Original Story by Roald Dahl

November 13, 2020

The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind her, two tallglasses, soda water, whiskey. The firm windows and doors isolated the cold outside from the warm interior of the place.

Taco was stalking outside Hotel OJ, looking into a window at Microphone who was waiting for Knife to come home from inspecting another ship in the harbor.

Now and again Microphone would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please herself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come. There was a slow smiling air about her, and about everything she did. The drop of a head as she bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil. When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car doorslamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock.

"Hullo darling," she said.

"Hullo darling," he answered.

She took his coat and hung it in the closer. Then she walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side. 

For her, this was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel-almost as a sunbather feels the sun-that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were together. She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides. She loved intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away.

Yet it all started with the enemy, Taco. But why wasn't she doing anything? Where was she to them?

"Tired darling?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm tired," And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left.. She wasn't really watching him, but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm. He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.

"I'll get it!" she cried, jumping up.

"Sit down," he said. When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whiskey in it.

"Darling, shall I get you slippers?"

"No."

She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong. 

"I think it's a shame," she said, "that when a policeman gets to be as senior asyou, they keep him walking about on his feet all day long."

He didn't answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing; beteach time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the sideof the glass.

"Darling," she said. "Would you like me to get you some cheese? I haven't made any supper because it's Thursday."

"No," he said.

"If you're too tired to eat out," she went on, "it's still not too late. There's plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair."

Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign.

"Anyway," she went on, "I'll get you some cheese and crackers first."

"I don't want it," he said.

She moved uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face. "But you must eat! I'll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like."

She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp.

"Sit down," he said. "Just for a minute, sit down."

It wasn't till then that she began to get frightened.

"Go on," he said. "Sit down."

She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time with those large, bewildered eyes. He had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning.

"Listen," he said. "I've got something to tell you."

"What is it, darling? What's the matter?"

He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down so that the light from the lamp beside him fell across the upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow. She noticed there was a little muscle moving near the corner of his left eye.

"This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I'm afraid," he said. "But I've thought about it a good deal and I've decided the only thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you won't blame me too much."

And he told her. It didn't take long, four or five minutes at most, and she say very still through it all, watching him with a kind of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her with each word.

"So there it is," he added. "And I know it's kind of a bad time to be telling you, bet there simply wasn't any other way. Of course I'll give you money and see you're looked after. But there needn't really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn't be very good for my job."

Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn't even spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing. Maybe, if she went about her business and acted as though she hadn't been listening, then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might find none of it had ever happened.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm out to get the groceries."

It was that moment when Taco snuck into the hotel to get further investigation after Knife left. When Mic was walking across the room she couldn't feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn't feel anything at all- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit. Taco ventured down into the lower levels of the hotel. Everything was automatic now-down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deepfreeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold of the first object it met. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again.

 A leg of lamb.

Well, not the same as a chickenleg, but it reminisced of the team she once was part of during Season 1 of Inanimate Insanity. There was an indescribable reason as to why she wanted to hold onto it. She smuggle the leg of lamb inside of her shell, carrying it upstairs, and as she went through the living-room, she saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped.

"For God's sake," she said, hearing the footsteps, assuming it was somebody elses, but not turning round. "Don't make supper for me. I'm going out."

At that point, Taco simply walked up behind her and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of Mic's head. 

She might just as well have hit her with a steel club.

She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that she remained standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying. Then she crashed to the carpet.

The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of the shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while blinking at the body, still holding the ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands.

All right, she told herself. So I've killed her.

It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden.

...I've killed her! I've finally killed her! I finally got my revenge! 

She began thinking very fast. As a very special operative warrior, she knew quite well what the penalty would be. That was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what about interrogation and torture? What were the laws about that? Did they want all information if she was AWOL for three months now for the war?

Taco didn't know. And she certainly wasn't prepared to take a chance. 

She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the oven on high, and shoved it inside. Then she washed her hands, whipped out a yellow flimsy... written something down... and hid away... out of sight... out of mind of anyone in the hotel.

---

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

"Hullo sir," he said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter.

"Why, good evening, Knife. 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.

"I decided I'm tired of the seas and don't want to be in the navy branch anymore," he 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, then? Good ol' welcome back to the ground forces."

