I'm in a hurry, so let's assume that I am. Just make a note of my madness. If you should see

Harry—or his ghost—let him know that I want to talk to him. A ghost isn't afraid of a man, is it?

Surely it's the other way round. I'll be waiting in the Prater by the Big Wheel for the next two

hours—if you can get in touch with the dead, hurry." He added, "Remember, I was Harry's

friend."

Kurtz said nothing, but somewhere, in a room off the hall, somebody cleared his throat. Martins

threw open a door: he had half expected to see the dead rise yet again, but it was only Dr.

Winkler who rose from a kitchen chair, in front of the kitchen stove, and bowed very stiffly and

correctly with the same celluloid squeak.

"Dr. Winkle," Martins said. Dr. Winkler looked extraordinarily out of place in a kitchen. The

debris of a snack lunch littered the kitchen table, and the unwashed dishes consorted very ill with

Dr. Winkler's cleanness.

'Winkler," the doctor corrected him with stony patience.

Martins said to Kurtz: "Tell the doctor about my madness. He might be able to make a diagnosis.

And remember the place—by the Great Wheel. Or do ghosts only rise by night?" He left the flat.

For an hour he waited, walking up and down to keep warm, inside the enclosure of the Great

Wheel: the smashed Prater with its bones sticking crudely through the snow was nearly empty.

One stall sold thin flat cakes like cartwheels, and the children queued with their coupons. A few

courting couples would be packed together in a single car of the Wheel and revolve slowly above

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the city surrounded by empty cars. As the car reached the highest point of the Wheel, the

revolutions would stop for a couple of minutes and far overhead the tiny faces would press

against the glass. Martins wondered who would come for him. Was there enough friendship left

in Harry for him to come alone, or would a squad of police arrive? It was obvious from the raid

on Anna Schmidt's flat that he had a certain pull. And then as his watch hand passed the hour, he

wondered: was it all an invention of my mind? are they digging up Harry's body now in the

Central Cemetery?

Somewhere behind the cake stall a man was whistling and Martins knew the tune. He turned and

waited. Was it fear or excitement that made his heart beat—or just the memories that tune

ushered in, for life had always quickened when Harry came, came just as he came now, as

though nothing much had happened, nobody had been lowered into a grave or found with cut

throat in a basement, came with his amused deprecating take-it-or-leave-it manner—and of

course one always took it.

"Harry (Гарри)."

"Hullo, Rollo (привет, Ролло)."

Don't picture Harry Lime as a smooth scoundrel (не представляйте Гарри Лайма как

вкрадчивого прохвоста). He wasn't that (он не был этим = таким). The picture I have of him

on my files (фотография которую я имею его в моем деле) is an excellent one (отличная): he