Deception

by Roald Dahl

  ‘Hullo, Sam,’ she said brightly, aloud.

  The voice sounded peculiar too.

  ‘I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas.’

  That was better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now. She rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, went out the back door, down the garden, into the street.

  It wasn’t six o’clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery shop.

  ‘Hullo, Sam,’ she said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter.

  ‘Why, good evening, Mrs Maloney. How’re you?’

  ‘I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas.’

  The man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas.

  ‘Patrick’s decided he’s tired and doesn’t want to eat out tonight,’ she told him. ‘We usually go out Thursdays, you know, and now he’s caught me without any vegetables in the house.’

  ‘Then how about meat, Mrs Maloney?’

  ‘No, I’ve got meat, thanks. I got a nice leg of lamb from the freezer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t much like cooking it frozen, Sam, but I’m taking a chance on it this time. You think it’ll be all right?’

  ‘Personally,’ the grocer said, ‘I don’t believe it makes any difference. You want these Idaho potatoes?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’ll be fine. Two of those.’

  ‘Anything else?’ The grocer cocked his head on one side, looking at her pleasantly. ‘How about afterwards? What you going to give him for afterwards?’

  ‘Well – what would you suggest, Sam?’

  The man glanced around his shop. ‘How about a nice big slice of cheesecake? I know he likes that.’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘He loves it.’

  And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, she put on her brightest smile and said, ‘Thank you, Sam. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Mrs Maloney. And thank you.’

  And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and she’d become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn’t expecting to find anything. She was just going home with the vegetables. Mrs Patrick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for her husband.

  That’s the way, she told herself. Do everything right and natural. Keep things absolutely natural and there’ll be no need for any acting at all.

  Therefore, when she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and smiling.

  ‘Patrick!’ she called. ‘How are you, darling?’

  She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living-room; and when she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rather a shock. All the old love and longing for him welled up inside her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry her heart out. It was easy. No acting was necessary.

  A few minutes later she got up and went to the phone. She knew the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him, ‘Quick! Come quick! Patrick’s dead!’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Mrs Maloney. Mrs Patrick Maloney.’

  ‘You mean Patrick Maloney’s dead?’

  ‘I think so,’ she sobbed. ‘He’s lying on the floor and I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Be right over,’ the man said.

  The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policemen walked in. She knew them both – she knew nearly all the men at that precinct – and she fell right into Jack Noonan’s arms, weeping hysterically. He put her gently in a chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called O’Malley, kneeling by the body.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she cried.

  ‘I’m afraid he is. What happened?’

  Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer’s and coming back to find him on the floor. While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead man’s head. He showed it to O’Malley, who got up at once and hurried to the phone.

  Soon, other men began to come into the house. First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she knew by name. Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures, and a man who knew about fingerprints. There was a great deal of whispering and muttering beside the corpse, and the detectives kept asking her a lot of questions. But they always treated her kindly. She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick had come in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he hadn’t wanted to go out for supper. She told how she’d put the meat in the oven – ‘It’s there now, cooking’ – and how she’d slipped out to the grocer’s for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on the floor.

  ‘Which grocer?’ one of the detectives asked.

  She told him, and he turned and whispered something to the other detective, who immediately went outside into the street.

  In fifteen minutes he was back with a page of notes, and there was more whispering, and through her sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases – ‘… acted quite normal … very cheerful … wanted to give him a good supper … peas … cheesecake … impossible that she …’

  After a while, the photographer and the doctor departed and two other men came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher. Then the fingerprint man went away. The two detectives remained, and so did the two policemen. They were exceptionally nice to her and Jack Noonan asked if she wouldn’t rather go somewhere else, to her sister’s house perhaps, or to his own wife, who would take care of her and put her up for the night.

  No, she said. She didn’t feel she could move even a yard at the moment. Would they mind awfully if she stayed just where she was until she felt better? She didn’t feel too good at the moment, she really didn’t.

  Then hadn’t she better lie down on the bed? Jack Noonan asked.

  No, she said. She’d like to stay right where she was, in this chair. A little later perhaps, when she felt better, she would move.

  So they left her there while they went about their business, searching the house. Occasionally one of the detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at her gently as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been killed by a blow on the back of the head administered with a heavy blunt instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal. They were looking for the weapon. The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other hand he may’ve thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises.

  ‘It’s the old story,’ he said. ‘Get the weapon, and you’ve got the man.’

  Later, one of the detectives came up and sat beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house that could’ve been used as the weapon? Would she mind having a look around to see if anything was missing – a very big spanner, for example, or a heavy metal vase.