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

"Oh."

"I don't know much like cooking it frozen, sir, 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 Irish 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?"

The man glanced around his shop. 

"How about a nice big slice of cookiecake? I know he likes that."

"Perfect," he said. "OJ and the others love it."

And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, he put on his brightest smile and said, "Thank you, Dollar Bill. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Knife. And thank you."

And now all he was doing now, he was returning home to his second-in-command friend and she was waiting for him with supper; and OJ in his hotel must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor two were tired from their... incident... with the red figure; and if, when he entered the house, he happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and he'd become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, he wasn't expecting to find anything. He was just going home with the groceries that OJ requested. Knife going to Hotel... now Fort Tower OJ... with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for everyone.

And when he entered the kitchen by the front door, he was humming a little tune to himself and smiling.

"OJ, Microphone!" he called. "You guys holding up okay?"

He put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room; and when he saw her lying there on the floor with her legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rather a shock. All the old love and longing for her welled up inside him, and he ran over to her, dropped down beside her, and began to cry his heart out.

A few minutes later he got up and went to the phone. He knew the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him, 

"Quick! Come quick! Mic's dead!"

"Who's speaking?"

"Knife from Hotel OJ; Captain Knife of the Inanimate Insanity Federation."

"You mean Lieutenant Junior Grade Microphone's dead?"

"I think so," he sobbed. "SHe's lying on the floor and I think he's dead."

 "Be right over," the man said.

The car came very quickly, and when he opened the front door, two walked in. He know them both- he knew nearly all the man at that precinct-and he fell right into a chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called Police Baton, kneeling by the body.

"Is she dead?" he cried.

"I'm afraid she is. Don't worry, she can be recovered, though; but to prevent anything like this happening and to find out the murder, I want you to tell me, what happened?"

Briefly, he told her story about going out to the grocer and coming back to find her on the floor. While he was talking, crying and talking, SWAT Shield discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead electonricsapqp p 's head. He showed it to Baton 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 know by name. Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures, and a man who know 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 slopped out to the grocer for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on the floor.

Which grocer?" one of the detectives asked. 

He 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 his sobbing he 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 policeman. They were exceptionally nice to him and the hotel guests, and Shield asked if he wouldn't rather go somewhere else, to the garden the Cherries had exceptionally... or explore the lab Test Tube made.

No, he said. He didn't feel she could move even a yard at the moment due to the scarring scene. Would they mind awfully of he stayed just where she was until he felt better. Knife didn't feel too good at the moment, she really didn't. 

Then hadn't he better lie down in his room? SWAT Shield asked.

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

So they left him there while they went about their business, searching the house. Occasionally on of the detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Shield spoke at him 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 have 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 he 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?"

He 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 a flash of a torch through a chink in the curtains. It began to get late, nearly nine she noticed by the clock on the mantle. The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

"SWAT Shield," he said, the next tome Sergeant Shield went by. "Would you mind giving me a drink?"

"Sure I'll give you a drink. You mean this whiskey?"

"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 of250 whiskey. They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant SWAT Shield wandered into the kitchen, come out quickly and said, "Look, Mr. Knife. You know that oven of yours is still on, and the meat still inside."

"What wha- Oh dear me!" he cried. "So it is!" 

"I better turn it off for you, hadn't I?"

"Will you do that, sir. Thank you so much."

When the sergeant looked at the oven, a note was on the countertop. He took out and read it. It wrote:

My dearest friends, please do me a small favor - all of Hotel OJ and everyone. Here you all are, and good friends of our beloved host of the hotel, OJ. You must be terrible hungry by now since if you're reading this, it's long past suppertime, and I know anyone would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in this place of his 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. Please eat it. Personally I couldn't tough 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 favor to me if you'd eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards.

"Well," she said. "Wouldn't dream of it," Sergeant Shield said.

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 speaking among themselves, their voices thick and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat.

"Have some more, Badge?"

"No. Better not finish it."

"Well, whoever made it later earlier wants us to finish it. The note said so. Be doing him or her a favor."

"Okay then. Give me some more."

"That's the hell of a big club the gut 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, Shield?"

And in the other room, Taco began to giggle.