Session 1: Working with short stories

We are going to work actively through this subject so I’ll be posting here in my blog what we are doing throughout the sessions. In fact, blogging is a technique we can use with our students as they like new technologies and being online so they’ll enjoy writing and sharing their opinion.



On Session 1 , our teacher explained us what was the subject about and introduced us to the wonderful world of active learning. She told us from the very beginning how we were going to be assessed and then what are active techniques and how can we use them to teach English to students of ESO.

Teaching English actively is a way in which students can learn by doing, in a practical form. By using active techniques in class, boredom or failure might be over as our students become active participants in their learning process and they are engaged. It consists on being a guide for them, you just give them the means and they have to follow their own motivations. In this way, students can be very creative and learn without realising they are in fact studying English! We have to change the way in which we teach if we are still “clung” to the traditional methods that don’t work anymore; society has changed and so our students have changed. When we work through active methodologies we are helping to develop our students skills and key competences but we are also providing them the keys for a “lifelong learning” which should be the goal for every teacher. It implies lots of planning from the teacher but in the end, if it works, it will be worthy.

We also talked about ICT’s, which are tools that we can use in the classroom that help us to make the content appealing for our students. The teacher explained us that we need to be updated in this field as society is in constant change and our students have grown in the era of technology. Using these techniques is very helpful as we can engage our students’ in the learning process and catch their attention, something that is really difficult if you are simply using a book. We can do this through games, for example, starting a competition at the beginning, or bringing a box with something inside and they have to guess. I work teaching kids from 3 to 12 years old and I see that through games they learn better than doing lots of worksheets that repeat the same content again and again. If you work in a funny way you can get the best from your students.

Then she explained us some differences between group work (that works better with students with determination) and team work (in which students have different roles and they must be coordinated).

Now I’ll tell you how we worked in class, my groups reflections and my own feelings on the work we did through the different stations.

The class was divided into different stations and we had to split into groups to go through them and work on the different activities proposed. Each member of the group had a different role: one was the leader, another one the secretary, we had to advisors and one language monitor. We were working in fact in a cooperative form.

The members of my group are:

– Mónica Obiols: the leader

– Cristina Maldonado: the secretary

– Ana Mª González: the advisor

– Mayte Boix: the language monitor or moderator

and I who was another advisor.

Cooperative learning is better for students than collaborative learning as in the latter the only people who produce something are the hardworkers and there are always “half-harted” people in the group who avoid working. We learnt how to design activities for teaching English to students of secondary education divided into pre-teaching, actual and post-teaching activities. It was very interesting and I learnt lots of techniques and ICT’s we can use in the classroom that are quite motivating and engaging. All what we did through the subject has been very useful for me as I’m doing my final project of the master’s on “Active learning techniques”.

 Using literature to teach English to ESO students is quite challenging as they don’t like reading that much but if we plan nice activities related to the stories it can be quite rewarding and exciting for them. Using short stories is a good idea due to the fact that they are very short, easy to remember and they usually have powerful endings. Through short stories we can improve our students’ reading habits and show them that reading in English can also be pleasant.

Here are the two short stories we’ve been discussing in class.I’ve never read them before  and I found them very original and funny:



by Roald Dahl

Mr. and Mrs. Bixby lived in a small apartment in New York City.  Mr. Bixby was a dentist, who earned an average amount of money.  Mrs. Bixby was a woman who was full of life.  Once a month she would get on a train and travel to Baltimore to visit her old Aunt Maude. At least that was what she told her husband.  What she really did was see a gentleman known as the Colonel and spend all her time in Baltimore in his company.

The Colonel was wealthy and lived in a charming house just outside of town. He had no wife and no family, only a few loyal servants, and in Mrs. Bixby’s absence he amused himself by riding horses and hunting.  Year after year the pleasant friendship between Mrs. Bixby and the Colonel continued without a problem, and never once did Mrs. Bixby’s dentist husband suspect the truth.

Then, after one visit just before Christmas, Mrs. Bixby was standing at the station in Baltimore, waiting for the train to take her back to New York. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable visit and Mrs. Bixby was thinking how different it all was from her dull husband at home, when suddenly one of the Colonel’s servants appeared through the crowd and presented her with a large cardboard box.

Mrs. Bixby:  “Good heavens! What’s he brought?  What a big box! Was there a message?”

There had been no message, and as soon as she was on the train, Mrs. Bixby found a place where she could open the box in private.

