The Third Man
written by Graham Greene & Alexander Korda; also Carol Reed and Orson Welles (both uncredited)

(Next to a near-abandoned ferris wheel)
Harry Lime: How are things? They seem to have been messing you about a bit.
Rollo (Holly) Martins: We've got to talk, Harry.
Harry: Of course, old man. This way.
(He walks straight on toward the platform in the absolute confidence that Martins will follow)
(The Wheel has come round again and one lot of passengers is getting out on the opposite platform as another enters the same car from their platform. Harry has always known the ropes everywhere, so now the speaks apart to the Portress and money passes. The car with the passengers moves slowly up, an empty car passes, and then the Wheel stops long enough for them to get into the third car, which they have to themselves)
Harry: We couldn't be more alone. Lovers used to do this in the old days, but they haven't the money to spare, poor devils, now.
(He looks silently out the window at the view)
Harry: It's good to see you, Rollo.
Martins:I was at your funeral.
Harry: That was pretty smart, wasn't it?
Martins:You know what's happened to Anna? They've arrested her.
Harry: Tough, very tough, but don't worry, old man. They won't hurt her.
Martins:They are handing her to the Russians. Can't you help her?
Harry: (unconvincingly) What can I do, old man? I'm dead -- aren't I? Who have you told about me?
Martins:The police -- and Anna.
Harry: Unwise, Rollo, unwise. Did they believe you?
Martins:You don't care a damn about her, do you?
Harry: I've got a lot on my mind.
Martins:You won't do a thing to help her?
Harry: What can I do, Rollo? Be reasonable. Give myself up? This is a far far better thing. The old limelight and the fall of the curtain. We aren't heroes, Rollo, you and I. The world doesn't make heroes outside your books.
Martins:You have your contacts.
Harry: I've got to be so careful. These Russians, Rollo -- well, I'm safe so long as I have my uses. Martins:(with a sudden realization) You informed on her.
Harry: (with a smile) Don't become a policeman, old man.
Martins:I didn't believe the police when they told me about you. Were you going to cut me in on the spoils?
Harry: I've never kept you out of anything, old man, yet.
(Harry stands with his back to the door as the car swings upward and smiles back at Martins)
Martins:I remember that time at that Club. 'The 43,' when the police raided it. You'd learnt a safe way out. Absolutely safe for you. It wasn't safe for me.
Harry: You should never have to the police, you know. You should have left this thing alone.
Martins:You've never grown up, Harry.
Harry: Well, we shall be old for a very long time.
Martins:Have you ever seen any of your victims?
(Harry takes a look at the toy landscape below and comes away from the door.)
Harry: I never feel quite safe in these things. (He feels the door with his hands) Victims? Don't be melodramatic. Look down there.
(He points through the window at the people moving like black files at the base of the Wheel)
Harry: Would you really feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving for ever? If I said you can have twenty thousand pounds for every dot that stops, would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money -- or would you calculate how many dots you could afford to spare? Free of income tax, old man. Free of income tax. (He gives his boyish, conspiratorial smile) It's the only way to save nowadays. Martins:You're finished now. The police know everything.
Harry: But they can't catch me, Rollo. They can't come in the Russian Zone.
(The car swings to a standstill at the highest point of the curve and Harry turns his back and gazes out of the window. Martins draws his arms back: he thinks one good shove would be strong enough to break the glass. His arms drop again.)
Martins: (looking out of the window) I should be pretty easy to get rid of.
Harry: Pretty easy.
Martins:Don't be too sure.
Harry: I carry a gun. You don't think they'd look for a bullet wound after you hit that ground.
Martins:They dug up your coffin.
Harry: Found Harbin? Pity.
(Again the car begins to move, sailing slowly down, until the flies are midgets, are recognizable human beings)
Harry: What fools we are, Rollo, talking like this, as if I'd do that to you -- or you to me.
(Deliberately he turns his back and leans his face against the glass) In these days, old man, nobody thinks in terms of human beings. Governments don't, so why should we? They talk of the people and the proletariat, and I talk of the mugs. It's the same thing. They have their five years plans and so have I.
Martins:You used to believe in a God.
(That shade of melancholy crosses Harry's face) Harry: Oh, I still believe, old man. In God and Mercy and all that. The dead are happier dead. They don't miss much here, poor devils.
(As he speaks the last words with the odd touch of genuine pity, the car reaches the platform and the faces of the doomed-to-be-victims peer in at them)
Martins:What do you believe in?
Harry: If you ever get Anna out of this mess, be kind to her. You'll find she's worth it. I wish I'd asked you to bring some of those tablets.
(They get off the Wheel)
Harry: I'd like to cut you in, you know. We always did things together, Rollo. I've no one left in Vienna I can really trust.
Martins:Tyler? Winkel, Kurtz?
Harry: The police are on to all of them now. Have you heard anything of old Bracer recently?
Martins:I had a card at Christmas.
Harry: Those were the days, old man. Those were the days.
Martins:You'd really cut me in, would you?
Harry: There's plenty for two -- with the others gone. Think it over, old man. Send me a message through Kurtz.
(He has written the number on the back of an envelope. Martins hold it in his hand.)
Harry: So long, Rollo.
(He turns to go and Martins calls after him)
Martins:And Anna -- you won't do a thing to help?
Harry: If I could, old man, of course. But my hands are tied (When he is a little further away, he suddenly comes back) When you make up your mind, send me a message -- I'll meet you any place, any time, and when we do meet, old man, it's you I want to see, not the police...and don't be so gloomy...After all, it's not that awful -- you know what the fellow said... In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock. So long, Holly.