Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016

The Specialty of the House by Stanley Ellin

The writer called “the unsurpassed master of the short story in crime fiction” by Marcel Berlins in The Times (London), Stanley Ellin first saw print in 1948, in EQMM, with this story. It would become one of the most famous crime stories ever published — achieving iconic status. Ellin, who died in 1986, was a Grand Master of the MWA. He authored more than a dozen novels and his work was adapted for both film and TV, but he remains best known for his short fiction, most of which first appeared in EQMM.

“And this,” said Laffler, “is Sbirro’s.” Costain saw a square brownstone façade identical with the others that extended from either side into the clammy darkness of the deserted street. From the barred windows of the basement at his feet, a glimmer of light showed behind heavy curtains.

“Lord,” he observed, “it’s a dismal hole, isn’t it?”

“I beg you to understand,” said Laffler stiffly, “that Sbirro’s is the restaurant without pretensions. Besieged by these ghastly, neurotic times, it has refused to compromise. It is perhaps the last important establishment in this city lit by gas jets. Here you will find the same honest furnishings, the same magnificent Sheffield service, and possibly, in a far corner, the very same spider webs that were remarked by the patrons of a half-century ago!”

“A doubtful recommendation,” said Costain, “and hardly sanitary.”

“When you enter,” Laffler continued, “you leave the insanity of this year, this day, and this hour, and you find yourself for a brief span restored in spirit, not by opulence, but by dignity, which is the lost quality of our time.”

Costain laughed uncomfortably. “You make it sound more like a cathedral than a restaurant,” he said.

In the pale reflection of the streetlamp overhead, Laffler peered at his companion’s face. “I wonder,” he said abruptly, “whether I have not made a mistake in extending this invitation to you.”

Costain was hurt. Despite an impressive title and large salary, he was no more than clerk to this pompous little man, but he was impelled to make some display of his feelings. “If you wish,” he said coldly, “I can make other plans for my evening with no trouble.”

With his large, cowlike eyes turned up to Costain, the mist drifting into the ruddy, full moon of his face, Laffler seemed strangely ill at ease. Then “No, no,” he said at last, “absolutely not. It’s important that you dine at Sbirro’s with me.” He grasped Costain’s arm firmly and led the way to the wrought-iron gate of the basement. “You see, you’re the sole person in my office who seems to know anything at all about good food. And on my part, knowing about Sbirro’s but not having some appreciative friend to share it, is like having a unique piece of art locked in a room where no one else can enjoy it.” Costain was considerably mollified by this. “I understand there are a great many people who relish that situation.”

“I’m not one of that kind!” Laffler said sharply. “And having the secret of Sbirro’s locked in myself for years has finally become unendurable.” He fumbled at the side of the gate and from within could be heard the small, discordant jangle of an ancient pull-bell. An interior door opened with a groan, and Costain found himself peering into a dark face whose only discernible feature was a row of gleaming teeth.

“Sair?” said the face.

“Mr. Laffler and a guest.”

“Sair,” the face said again, this time in what was clearly an invitation. It moved aside and Costain stumbled down a single step behind his host. The door and gate creaked behind him, and he stood blinking in a small foyer. It took him a moment to realize that the figure he now stared at was his own reflection in a gigantic pier glass that extended from floor to ceiling. “Atmosphere,” he said under his breath and chuckled as he followed his guide to a seat.

He faced Laffler across a small table for two and peered curiously around the dining room. It was no size at all, but the half-dozen guttering gas jets which provided the only illumination threw such a deceptive light that the walls flickered and faded into uncertain distance.

There were no more than eight or ten tables about, arranged to insure the maximum privacy. All were occupied, and the few waiters serving them moved with quiet efficiency. In the air was a soft clash and scrape of cutlery and a soothing murmur of talk. Costain nodded appreciatively.

Laffler breathed an audible sigh of gratification. “I knew you would share my enthusiasm,” he said. “Have you noticed, by the way, that there are no women present?”

Costain raised inquiring eyebrows.

“Sbirro,” said Laffler, “does not encourage members of the fair sex to enter the premises. And, I can tell you, his method is decidedly effective. I had the experience of seeing a woman get a taste of it not long ago. She sat at a table for not less than an hour waiting for service which was never forthcoming.”

“Didn’t she make a scene?”

“She did.” Laffler smiled at the recollection. “She succeeded in annoying the customers, embarrassing her partner, and nothing more.”

