The Third Man and the Fallen Idol

by Graham Greene

  It hadn’t occurred to him that was the easiest way, that all you had to do was to surrender, to show you were beaten and accept kindness.… It was lavished on him at once by two women and a pawnbroker. Another policeman appeared, a young man with a sharp incredulous face. He looked as if he noted everything he saw in pocket-books and drew conclusions. A woman offered to see Philip home, but he didn’t trust her: she wasn’t a match for Mrs Baines immobile in the hall. He wouldn’t give his address; he said he was afraid to go home. He had his way; he got his protection. ‘I’ll take him to the station,’ the policeman said, and holding him awkwardly by the hand (he wasn’t married; he had his career to make) he led him round the corner up the stone stairs into the little bare over-heated room where Justice waited.

  Chapter 5

  JUSTICE WAITED BEHIND a wooden counter on a high stool; it wore a heavy moustache; it was kindly and had six children (‘three of them nippers like yourself’); it wasn’t really interested in Philip, but it pretended to be, it wrote the address down and sent a constable to fetch a glass of milk. But the young constable was interested; he had a nose for things.

  ‘Your home’s on the telephone, I suppose,’ Justice said. ‘We’ll ring them up and say you are safe. They’ll fetch you very soon. What’s your name, sonny?’

  ‘Philip.’

  ‘Your other name.’

  ‘I haven’t got another name.’ He didn’t want to be fetched; he wanted to be taken home by someone who would impress even Mrs Baines. The constable watched him, watched the way he drank the milk, watched him when he winced away from questions.

  ‘What made you run away? Playing truant, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to do it, young fellow. Think how anxious your father and mother will be.’

  ‘They are away.’

  ‘Well, your nurse.’

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘Who looks after you, then?’ That question went home. Philip saw Mrs Baines coming up the stairs at him, the heap of black cotton in the hall. He began to cry.

  ‘Now, now, now,’ the sergeant said. He didn’t know what to do; he wished his wife were with him; even a policewoman might have been useful.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s funny,’ the constable said, ‘that there hasn’t been an inquiry?’

  ‘They think he’s tucked up in bed.’

  ‘You are scared, aren’t you?’ the constable said. ‘What scared you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Somebody hurt you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s had bad dreams,’ the sergeant said. ‘Thought the house was on fire, I expect. I’ve brought up six of them. Rose is due back. She’ll take him home.’

  ‘I want to go home with you,’ Philip said; he tried to smile at the constable, but the deceit was immature and unsuccessful.

  ‘I’d better go,’ the constable said. ‘There may be something wrong.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’s a woman’s job. Tact is what you need. Here’s Rose. Pull up your stockings, Rose. You’re a disgrace to the Force. I’ve got a job of work for you.’ Rose shambled in: black cotton stockings drooping over her boots, a gawky Girl Guide manner, a hoarse hostile voice. ‘More tarts, I suppose.’

  ‘No, you’ve got to see this young man home.’ She looked at him owlishly.

  ‘I won’t go with her,’ Philip said. He began to cry again. ‘I don’t like her.’

  ‘More of that womanly charm, Rose,’ the sergeant said. The telephone rang on his desk. He lifted the receiver. ‘What? What’s that?’ he said. ‘Number 48? You’ve got a doctor?’ He put his hand over the telephone mouth. ‘No wonder this nipper wasn’t reported,’ he said. ‘They’ve been too busy. An accident. Woman slipped on the area stairs.’

  ‘Serious?’ the constable asked. The sergeant mouthed at him; you didn’t mention the word death before a child (didn’t he know? he had six of them), you made noises in the throat, you grimaced, a complicated shorthand for a word of only five letters anyway.

  ‘You’d better go, after all,’ he said, ‘and make a report. The doctor’s there.’

  Rose shambled from the stove; pink apply-dapply cheeks, loose stockings. She stuck her hands behind her. Her large morgue-like mouth was full of blackened teeth. ‘You told me to take him and now just because something interesting … I don’t expect justice from a man …’

  ‘Who’s at the house?’ the constable asked.

  ‘The butler.’

  ‘You don’t think,’ the constable said, ‘he saw …’

  ‘Trust me,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve brought up six. I know ’em through and through. You can’t teach me anything about children.’

  ‘He seemed scared about something.’

  ‘Dreams,’ the sergeant said. ‘What name?’

  ‘Baines.’

  ‘This Mr Baines,’ the constable said to Philip, ‘you like him, eh? He’s good to you?’ They were trying to get something out of him; he was suspicious of the whole roomful of them; he said ‘yes’ without conviction because he was afraid at any moment of more responsibilities, more secrets.

  ‘And Mrs Baines?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They consulted together by the desk. Rose was hoarsely aggrieved; she was like a female impersonator, she bore her womanhood with an unnatural emphasis even while she scorned it in her creased stockings and her weather-exposed face. The charcoal shifted in the stove; the room was over-heated in the mild late summer evening. A notice on the wall described a body found in the Thames, or rather the body’s clothes: wool vest, wool pants, wool shirt with blue stripes, size ten boots, blue serge suit worn at the elbows, fifteen-and-a-half celluloid collar. They couldn’t find anything to say about the body, except its measurements, it was just an ordinary body.

  ‘Come along,’ the constable said. He was interested, he was glad to be going, but he couldn’t help being embarrassed by his company, a small boy in pyjamas. His nose smelt something, he didn’t know what, but he smarted at the sight of the amusement they caused: the pubs had closed and the streets were full again of men making as long a day of it as they could. He hurried through the less frequented streets, chose the darker pavements, wouldn’t loiter, and Philip wanted more and more to loiter, pulling at his hand, dragging with his feet. He dreaded the sight of Mrs Baines waiting in the hall: he knew now that she was dead. The sergeant’s mouthings had conveyed that; but she wasn’t buried; she wasn’t out of sight; he was going to see a dead person in the hall when the door opened.

