An Old Moorish Custom

Presenting Orson Wells as the third man, the lives of Harry Lime, the fabulous stories of the immortal character originally created in the motion picture, the third man with the Zither music by Anton Cara. This is a love story.

Don't worry, there's action in it. Arab, Chieftains, International Gangsters and a buried treasure. But essentially, this is a tale about one of the times I fell in love. I don't like. I'm not the first man that happened to, or the third man either.

And now Orson Welles is Harry Lime, the third man in an old Moorish custom. Hallelujah Darush, that was her name. She lived in North Africa, claimed descent from one of the old Barbary pirates, and looked like the direct and miraculous offspring of a couple of the more personable Greek gods.

Maybe she wasn't there. But her official grandfather was old Amman Dalu, owner of an ancient fortified estate, couple of hundred kilometers inland from Malgiers. I'd heard stories about him of his great wealth and what was more important, its strange source.

So the first thing I did when I got into town was to wangle an invitation for a gala to Governor's mansion. I knew Mademoiselle Dalu would be there. She was. I figured one thing would lead to another, and it did.

Four weeks and seven meetings later, and I were dancing together at our rendezvous in the ballroom of the luxurious Granada Hotel. We were looking in the Mediterranean. Harry, you've done so wonderfully. I float. Honey, dancing with you is like coming in with the tide.

Oh, oh, you are a poet, Harry. I'm showing you not so close, please. But I'm plateard, she is watching. Yes, my Aunt plateard, we have to bring her along. But suddenly, I could not travel to the city alone, not even for a visit merely to the shops.