“And what about Mr. Sbirro?”

“He did not make an appearance. Whether he directed affairs from behind the scenes, or was not even present during the episode, I don’t know. Whichever it was, he won a complete victory. The woman never reappeared nor, for that matter, did the witless gentleman who by bringing her was really the cause of the entire contretemps.”

“A fair warning to all present,” laughed Costain.

A waiter now appeared at the table. The chocolate-dark skin, the thin, beautifully molded nose and lips, the large liquid eyes, heavily lashed, and the silver white hair so heavy and silken that it lay on the skull like a cap, all marked him definitely as an East Indian of some sort, Costain decided. The man arranged the stiff table linen, filled two tumblers from a huge, cut-glass pitcher, and set them in their proper places.

“Tell me,” Laffler said eagerly, “is the special being served this evening?”

The waiter smiled regretfully and showed teeth as spectacular as those of the majordomo. “I am so sorry, sair. There is no special this evening.”

Laffler’s face fell into lines of heavy disappointment. “After waiting so long. It’s been a month already, and I hoped to show my friend here...”

“You understand the difficulties, sair.”

“Of course, of course.” Laffler looked at Costain sadly and shrugged. “You see, I had in mind to introduce you to the greatest treat that Sbirro’s offers, but unfortunately it isn’t on the menu this evening.”

The waiter said: “Do you wish to be served now, sair?” and Laffler nodded. To Costain’s surprise the waiter made his way off without waiting for any instructions.

“Have you ordered in advance?” he asked.

“Ah,” said Laffler. “I really should have explained. Sbirro’s offers no choice whatsoever. You will eat the same meal as everyone else in this room. Tomorrow evening you would eat an entirely different meal, but again without designating a single preference.”

“Very unusual,” said Costain, “and certainly unsatisfactory at times. What if one doesn’t have a taste for the particular dish set before him?”

“On that score,” said Laffler solemnly, “you need have no fears. I give you my word that no matter how exacting your tastes, you will relish every mouthful you eat in Sbirro’s.”

Costain looked doubtful, and Laffler smiled. “And consider the subtle advantages of the system,” he said. “When you pick up the menu of a popular restaurant, you find yourself confronted with innumerable choices. You are forced to weigh, to evaluate, to make uneasy decisions which you may instantly regret. The effect of all this is a tension which, however slight, must make for discomfort.

“And consider the mechanics of the process. Instead of a hurly-burly of sweating cooks rushing about a kitchen in a frenzy to prepare a hundred varying items, we have a chef who stands serenely alone, bringing all his talents to bear on one task, with all assurance of a complete triumph!”

“Then you have seen the kitchen?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Laffler sadly. “The picture I offer is hypothetical, made of conversational fragments I have pieced together over the years. I must admit, though, that my desire to see the functioning of the kitchen here comes very close to being my sole obsession nowadays.”

“But have you mentioned this to Sbirro?”

“A dozen times. He shrugs the suggestion away.”

“Isn’t that a rather curious foible on his part?”

“No, no,” Laffler said hastily, “a master artist is never under the compulsion of petty courtesies. Still,” he sighed, “I have never given up hope.”

The waiter now reappeared bearing two soup bowls which he set in place with mathematical exactitude, and a small tureen from which he slowly ladled a measure of clear, thin broth. Costain dipped his spoon into the broth and tasted it with some curiosity. It was delicately flavored, bland to the verge of tastelessness. Costain frowned, tentatively reached for the salt and pepper cellars, and discovered there were none on the table. He looked up, saw Laffler’s eyes on him, and although unwilling to compromise with his own tastes, he hesitated to act as a damper on Laffler’s enthusiasm. Therefore he smiled and indicated the broth.

“Excellent,” he said.

Laffler returned his smile. “You do not find it excellent at all,” he said coolly. “You find it flat and badly in need of condiments. I know this,” he continued as Costain’s eyebrows shot upward, “because it was my own reaction many years ago, and because like yourself I found myself reaching for salt and pepper after the first mouthful. I also learned with surprise that condiments are not available in Sbirro’s.”

Costain was shocked. “Not even salt!” he exclaimed.

“Not even salt. The very fact that you require it for your soup stands as evidence that your taste is unduly jaded. I am confident that you will now make the same discovery that I did: By the time you have nearly finished your soup, your desire for salt will be nonexistent.”

