Deception

by Roald Dahl

  About a month after their return from Marrakech, on a wet and rainy afternoon in March, Mr Buggage was reclining comfortably in his office with his feet up on the top of his fine partners’ desk, dictating to Miss Tottle some details about a deceased and distinguished admiral. ‘Recreations,’ he was saying, reading from Who’s Who, ‘Gardening, sailing and stamp-collecting …’ At that point, the door from the main shop opened and a young man came in with a book in his hand. ‘Mr Buggage?’ he said.

  Mr Buggage looked up. ‘Over there,’ he said, waving towards Miss Tottle. ‘She’ll deal with you.’

  The young man stood still. His navy-blue overcoat was wet from the weather and droplets of water were dripping from his hair. He didn’t look at Miss Tottle. He kept his eyes on Mr Buggage. ‘Don’t you want the money?’ he said, pleasantly enough.

  ‘She’ll take it.’

  ‘Why won’t you take it?’

  ‘Because she’s the cashier,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘You want to buy a book, go ahead. She’ll deal with you.’

  ‘I’d rather deal with you,’ the young man said.

  Mr Buggage looked up at him. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Just do as you’re told, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘You are the proprietor?’ the young man said. ‘You are Mr William Buggage?’

  ‘What if I am?’ Mr Buggage said, his feet still up on the desk.

  ‘Are you or aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Mr Buggage said.

  ‘So that’s settled,’ the young man said. ‘How d’you do, Mr Buggage.’ There was a curious edge to his voice now, a mixture of scorn and mockery.

  Mr Buggage took his feet down from the desk-top and sat up a trifle straighter. ‘You’re a bit of a cheeky young bugger, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘If you want that book, I suggest you just pay your money over there and then you can ’op it. Right?’

  The young man turned towards the still open door that led to the front of the shop. Just the other side of the door there were a couple of the usual kind of customers, men in raincoats, pulling out books and examining them.

  ‘Mother,’ the young man called softly. ‘You can come in, Mother. Mr Buggage is here.’

  A small woman of about sixty came in and stood beside the young man. She had a trim figure for her age and a face that must once have been ravishing, but now it showed traces of strain and exhaustion, and the pale blue eyes were dulled with grief. She was wearing a black coat and a simple black hat. She left the door open behind her.

  ‘Mr Buggage,’ the young man said. ‘This is my mother, Mrs Northcote.’

  Miss Tottle, the rememberer of names, turned round quick and looked at Mr Buggage and made little warning movements with her mouth. Mr Buggage got the message and said as politely as he could, ‘And what can I do for you, madam?’

  The woman opened her black handbag and took out a letter. She unfolded it carefully and held it out to Mr Buggage. ‘Then it will be you who sent me this?’ she said.

  Mr Buggage took the letter and examined it at some length. Miss Tottle, who had turned right round in her chair now, was watching Mr Buggage.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘This is my letter and my invoice. All correct and in order. What is your problem, madam?’

  ‘What I came here to ask you,’ the woman said, ‘is, are you sure it’s right?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, madam.’

  ‘But it is so unbelievable … I find it impossible to believe that my husband bought those books.’

  ‘Let’s see now, your ’usband, Mr … Mr … er …’

  ‘Northcote,’ Miss Tottle said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Northcote, yes, of course, Mr Northcote. ’Ee wasn’t in ’ere often, once or twice a year maybe, but a good customer and a very fine gentleman. May I offer you, madam, my sincere condolences on your sad loss.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Buggage. But are you really quite certain you haven’t been mixing him up with somebody else?’

  ‘Not a chance, madam. Not the slightest chance. My good secretary over there will confirm that there is no mistake.’

  ‘May I see it?’ Miss Tottle said, getting up and crossing to take the letter from Mr Buggage. ‘Yes,’ she said, examining it. ‘I typed this myself. There is no mistake.’

  ‘Miss Tottle’s been with me a long time,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘She knows the business inside out. I can’t remember ’er ever makin’ a mistake.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Miss Tottle said.