  They didn’t have any heavy metal vases, she said.

  Or a big spanner?

  She didn’t think they had a big spanner. But there might be some things like that in the garage.

  The search went on. She knew that there were other policemen in the garden all around the house. She could hear their footsteps on the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw the flash of a torch through a chink in the curtains. It began to get late, nearly nine, she noticed, by the clock on the mantel. The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

  ‘Jack,’ she said, the next time Sergeant Noonan went by. ‘Would you mind giving me a drink?’

  ‘Sure I’ll give you a drink. You mean this whisky?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, please. But just a small one. It might make me feel better.’

  He handed her the glass.

  ‘Why don’t you have one yourself?’ she said. ‘You must be awfully tired. Please do. You’ve been very good to me.’

  ‘Well,’ he answered. ‘It’s not strictly allowed, but I might take just a drop to keep me going.’

  One by one the others came in and were persuaded to take a little nip of whisky. They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, came out quickly and said, ‘Look, Mrs Maloney. You know that oven of yours is still on, and the meat still inside.’

  ‘Oh dear me!’ she cried. ‘So it is!’

  ‘I better turn it off for you, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Will you do that, Jack? Thank you so much.’

  When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked at him with her large, dark, tearful eyes. ‘Jack Noonan,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you do me a small favour – you and these others?’

  ‘We can try, Mrs Maloney.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick’s too, and helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be terribly hungry by now because it’s long past your suppertime, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in his house without offering you decent hospitality. Why don’t you eat up that lamb that’s in the oven. It’ll be cooked just right by now.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Sergeant Noonan said.

  ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please eat it. Personally, I couldn’t touch a thing, certainly not what’s been in the house when he was here. But it’s all right for you. It’d be a favour to me if you’d eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards.’

  There was a good deal of hesitating among the four policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and in the end they were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves. The woman stayed where she was, listening to them through the open door, and she could hear them speaking among themselves, their voices thick and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat.

  ‘Have some more, Charlie?’

  ‘No. Better not finish it.’

  ‘She wants us to finish it. She said so. Be doing her a favour.’

  ‘OK then. Give me some more.’

  ‘That’s a hell of a big club the guy must’ve used to hit poor Patrick,’ one of them was saying. ‘The doc says his skull was smashed all to pieces just like from a sledgehammer.’

  ‘That’s why it ought to be easy to find.’

  ‘Exactly what I say.’

  ‘Whoever done it, they’re not going to be carrying a thing like that around with them longer than they need.’

  One of them belched.

  ‘Personally, I think it’s right here on the premises.’

  ‘Probably right under our very noses. What you think, Jack?’

  And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to giggle.

  Mr Botibol

  First published in More Tales of the Unexpected (1980)

  Mr Botibol pushed his way through the revolving doors and emerged into the large foyer of the hotel. He took off his hat, and holding it in front of him with both hands, he advanced nervously a few paces, paused and stood looking around him, searching the faces of the lunchtime crowd. Several people turned and stared at him in mild astonishment, and he heard – or he thought he heard – at least one woman’s voice saying, ‘My dear, do look what’s just come in!’

  At last he spotted Mr Clements sitting at a small table in the far corner, and he hurried over to him. Clements had seen him coming, and now, as he watched Mr Botibol threading his way cautiously between the tables and the people, walking on his toes in such a meek and self-effacing manner and clutching his hat before him with both hands, he thought how wretched it must be for any man to look as conspicuous and as odd as this Botibol. He resembled, to an extraordinary degree, an asparagus. His long narrow stalk did not appear to have any shoulders at all; it merely tapered upwards, growing gradually narrower and narrower until it came to a kind of point at the top of the small bald head. He was tightly encased in a shiny blue double-breasted suit, and this, for some curious reason, accentuated the illusion of a vegetable to a preposterous degree.

  Clements stood up, they shook hands, and then at once, even before they had sat down again, Mr Botibol said, ‘I have decided, yes I have decided to accept the offer which you made to me before you left my office last night.’

  For some days Clements had been negotiating, on behalf of clients, for the purchase of the firm known as Botibol & Co., of which Mr Botibol was sole owner, and the night before, Clements had made his first offer. This was merely an exploratory, much-too-low bid, a kind of signal to the seller that the buyers were seriously interested. And by God, thought Clements, the poor fool has gone and accepted it. He nodded gravely many times in an effort to hide his astonishment, and he said, ‘Good, good. I’m so glad to hear that, Mr Botibol.’ Then he signalled a waiter and said, ‘Two large martinis.’

