Free The Third Man by Graham Greene

the books were collected by their owners: little half sentences of delight and compliment were dropped like curtseys—was this what it was to be a writer? Martins began to feel distinct irritation towards Benjamin Dexter. The complacent tiring pompous ass, he thought, signing the twenty-seventh copy of The Curved Prow. Every time he looked up and took another book he saw Crabbin's worried speculative gaze. The members of the Institute were beginning to go home with their spoils: the room was emptying. Suddenly in the mirror Martins saw a military policeman. He seemed to be having an argument with one of Crabbin's young henchmen. Martins thought he caught the sound of his own name. It was then he lost his nerve and with it any relic of commonsense. There was only one book left to sign: he dashed off a last "B. Dexter" and made for the door. The young man, Crabbin and the policeman stood together at the entrance.
           "And this gentleman?" the policeman asked.
           "It's Mr. Benjamin Dexter," the young man said.
           "Lavatory. Is there a lavatory?" Martins said.
           "I understood a Mr. Rollo Martins came here in one of your cars."
           "A mistake. An obvious mistake."
           "Second door on the left," the young man said.
           Martins grabbed his coat from the cloakroom as he went and made down the stairs. On the first floor landing he heard someone mounting the stairs and looking over saw Paine—whom I had sent to identify him. He opened a door at random and shut it behind him. He could hear Paine going by. The room where he stood was in darkness: a curious moaning sound made him turn and face whatever room it was.
           He could see nothing and the sound had stopped. He made a tiny movement and once more it started, like an impeded breath. He remained still and the sound died away. Outside somebody called "Mr. Dexter, Mr. Dexter." Then a new sound started. It was like somebody whispering—a long continuous monologue in the darkness. Martins said, "Is anybody there?" and the sound stopped again. He could stand no more of it. He took out his lighter. Footsteps went by and down the stairs. He scraped and scraped at the little wheel and no light came. Somebody shifted in the dark and something rattled in mid-air like a chain. He asked once more with the anger of fear, "Is anybody there?" and only the click click of metal answered him.
           Martins felt desperately for a light switch first to his right hand and then to his left. He did not dare go farther because he could no longer locate his fellow occupant: the whisper, the moaning, the click had all stopped. Then he was afraid that he had lost the door and felt wildly for the knob. He was far less afraid of the police than he was of the darkness, and he had no idea of the noise he was making.
           Paine heard it from the bottom of the stairs and came back. He switched on the landing light, and the glow under the door gave Martins his direction. He opened the door and smiling weakly as Paine turned back to take a second look at the room. The eyes of a parrot chained to a perch stared beadily back at him. Paine said respectfully, "We were looking for you, sir. Colonel Calloway wants a word with you."
           "I lost my way," Martins said.
           "Yes, sir. We thought that was what had happened."
     
     
     
     
     
    10
     
     
    I HAD KEPT A very careful record of Martins' movements from the moment I knew that he had not caught the plane home. He had been seen with Kurtz, and at the Josefstadt Theatre: I knew about his visit to Dr. Winkler and to Cooler, his first return to the block where Harry had lived. For some reason my man lost him between Cooler's and Anna Schmidt's flats: he reported that Martins had wandered widely, and the impression we both got was that he had deliberately thrown off his shadower. I tried to pick him up at Sacher's Hotel and just missed