  The light was on in the basement, and to his relief the constable made for the area steps. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to see Mrs Baines at all. The constable knocked on the door because it was too dark to see the bell, and Baines answered. He stood there in the doorway of the neat bright basement room and you could see the sad complacent plausible sentence he had prepared wither at the sight of Philip; he hadn’t expected Philip to return like that in the policeman’s company. He had to begin thinking all over again; he wasn’t a deceptive man; if it hadn’t been for Emmy he would have been quite ready to let the truth lead him where it would.

  ‘Mr Baines?’ the constable asked.

  He nodded; he hadn’t found the right words; he was daunted by the shrewd knowing face, the sudden appearance of Philip there.

  ‘This little boy from here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baines said. Philip could tell that there was a message he was trying to convey, but he shut his mind to it. He loved Baines, but Baines had involved him in secrets, in fears he didn’t understand. The glowing morning thought ‘This is life’ had become under Baines’s tuition the repugnant memory, ‘That was life’: the musty hair across the mouth, the breathless cruel tortured inquiry ‘Where are they?’, the heap of black cotton tipped into the hall. That was what happened when you loved: you got involved; and Philip extricated himself from life, from love, from Baines with a merciless egotism.

  There h
ad been things between them, but he laid them low, as a retreating army cuts the wires, destroys the bridges. In the abandoned country you may leave much that is dear – a morning in the Park, an ice at a Corner House, sausages for supper – but more is concerned in the retreat than temporary losses. There are old people who, as the tractors wheel away, implore to be taken, but you can’t risk the rearguard for their sake: a whole prolonged retreat from life, from care, from human relationship is involved.

  ‘The doctor’s here,’ Baines said. He nodded at the door, moistened his mouth, kept his eyes on Philip, begging for something like a dog you can’t understand. ‘There’s nothing to be done. She slipped on those stone basement stairs. I was in here. I heard her fall.’ He wouldn’t look at the constable’s spidery writing which got a terrible lot on one page.

  ‘Did the boy see anything?’

  ‘He can’t have done. I thought he was in bed. Hadn’t we better go up? It’s a shocking thing. Oh,’ Baines said, losing control, ‘it’s a shocking thing for a child.’

  ‘She’s through here?’ the constable asked.

  ‘I haven’t moved her an inch,’ Baines said.

  ‘He’d better then –’

  ‘Go up the area and through the hall,’ Baines said and again he begged dumbly like a dog: one more secret, keep this secret, do this for old Baines, he won’t ask another.

  ‘Come along,’ the constable said. ‘I’ll see you up to bed. You’re a gentleman; you must come in the proper way through the front door like the master should. Or will you go along with him, Mr Baines, while I see the doctor?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baines said, ‘I’ll go.’ He came across the room to Philip, begging, begging, all the way with his soft old stupid expression: this is Baines, the old Coaster; what about a palm-oil chop, eh? a man’s life; forty niggers; never used a gun; I tell you I couldn’t help loving them: it wasn’t what we call love, nothing we could understand. The messages flickered out from the last posts at the border, imploring, beseeching, reminding: this is your old friend Baines; what about an elevens; a glass of ginger pop won’t do you any harm; sausages; a long day. But the wires were cut, the messages just faded out into the enormous vacancy of the neat scrubbed room in which there had never been a place where a man could hide his secrets.

  ‘Come along Phil, it’s bedtime. We’ll just go up the steps …’ Tap, tap, tap, at the telegraph; you may get through, you can’t tell, somebody may mend the right wire. ‘And in at the front door.’

  ‘No,’ Philip said, ‘no. I won’t go. You can’t make me go. I’ll fight. I won’t see her.’

  The constable turned on them quickly. ‘What’s that? Why won’t you go?’

  ‘She’s in the hall,’ Philip said. ‘I know she’s in the hall. And she’s dead. I won’t see her.’

  ‘You moved her then?’ the constable said to Baines. ‘All the way down here? You’ve been lying, eh? That means you had to tidy up.… Were you alone?’

  ‘Emmy,’ Philip said, ‘Emmy.’ He wasn’t going to keep any more secrets: he was going to finish once and for all with everything, with Baines and Mrs Baines and the grown-up life beyond him; it wasn’t his business and never, never again, he decided, would he share their confidences and companionship. ‘It was all Emmy’s fault,’ he protested with a quaver which reminded Baines that after all he was only a child; it had been hopeless to expect help there; he was a child; he didn’t understand what it all meant; he couldn’t read this shorthand of terror; he’d had a long day and he was tired out. You could see him dropping asleep where he stood against the dresser, dropping back into the comfortable nursery peace. You couldn’t blame him. When he woke in the morning, he’d hardly remember a thing.

  ‘Out with it,’ the constable said, addressing Baines with professional ferocity, ‘who is she?’ just as the old man sixty years later startled his secretary, his only watcher, asking, ‘Who is she? Who is she?’ dropping lower and lower into death, passing on the way perhaps the image of Baines: Baines hopeless, Baines letting his head drop, Baines ‘coming clean’.

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  Copyright © Graham Greene 1954, 1955

  Introduction copyright © Ian Thomson 2005

  Graham Greene has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  The Fallen Idol first published under the title The Basement Room 1935

  The Third Man first published in the USA by The Viking Press 1950

  The Third Man and The Fallen Idol first published in Great Britain by

  William Heinemann in 1950

  First published by Vintage in 2001

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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