Laffler was right; before Costain had reached the bottom of his plate, he was relishing the nuances of the broth with steadily increasing delight. Laffler thrust aside his own empty bowl and rested his elbows on the table. “Do you agree with me now?”

“To my surprise,” said Costain, “I do.”

As the waiter busied himself clearing the table, Laffler lowered his voice significantly. “You will find,” he said, “that the absence of condiments is but one of several noteworthy characteristics which mark Sbirro’s. I may as well prepare you for these. For example, no alcoholic beverages of any sort are served here, nor for that matter any beverage except clear, cold water, the first and only drink necessary for a human being.”

“Outside of mother’s milk,” suggested Costain dryly.

“I can answer that in like vein by pointing out that the average patron of Sbirro’s has passed that primal stage of his development.”

Costain laughed. “Granted,” he said.

“Very well. There is also a ban on the use of tobacco in any form.”

“But good heavens,” said Costain, “doesn’t that make Sbirro’s more a teetotaler’s retreat than a gourmet’s sanctuary?”

“I fear,” said Laffler solemnly, “that you confuse the words gourmet and gourmand. The gourmand, through glutting himself, requires a wider and wider latitude of experience to stir his surfeited senses, but the very nature of the gourmet is simplicity. The ancient Greek in his coarse chiton savoring the ripe olive; the Japanese in his bare room contemplating the curve of a single flower stem — these are the true gourmets.”

“But an occasional drop of brandy, or pipeful of tobacco,” said Costain dubiously, “are hardly overindulgences.”

“By alternating stimulant and narcotic,” said Laffler, “you seesaw the delicate balance of your taste so violently that it loses its most precious quality: the appreciation of fine food. During my years as a patron of Sbirro’s, I have proved this to my satisfaction.”

“May I ask,” said Costain, “why you regard the ban on these things as having such deep esthetic motives? What about such mundane reasons as the high cost of a liquor license, or the possibility that patrons would object to the smell of tobacco in such confined quarters?”

Laffler shook his head violently. “If and when you meet Sbirro,” he said, “you will understand at once that he is not the man to make decisions on a mundane basis. As a matter of fact, it was Sbirro himself who first made me cognizant of what you call ‘esthetic’ motives.”

“An amazing man,” said Costain as the waiter prepared to serve the entrée.

Laffler’s next words were not spoken until he had savored and swallowed a large portion of meat. “I hesitate to use superlatives,” he said, “but to my way of thinking, Sbirro represents man at the apex of his civilization!”

Costain cocked an eyebrow and applied himself to his roast which rested in a pool of stiff gravy ungarnished by green or vegetable. The thin steam rising from it carried to his nostrils a subtle, tantalizing odor which made his mouth water. He chewed a piece as slowly and thoughtfully as if he were analyzing the intricacies of a Mozart symphony. The range of taste he discovered was really extraordinary, from the pungent nip of the crisp outer edge to the peculiarly flat yet soul-satisfying ooze of blood which the pressure of his jaws forced from the half-raw interior.

Upon swallowing he found himself ferociously hungry for another piece, and then another, and it was only with an effort that he prevented himself from wolfing down all his share of the meat and gravy without waiting to get the full voluptuous satisfaction from each mouthful. When he had scraped his platter clean, he realized that both he and Laffler had completed the entire course without exchanging a single word. He commented on this, and Laffler said: “Can you see any need for words in the presence of such food?”

Costain looked around at the shabby, dimly lit room, the quiet diners, with a new perception. “No,” he said humbly, “I cannot. For any doubts I had I apologize unreservedly. In all your praise of Sbirro’s there was not a single word of exaggeration.”

“Ah,” said Laffler delightedly. “And that is only part of the story. You heard me mention the special which unfortunately was not on the menu tonight. What you have just eaten is as nothing when compared to the absolute delights of that special!”

“Good Lord!” cried Costain; “What is it? Nightingale’s tongues? Filet of unicorn?”

“Neither,” said Laffler. “It is lamb.”

“Lamb?”

Laffler remained lost in thought for a minute. “If,” he said at last, “I were to give you in my own unstinted words my opinion of this dish, you would judge me completely insane. That is how deeply the mere thought of it affects me. It is neither the fatty chop, nor the too solid leg; it is, instead, a select portion of the rarest sheep in existence and is named after the species — lamb Amirstan.”

Costain knit his brows. “Amirstan?”