Mrs. Bixby:  “How exciting!  A Christmas present from the Colonel…I think it’s a dress.  It might even be two dresses.  Or it might be a lot of beautiful underclothes.  I won’t look.  I’ll just feel around and try to guess what it is.  I’ll try to guess the color as well, and exactly what it looks like.  Also how much it cost — Good heavens!  It can’t be true.”

What the Colonel had given her was the most magnificent mink coat she had ever seen.  The fur was almost pure black, with a touch of blue in it, as well, as deep rich blue.  But what had it cost?  She hardly dared to think.  Then she saw there was a letter in the box, as well — a farewell note from the Colonel!  He had heard her say once how fond she was of mink and asked her to accept it as a farewell gift.  For his own personal reasons he would not be able to see her anymore.

Mrs. Bixby:  “Well! Imagine that! Well, I’ve lost one thing, but gained another.  Wait–there’s something written on the other side:  ‘Just tell them a nice generous aunt of yours gave it for Christmas’.”  “The man must be mad!  Aunt Maude doesn’t have that sort of money–she couldn’t possibly give me this…but if Aunt Maude didn’t, then who did?”

In the excitement of finding the coat and trying it on, she had completely forgotten the most important detail.  In a couple of hours she would be in New York, and even a man like her husband Cyril would start asking questions if his wife suddenly walked in from a weekend wearing a fabulous new mink coat.

Mrs. Bixby thought to herself:  “I think he’s done this on purpose just to annoy me.  He knew perfectly well I wouldn’t be able to keep it.  But I must have this coat!  I must!  Very well, my dear.  You shall have the coat, my dear.  But don’t be afraid. Sit still and keep calm and start thinking. You’ve fooled him before.  The man has never been able to understand very much apart from his business.  So sit absolutely still and think.”

Some time later Mrs. Bixby stepped off the train in New York and walked quickly to the exit.  She was wearing her old red coat again, and was carrying the box in her arms.  She signalled for a taxi

Mrs. Bixby: “Driver, do you know of a pawnbroker that is still open around here?  Stop at the first one you see, will you please?”

At the pawnbroker’s Mrs. Bixby told the driver to wait for her.  Inside she made up a story about losing her purse and all her money,  and left the fur coat with the pawnbroker in exchange for fifty dollars in cash and a pawn-ticket which she insisted have no name or address on it, but simply the word ‘ARTICLE.'”  The important thing was not to lose that ticket–anyone finding it could go there and claim the coat. But Mrs. Bixby was not about to let that happen.  She would tell her husband that she’d found the ticket in the back seat of the taxi and could hardly wait to claim whatever it was on the following Monday morning.  A most ingenious plan–if it hadn’t been for her husband.

Mrs. Bixby: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were a real treasure?”

Mr. Bixby: “We can’t know what it is yet, my dear.  We shall just have to wait and see.”

Mrs. Bixby: “I think it’s absolutely wonderful!  Give me the ticket and I’ll go over immediately on Monday morning and find out!”

Mr. Bixby: “I think I’d better do that.  I’ll pick it up on my way to work.”

Mrs. Bixby: “But it’s my ticket!  Please let me do it. Why should you have all that fun?”

Mr. Bixby: “I’d rather you didn’t handle it if you don’t mind.”

Mrs. Bixby: “But I found it.  It’s mine. Whatever it is, it’s mine, isn’t that right?”

Mr. Bixby: “I suppose you haven’t thought that it might be something for a man, a pocket watch, for example.”

Mrs. Bixby: “In that case, I’ll give it to you for Christmas. But if it’s a woman’s thing, I want it myself.  Is that agreed?”

Mr. Bixby:  “That sounds fair.  Why don’t you come with me when I pick it up?”

Mrs. Bixby: ” Uhh– no, I don’t think I will.  You see, it’ll be more exciting if I stay here and wait”

Monday morning came at last, and as Mr. Bixby was about to leave for the pawnbroker’s on his way to work, his wife made him promise to telephone her if it turned out to be something really nice.  About an hour later, when the phone rang, Mrs. Bixby rushed to answer it before the first ring had finished.

Mr. Bixby (on the telephone):  “I’ve got it!”

Mrs. Bixby: “You have? Oh, Cyril, what is it? Was it something good?”

Mr. Bixby: “Good?  It’s wonderful you wait till you see this. You’ll faint.

Mrs. Bixby:  “Darling, what is it?  Tell me quickly.”

Mr. Bixby:  “You’re a lucky girl, that’s what you are.”