  ‘So there you are, madam,’ Mr Buggage said.

  ‘It simply isn’t possible,’ the woman said.

  ‘Ah, but men will be men,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘They all ’ave their little bit of fun now and again and there’s no ’arm in that, is there, madam?’ He sat confident and unmoved in his chair, waiting now to have done with it. He felt himself master of the situation.

  The woman stood very straight and still, and she was looking Mr Buggage directly in the eyes. ‘These curious books you list on your invoice,’ she said, ‘do they print them in Braille?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In Braille.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, madam.’

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘That’s the only way my husband could have read them. He lost his sight in the last war, in the Battle of Alamein more than forty years ago, and he was blind for ever after.’

  The office became suddenly very quiet. The mother and her son stood motionless, watching Mr Buggage. Miss Tottle turned away and looked out of the window. Mr Buggage cleared his throat as though to say something, but thought better of it. The two men in raincoats, who were close enough to have heard every word through the open door, came quietly into the office. One of them held out a plastic card and said to Mr Buggage, ‘Inspector Richards, Serious Crimes Division, Scotland Yard.’ And to Miss Tottle, who was already moving back towards her desk, he said, ‘Don’t touch any of those papers, please, miss. Leave everything just where it is. You’re both coming along with us.’

  The son took his mother gently by the arm and led her out of the office, through the shop and on to the street.

  Vengeance is Mine Inc.

  First published in More Tales of the Unexpected (1980)

  It was snowing when I woke up.

  I could tell that it was snowing because there was a kind of brightness in the room and it was quiet outside with no footstep-noises coming up from the street and no tyre-noises but only the engines of the cars. I looked up and I saw George over by the window in his green dressing-gown, bending over the paraffin-stove, making the coffee.

  ‘Snowing,’ I said.

  ‘It’s cold,’ George answered. ‘It’s really cold.’

  I got out of bed and fetched the morning paper from outside the door. It was cold all right and I ran back quickly and jumped into bed and lay still for a while under the bedclothes, holding my hands tight between my legs for warmth.

  ‘No letters?’ George said.

  ‘No. No letters.’

  ‘Doesn’t look as if the old man’s going to cough up.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks four hundred and fifty is enough for one month,’ I said.

  ‘He’s never been to New York. He doesn’t know the cost of living here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have spent it all in one week.’

  George stood up and looked at me. ‘We shouldn’t have spent it, you mean.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘We.’ I began reading the paper.

  The coffee was ready now and George brought the pot over and put it on the table between our beds. ‘A person can’t live without money,’ he said. ‘The old man ought to know that.’ He got back into his bed without taking off his green dressing-gown. I went on reading. I finished the racing page and the football page and then I started on Lionel Pantaloon, the great political and society columnist. I always read Pantaloon – same as the other twenty or thirty million people in the country. He’s a habit with me; he’s more than a
habit; he’s a part of my morning, like three cups of coffee, or shaving.

  ‘This fellow’s got a nerve,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This Lionel Pantaloon.’

  ‘What’s he saying now?’

  ‘Same sort of thing he’s always saying. Same sort of scandal. Always about the rich. Listen to this: “… seen at the Penguin Club … banker William S. Womberg with beauteous starlet Theresa Williams … three nights running … Mrs Womberg at home with a headache … which is something anyone’s wife would have if hubby was out squiring Miss Williams of an evening …” ’

  ‘That fixes Womberg,’ George said.

  ‘I think it’s a shame,’ I said. ‘That sort of thing could cause a divorce. How can this Pantaloon get away with stuff like that?’

  ‘He always does, they’re all scared of him. But if I was William S. Womberg,’ George said, ‘you know what I’d do? I’d go right out and punch this Lionel Pantaloon right on the nose. Why, that’s the only way to handle those guys.’