  ‘No, please!’ Mr Botibol lifted both hands in horrified protest.

  ‘Come on,’ Clements said. ‘This is an occasion.’

  ‘I drink very little, and never, no, never during the middle of the day.’

  But Clements was in a gay mood now and he took no notice. He ordered the martinis and when they came along Mr Botibol was forced, by the banter and good humour of the other, to drink to the deal which had just been concluded. Clements then spoke briefly about the drawing up and signing of documents, and when all that had been arranged, he called for two more cocktails. Again Mr Botibol protested, but not quite so vigorously this time, and Clements ordered the drinks and then he turned and smiled at the other man in a friendly way. ‘Well, Mr Botibol,’ he said, ‘now that it’s all over, I suggest we have a pleasant non-business lunch together. What d’you say to that? And it’s on me.’

  ‘As you wish, as you wish,’ Mr Botibol answered without any enthusiasm. He had a small melancholy voice and a way of pronouncing each word separately and slowly, as though he was explaining something to a child.

  When they went into the dining-room Clements ordered a bottle of Lafite 1912 and a couple of plump roast partridges to go with it. He had already calculated in his head the amount of his commission and he was feeling fine. He began to make bright conversation, switching smoothly from one subject to another in the hope of touching on something that might interest his guest. But it was no good. Mr Botibol appeared to be only half listening. Every now and then he inclined his small bald head a little to one side or the other and said, ‘Indeed.’ When the wine came along Clements tried to have a talk about that.

  ‘I am sure it is excellent,’ Mr Botibol said, ‘but please give me only a drop.’

  Clements told a funny story. When it was over, Mr Botibol regarded him solemnly for a few moments, then he said, ‘How amusing.’ After that Clements kept his mouth shut and they ate in silence. Mr Botibol was drinking his wine and he didn’t seem to object when his host reached over and refilled his glass. By the time they had finished eating, Clements estimated privately that his guest had consumed at least three-quarters of the bottle.

  ‘A cigar, Mr Botibol?’

  ‘Oh no, thank you.’

  ‘A little brandy?’

  ‘No, really, I am not accustomed …’ Clements noticed that the man’s cheeks were slightly flushed and that his eyes had become bright and watery. Might as well get the old boy properly drunk while I’m about it, he thought, and to the waiter he said, ‘Two brandies.’

  When the brandies arrived, Mr Botibol looked at his large glass suspiciously for a while, then he picked it up, took one quick birdlike sip and put it down again. ‘Mr Clements,’ he said suddenly, ‘how I envy you.’

  ‘Me? But why?’

  ‘I wil
l tell you, Mr Clements, I will tell you, if I may make so bold.’ There was a nervous, mouselike quality in his voice which made it seem he was apologizing for everything he said.

  ‘Please tell me,’ Clements said.

  ‘It is because to me you appear to have made such a success of your life.’

  He’s going to get melancholy drunk, Clements thought. He’s one of the ones that gets melancholy and I can’t stand it. ‘Success,’ he said. ‘I don’t see anything especially successful about me.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed. Your whole life, if I may say so, Mr Clements, appears to be such a pleasant and successful thing.’

  ‘I’m a very ordinary person,’ Clements said. He was trying to figure just how drunk the other really was.

  ‘I believe,’ said Mr Botibol, speaking slowly, separating each word carefully from the other, ‘I believe that the wine has gone a little to my head, but …’ He paused, searching for words. ‘… But I do want to ask you just one question.’ He had poured some salt on to the tablecloth and he was shaping it into a little mountain with the tip of one finger.

  ‘Mr Clements,’ he said without looking up, ‘do you think that it is possible for a man to live to the age of fifty-two without ever during his whole life having experienced one single small success in anything that he has done?’

  ‘My dear Mr Botibol,’ Clements laughed, ‘everyone has his little successes from time to time, however small they may be.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Mr Botibol said gently. ‘You are wrong. I, for example, cannot remember having had a single success of any sort during my whole life.’

  ‘Now come!’ Clements said, smiling. ‘That can’t be true. Why only this morning you sold your business for a hundred thousand. I call that one hell of a success.’

  ‘The business was left me by my father. When he died nine years ago, it was worth four times as much. Under my direction it has lost three-quarters of its value. You can hardly call that a success.’

  Clements knew this was true. ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ he said. ‘That may be so, but all the same you know as well as I do that every man alive has his quota of little successes. Not big ones maybe. But lots of little ones. I mean, after all, goddammit, even scoring a goal at school was a little success, a little triumph, at the time, or making some runs or learning to swim. One forgets about them, that’s all. One just forgets.’