“We’ll forget that bit,” I said.
Martins said, “I never shall.”
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. 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 Cultural Relation Society 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.