  ‘Mr Womberg couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s an old man,’ I said. ‘Mr Womberg is a dignified and respectable old man. He’s a very prominent banker in the town. He couldn’t possibly …’

  And then it happened. Suddenly, from nowhere, the idea came. It came to me right in the middle of what I was saying to George and I stopped short and I could feel the idea itself kind of flowing into my brain and I kept very quiet and let it come and it kept on coming and almost before I knew what had happened I had it all, the whole plan, the whole brilliant magnificent plan worked out clearly in my head; and right then I knew it was a beauty.

  I turned and I saw George staring at me with a look of wonder on his face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I kept quite calm. I reached out and got some more coffee before I allowed myself to speak.

  ‘George,’ I said, and I still kept calm. ‘I have an idea. Now listen very carefully because I have an idea which will make us both very rich. We are broke, are we not?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘And this William S. Womberg,’ I said; ‘would you consider that he is angry with Lionel Pantaloon this morning?’

  ‘Angry!’ George shouted. ‘Angry! Why, he’ll be madder than hell!’

  ‘Quite so. And do you think that he would like to see Lionel Pantaloon receive a good hard punch on the nose?’

  ‘Damn right he would!’

  ‘And now tell me, is it not possible that Mr Womberg would be prepared to pay a sum of money to someone who would undertake to perform this nose-punching operation efficiently and discreetly on his behalf?’

  George turned and looked at me, and gently, carefully, he put down his coffee-cup on the table. A slowly widening smile began to spread across his face. ‘I get you,’ he said. ‘I get the idea.’

  ‘That’s just a little part of the idea. If you read Pantaloon’s column here you will see that there is another person who has been insulted today.’ I picked up the paper. ‘There is a Mrs Ella Gimple, a prominent socialite who has perhaps a million dollars in the bank …’

  ‘What does Pantaloon say about her?’

  I looked at the paper again. ‘He hints,’ I answered, ‘at how she makes a stack of money out of her own friends by throwing roulette parties and acting as the bank.’

  ‘That fixes Gimple,’ George said. ‘And Womberg. Gimple and Womberg.’ He was sitting up straight in bed waiting for me to go on.

  ‘Now,’ I said, ‘we have two different people both loathing Lionel Pantaloon’s guts this morning, both wanting desperately to go out and punch him on the nose, and neither of them daring to do it. You understand that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So much then,’ I said, ‘for Lionel Pantaloon. But don’t forget that there are others like him. There are dozens of other columnists who spend their time insulting wealthy and important people. There’s Harry Weyman, Claude Taylor, Jacob Swinski, Walter Kennedy, and all the rest of them.’

  ‘That’s right,’ George said. ‘That’s absolutely right.’

  ‘I’m telling you, there’s nothing that makes the rich so furious as being mocked and insulted in the newspapers.’

  ‘Go on,’ George said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘All right. Now this is the plan.’ I was getting rather excited myself. I was leaning over the side of the bed, resting one hand on the little table, waving the other about in the air as I spoke. ‘We will set up immediately an organization and we will call it … what shall we call it … we will call it … let me see … we will call it “Vengeance Is Mine Inc.” … How about that?’

  ‘Peculiar name.’

  ‘It’s biblical. It’s good. I like it. “Vengeance Is Mine Inc.” It sounds fine. And we will have little cards printed which we will send to all our clients reminding them that they have been insulted and mortified in public and offering to punish the offender in consideration of a sum of money. We will buy all the newspapers and read all the columnists and every day we will send out a dozen or more of our cards to prospective clients.’

  ‘It’s marvellous!’ George shouted. ‘It’s terrific!’

  ‘We shall be rich,’ I told him. ‘We shall be exceedingly wealthy in no time at all.’

  ‘We must start at once!’

