file, you know, is never quite complete: a case is never really closed, even after a century when all the participants are dead. So I followed Martins: I knew the other three: I wanted to know the stranger. I caught him up by his taxi and said, “I haven’t any transport. Would you give me a lift into town?”
“Of course,” he said. I knew the driver of my jeep would spot me as we came out and follow us unobtrusively. As we drove away I noticed he never looked behind-it’s nearly always the fake mourners and the fake lovers who take that last look, who wait waving on platforms, instead of clearing quickly out, not looking back. Is it perhaps that they love themselves so much and want to keep themselves in the sight of others, even of the dead?
I said, “My name’s Calloway.”
“Martins,” he said.
“You were a friend of Lime?”
“Yes.” Most people in the last week would have hesitated before they admitted quite so much.
“Been here long?”
“I only came this afternoon from England. Harry had asked me to stay with him. I hadn’t heard.”
“Bit of a shock?”
“Look here,” he said, “I badly want a drink, but I haven’t any cash-except five pounds sterling. I’d be awfully grateful if you’d stand me one.”
It was my turn to say “Of course.” I thought for a moment and told the driver the name of a small bar in the Kartnerstrasse. I didn’t think he’d want to be seen for a while in a busy British bar full of transit officers and their wives. This bar-perhaps because it was exorbitant in its prices-seldom had more than one self-occupied couple in it at a time. The trouble was too that it really only had one drink-a sweet chocolate liqueur that the waiter improved at a price with cognac, but I got the impression that Martins had no objection to any drink so long as it cast a veil over the present, and the past. On the door was the usual notice saying the bar opened at 6 till 10, but one just pushed the door and walked through the front rooms. We had a whole small room to ourselves; the only couple were next door, and the waiter who knew me left us alone with some caviar sandwiches. It was lucky that we both knew that I had an expense account.