Mrs. Bixby:  “It’s for me then?”

Mr. Bixby:  “Of course it’s for you, though I can’t understand how it was pawned for fifty dollars.  You’ll go crazy when you see it.”

Mrs. Bixby: “What is it?”

Mr. Bixby:  “Try to guess.”

But Mrs. Bixby couldn’t guess.  Instead she insisted on going down to her husband’s office herself to get it, even though it might disorganize his day.  Later when she rang his bell, her husband in his white dentist’s coat opened the door himself.

Mrs. Bixby:  “Oh, I’m so excited.”

Mr. Bixby:  “So you should be.  You’re a lucky girl, did you know that?  We’re through for now.  Go and have your lunch, Miss Pulteney.  You can finish that when you get back.”

This last was directed to his assistant, who was busy putting his instruments away.  He waited until the girl had gone, then walked over to the cupboard where the coats were hung.

Mr. Bixby:  “It’s in there.  Now shut your eyes for a moment…all right now.  You can look!”

Mrs. Bixby:  “I don’t dare to.”

Mr. Bixby:  “Go on, have a look–mink! Real mink!”

At the sound of the word she opened her eyes quickly, and at the same time started forward to grab the coat in her arms.  But there was no coat.  There was only a stupid little neckpiece in her husband’s hand.  Mrs. Bixby put a hand up to her mouth and started to back away.  She was sure she was going to scream.

Mr. Bixby:  “What’s the matter, my dear” Don’t you like it?”

Mrs. Bixby:  Why, yes…I…I think it’s very nice…beautiful…”

Mr. Bixby:  “It quite took your breath away for a moment, didn’t it?”

Mrs. Bixby:  “Yes, it did.”

Mr. Bixby:  Very good quality.  Fine color, too.  Here.  Try it on…it’s perfect.  It really suits you.  It isn’t everyone who has a mink, my dear.”

Mrs. Bixby:  “No, it isn’t.”

Mr. Bixby:  “I’m afraid you mustn’t expect anything else for Christmas.  Fifty dollars was rather more than I was going to spend, anyway.  Go and buy yourself a nice lunch, my dear.”

Mrs. Bixby moved towards the door.  She was going to go over to that pawnbroker’s and throw that miserable neckpiece right into his face and if he refused to give her back her coat, she would kill him.

Mr. Bixby:  “Did I tell you that I was going to be late tonight?  It’ll probably be at least 8:30, it may even be 9:00”

Mrs. Bixby:  “Yes, all right.  Good-bye.”

Mrs. Bixby went out closing the door loudly behind her.  At that exact moment, Miss Pulteney, her husband’s assistant, came past her on her way to lunch and greeted Mrs. Bixby, smiling brightly.  She walked in a very confident way, and she looked like a queen, exactly like a queen in the beautiful black mink coat that the Colonel had given to Mrs. Bixby.


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 tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.
Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come him from work.
Now and again she 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.  Her skin -for this was her sixth month with child-had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger darker than before. 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 door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock.  She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in.
“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 alone 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.
“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 your slippers?”
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 as you, 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; bet each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of 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.
“I’ll get the supper,” she managed to whisper, and this time he didn’t stop her.
When she walked 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.  Everything was automatic now-down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, 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.
All right then, they would have lamb for supper.  She carried it upstairs, holding the thin bone-end of it with both her hands, 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,” he said, hearing her, but not turning round.  “Don’t make supper for me.  I’m going out.”
At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him 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 his head.
She might just as well have hit him with a steel club.
She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying.  Then he crashed to the carpet.
The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of he 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 him.
It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden.  She began thinking very fast.  As the wife of a detective, 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 the child?  What were the laws about murderers with unborn children?  Did they kill then both-mother and child?  Or did they wait until the tenth month?  What did they do?
Mary Maloney 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 t inside.  Then she washed her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom.  She sat down before the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lops and face.  She tried a smile.  It came out rather peculiar.  She tried again.
“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.”
“I don’t know 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.  Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, 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 know 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 policeman walked in.  She know them both-she know nearly all the man at that precinct-and she fell right into 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 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 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.
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 policeman.  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 of 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 on 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 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 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 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.
“Jack,” she said, the next tome Sergeant Noonan 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 of whiskey.  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, come 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.
“Would you do me a small favor-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 terrible 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 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.”
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, Charlie?”
“No.  Better not finish it.”
“She wants us to finish it. She said so.  Be doing 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, Jack?”

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


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