“A fragment of desolation almost lost on the border which separates Afghanistan and Russia. From chance remarks dropped by Sbirro, I gather it is no more than a plateau which grazes the pitiful remnants of a flock of superb sheep. Sbirro, through some means or other, obtained rights to the traffic in this flock and is, therefore, the sole restaurateur ever to have lamb Amirstan on his bill of fare. I can tell you that the appearance of this dish is a rare occurrence indeed, and luck is the only guide in determining for the clientele the exact date when it will be served.”

“But surely,” said Costain, “Sbirro could provide some advance knowledge of this event.”

“The objection to that is simply stated,” said Laffler. “There exists in this city a huge number of professional gluttons. Should advance information slip out, it is quite likely that they will, out of curiosity, become familiar with the dish and thenceforth supplant the regular patrons at these tables.”

“But you don’t mean to say,” objected Costain, “that these few people present are the only ones in the entire city, or for that matter, in the whole wide world, who know of the existence of Sbirro’s!”

“Very nearly. There may be one or two regular patrons who, for some reason, are not present at the moment.”

“That’s incredible.”

“It is done,” said Laffler, the slightest shade of menace in his voice, “by every patron making it his solemn obligation to keep the secret. By accepting my invitation this evening, you automatically assume that obligation. I hope you can be trusted with it.”

Costain flushed. “My position in your employ should vouch for me. I only question the wisdom of a policy which keeps such magnificent food away from so many who would enjoy it.”

“Do you know the inevitable result of the policy you favor?” asked Laffler bitterly. “An influx of idiots who would nightly complain that they are never served roast duck with chocolate sauce. Is that picture tolerable to you?”

“No,” admitted Costain, “I am forced to agree with you.”

Laffler leaned back in his chair wearily and passed his hand over his eyes in an uncertain gesture. “I am a solitary man,” he said quietly, “and not by choice alone. It may sound strange to you, it may border on eccentricity, but I feel to my depths that this restaurant, this warm haven in a coldly insane world, is both family and friend to me.”

And Costain, who to this moment had never viewed his companion as other than tyrannical employer or officious host, now felt an overwhelming pity twist inside his comfortably expanded stomach.

By the end of two weeks the invitations to join Laffler at Sbirro’s had become something of a ritual. Every day, at a few minutes after five, Costain would step out into the office corridor and lock his cubicle behind him; he would drape his overcoat neatly over his left arm, and peer into the glass of the door to make sure his Homburg was set at the proper angle. At one time he would have followed this by lighting a cigarette, but under Laffler’s prodding he had decided to give abstinence a fair trial. Then he would start down the corridor, and Laffler would fall in step at his elbow, clearing his throat. “Ah, Costain. No plans for this evening, I hope.”

“No,” Costain would say, “I’m footloose and fancy free,” or “At your service,” or something equally inane. He wondered at times whether it would not be more tactful to vary the ritual with an occasional refusal, but the glow with which Laffler received his answer, and the rough friendliness of Laffler’s grip on his arm, forestalled him.

Among the treacherous crags of the business world, reflected Costain, what better way to secure your footing than friendship with one’s employer. Already, a secretary close to the workings of the inner office had commented publicly on Laffler’s highly favorable opinion of Costain. That was all to the good.

And the food! The incomparable food at Sbirro’s! For the first time in his life, Costain, ordinarily a lean and bony man, noted with gratification that he was certainly gaining weight; within two weeks his bones had disappeared under a layer of sleek, firm flesh, and here and there were even signs of incipient plumpness. It struck Costain one night, while surveying himself in his bath, that the rotund Laffler, himself, might have been a spare and bony man before discovering Sbirro’s.

So there was obviously everything to be gained and nothing to be lost by accepting Laffler’s invitations. Perhaps after testing the heralded wonders of lamb Amirstan and meeting Sbirro, who thus far had not made an appearance, a refusal or two might be in order. But certainly not until then.

That evening, two weeks to a day after his first visit to Sbirro’s, Costain had both desires fulfilled: he dined on lamb Amirstan, and he met Sbirro. Both exceeded all his expectations.

When the waiter leaned over their table immediately after seating them and gravely announced: “Tonight is special, sair,” Costain was shocked to find his heart pounding with expectation. On the table before him he saw Laffler’s hands trembling violently. “But it isn’t natural,” he thought suddenly: “Two full-grown men, presumably intelligent and in the full possession of their senses, as jumpy as a pair of cats waiting to have their meat flung to them!”