  I jumped out of bed, fetched a writing-pad and a pencil and ran back to bed again. ‘Now,’ I said, pulling my knees under the blankets and propping the writing-pad against them, ‘the first thing is to decide what we’re going to say on the printed cards which we’ll be sending to our clients,’ and I wrote, ‘VENGEANCE IS MINE INC.’ as a heading on top of the sheet of paper. Then, with much care, I composed a finely phrased letter explaining the functions of the organization. It finished up with the following sentence: ‘Therefore VENGEANCE IS MINE INC. will undertake, on your behalf and in absolute confidence, to administer suitable punishment to columnist .......... and in this regard we respectfully submit to you a choice of methods (together with prices) for your consideration.’

  ‘What do you mean, “a choice of methods”?’ George said.

  ‘We must give them a choice. We must think up a number of things … a number of different punishments. Number one will be …’ and I wrote down, ‘1. Punch him on the nose, once, hard. What shall we charge for that?’

  ‘Five hundred dollars,’ George said instantly.

  I wrote it down. ‘What’s the next one?’

  ‘Black his eye,’ George said.

  I wrote down, ‘2. Black his eye … $500.’

  ‘No!’ George said. ‘I disagree with the price. It definitely requires more skill and timing to black an eye nicely than to punch a nose. It is a skilled job. It should be six hundred.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Six hundred. And what’s the next one?’

  ‘Both together, of course. The old one two.’ We were in George’s territory now. This was right up his street.

  ‘Both together?’

  ‘Absolutely. Punch his nose and black his eye. Eleven hundred dollars.’

  ‘There should be a reduction for taking the two,’ I said. ‘We’ll make it a thousand.’

  ‘It’s dirt cheap,’ George said. ‘They’ll snap it up.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  We were both silent now, concentrating fiercely. Three deep parallel grooves of wrinkled skin appeared upon George’s rather low sloping forehead. He began to scratch his scalp, slowly but very strongly. I looked away and tried to think of all the terrible things which people had done to other people. Finally I got one, and with George watching the point of my pencil moving over the paper, I wrote: ‘4. Put a rattlesnake (with venom extracted) on the floor of his car, by the pedals, when he parks it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ George whispered. ‘You want to kill him with fright!’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘And where’d you get a rattlesnake, anyway?’

  ‘Bu
y it. You can always buy them. How much shall we charge for that one?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred dollars,’ George said firmly. I wrote it down.

  ‘Now we need one more.’

  ‘Here it is,’ George said. ‘Kidnap him in a car, take all his clothes away except his underpants and his shoes and socks, then dump him out on Fifth Avenue in the rush hour.’ He smiled, a broad triumphant smile.

  ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘Write it down. And charge two thousand five hundred bucks. You’d do it all right if old Womberg were to offer you that much.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose I would.’ And I wrote it down. ‘That’s enough now,’ I added. ‘That gives them a wide choice.’

  ‘And where will we get the cards printed?’ George asked.

  ‘George Karnoffsky,’ I said. ‘Another George. He’s a friend of mine. Runs a small printing shop down on Third Avenue. Does wedding invitations and things like that for the big stores. He’ll do it. I know he will.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

  We both leaped out of bed and began to dress. ‘It’s twelve o’clock,’ I said. ‘If we hurry we’ll catch him before he goes to lunch.’

  It was still snowing when we went out into the street and the snow was four or five inches thick on the sidewalk, but we covered the fourteen blocks to Karnoffsky’s shop at a tremendous pace and we arrived there just as he was putting on his coat to go out.

  ‘Claude!’ he shouted. ‘Hi boy! How you been keeping?’ and he pumped my hand. He had a fat friendly face and a terrible nose with great wide-open nose-wings which overlapped his cheeks by at least an inch on either side. I greeted him and told him that we had come to discuss some most urgent business. He took off his coat and led us back into the office; then I began to tell him about our plans and what we wanted him to do.

  When I’d got about quarter way through my story, he started to roar with laughter and it was impossible for me to continue; so I cut it short and handed him the piece of paper with the stuff on it that we wanted him to print. And now, as he read it, his whole body began to shake with laughter and he kept slapping the desk with his hand and coughing and choking and roaring like someone crazy. We sat watching him. We didn’t see anything particular to laugh about.