“This is it!” Laffler’s voice startled him so that he almost leaped from his seat. “The culinary triumph of all times! And faced by it you are embarrassed by the very emotions it distills.”

“How did you know that?” Costain asked faintly.

“How? Because a decade ago I underwent your embarrassment. Add to that your air of revulsion and it’s easy to see how affronted you are by the knowledge that man has not yet forgotten how to slaver over his meat.”

“And these others,” whispered Costain, “do they all feel the same thing?”

“Judge for yourself.”

Costain looked furtively around at the nearby tables. “You are right,” he finally said. “At any rate, there’s comfort in numbers.”

Laffler inclined his head slightly to the side. “One of the numbers,” he remarked, “appears to be in for a disappointment.”

Costain followed the gesture. At the table indicated a gray-haired man sat conspicuously alone, and Costain frowned at the empty chair opposite him.

“Why, yes,” he recalled, “that very stout, bald man, isn’t it? I believe it’s the first dinner he’s missed here in two weeks.”

“The entire decade more likely,” said Laffler sympathetically. “Rain or shine, crisis or calamity, I don’t think he’s missed an evening at Sbirro’s since the first time I dined here. Imagine his expression when he’s told that on his very first defection, lamb Amirstan was the plat du jour.”

Costain looked at the empty chair again with a dim discomfort. “His very first?” he murmured.

“Mr. Laffler! And friend! I am so pleased. So very, very pleased. No, do not stand; I will have a place made.” Miraculously a seat appeared under the figure standing there at the table. “The lamb Amirstan will be an unqualified success, hurr? I myself have been stewing in the miserable kitchen all the day, prodding the foolish chef to do everything just so. The just so is the important part, hurr? But I see your friend does not know me. An introduction, perhaps?”

The words ran in a smooth, fluid eddy. They rippled, they purred, they hypnotized Costain so that he could do no more than stare. The mouth that uncoiled this sinuous monologue was alarmingly wide, with thin mobile lips that curled and twisted with every syllable. There was a flat nose with a straggling line of hair under it; wide-set eyes, almost oriental in appearance, that glittered in the unsteady flare of gaslight; and long, sleek hair that swept back from high on the unwrinkled forehead — hair so pale that it might have been bleached of all color. An amazing face surely, and the sight of it tortured Costain with the conviction that it was somehow familiar. His brain twitched and prodded but could not stir up any solid recollection.

Laffler’s voice jerked Costain out of his study. “Mr. Sbirro. Mr. Costain, a good friend and associate.” Costain rose and shook the proffered hand. It was warm and dry, flint-hard against his palm.

“I am so very pleased, Mr. Costain. So very, very pleased,” purred the voice. “You like my little establishment, hurr? You have a great treat in store, I assure you.”

Laffler chuckled. “Oh, Costain’s been dining here regularly for two weeks,” he said. “He’s by way of becoming a great admirer of yours, Sbirro.”

The eyes were turned on Costain. “A very great compliment. You compliment me with your presence and I return same with my food, hurr? But the lamb Amirstan is far superior to anything of your past experience, I assure you. All the trouble of obtaining it, all the difficulty of preparation, is truly merited.”

Costain strove to put aside the exasperating problem of that face. “I have wondered,” he said, “why with all these difficulties you mention, you even bother to present lamb Amirstan to the public. Surely your other dishes are excellent enough to uphold your reputation.”

Sbirro smiled so broadly that his face became perfectly round. “Perhaps it is a matter of the psychology, hurr? Someone discovers a wonder and must share it with others. He must fill his cup to the brim, perhaps, by observing the so evident pleasure of those who explore it with him. Or,” he shrugged, “perhaps it is just a matter of good business.”

“Then in the light of all this,” Costain persisted, “and considering all the conventions you have imposed on your customers, why do you open the restaurant to the public instead of operating it as a private club?”

The eyes abruptly glinted into Costain’s, then turned away. “So perspicacious, hurr? Then I will tell you. Because there is more privacy in a public eating place than in the most exclusive club in existence! Here no one inquires of your affairs; no one desires to know the intimacies of your life. Here the business is eating. We are not curious about names and addresses or the reasons for the coming and going of our guests. We welcome you when you are here; we have no regrets when you are here no longer. That is the answer, hurr?”

Costain was startled by this vehemence. “I had no intention of prying,” he stammered.

Sbirro ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips. “No, no,” he reassured, “you are not prying. Do not let me give you that impression. On the contrary, I invite your questions.”

“Oh, come, Costain,” said Laffler. “Don’t let Sbirro intimidate you. I’ve known him for years and I guarantee that his bark is worse than his bite. Before you know it, he’ll be showing you all the privileges of the house — outside of inviting you to visit his precious kitchen, of course.”

“Ah,” smiled Sbirro, “for that, Mr. Costain may have to wait a little while. For everything else I am at his beck and call.”

Laffler slapped his hand jovially on the table. “What did I tell you!” he said. “Now let’s have the truth, Sbirro. Has anyone, outside of your staff, ever stepped into the sanctum sanctorum?”

Sbirro looked up. “You see on the wall above you,” he said earnestly, “the portrait of one to whom I did the honor. A very dear friend and a patron of most long standing, he is evidence that my kitchen is not inviolate.”

Costain studied the picture and started with recognition. “Why,” he said excitedly, “that’s the famous writer — you know the one, Laffler — he used to do such wonderful short stories and cynical bits and then suddenly took himself off and disappeared in Mexico!”

“Of course!” cried Laffler, “and to think I’ve been sitting under his portrait for years without even realizing it!” He turned to Sbirro. “A dear friend, you say? His disappearance must have been a blow to you.”

Sbirro’s face lengthened. “It was, it was, I assure you. But think of it this way, gentlemen: He was probably greater in his death than in his life, hurr? A most tragic man, he often told me that his only happy hours were spent here at this very table. Pathetic, is it not? And to think the only favor I could ever show him was to let him witness the mysteries of my kitchen, which is, when all is said and done, no more than a plain, ordinary kitchen.”

“You seem very certain of his death,” commented Costain. “After all, no evidence has ever turned up to substantiate it.”

Sbirro contemplated the picture. “None at all,” he said softly. “Remarkable, hurr?”

With the arrival of the entrée Sbirro leaped to his feet and set about serving them himself. With his eyes alight he lifted the casserole from the tray and sniffed at the fragrance from within with sensual relish. Then, taking great care not to lose a single drop of gravy, he filled two platters with chunks of dripping meat. As if exhausted by this task, he sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. “Gentlemen,” he said, “to your good appetite.”

Costain chewed his first mouthful with great deliberation and swallowed it. Then he looked at the empty tines of his fork with glazed eyes.

“Good God!” he breathed.

“It is good, hurr? Better than you imagined?”

Costain shook his head dazedly. “It is as impossible,” he said slowly, “for the uninitiated to conceive the delights of lamb Amirstan as for mortal man to look into his own soul.”

“Perhaps,” Sbirro thrust his head so close that Costain could feel the warm, fetid breath tickle his nostrils, “perhaps you have just had a glimpse into your soul, hurr?”

Costain tried to draw back slightly without giving offense. “Perhaps,” he laughed, “and a gratifying picture it made: all fang and claw. But without intending any disrespect, I should hardly like to build my church on lamb en casserole.”

Sbirro rose and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “So perspicacious,” he said. “Sometimes when you have nothing to do, nothing, perhaps, but sit for a very little while in a dark room and think of this world — what it is and what it is going to be — then you must turn your thoughts a little to the significance of the Lamb in religion. It will be so interesting. And now,” he bowed deeply to both men, “I have held you long enough from your dinner. I was most happy,” he nodded to Costain, “and I am sure we will meet again.” The teeth gleamed, the eyes glittered, and Sbirro was gone down the aisle of tables.

Costain twisted around to stare after the retreating figure. “Have I offended him in some way?” he asked.

Laffler looked up from his plate. “Offended him? He loves that kind of talk. Lamb Amirstan is a ritual with him; get him started and he’ll be back at you a dozen times worse than a priest making a conversion.”

Costain turned to his meal with the face still hovering before him. “Interesting man,” he reflected. “Very.”

It took him a month to discover the tantalizing familiarity of that face, and when he did, he laughed aloud in his bed. Why, of course! Sbirro might have sat as the model for the Cheshire Cat in Alice!

He passed this thought on to Laffler the very next evening as they pushed their way down the street to the restaurant against a chill, blustering wind. Laffler only looked blank.

“You may be right,” he said, “but I’m not a fit judge. It’s a far cry back to the days when I read the book. A far cry, indeed.”

As if taking up his words, a piercing howl came ringing down the street and stopped both men short in their tracks. “Someone’s in trouble there,” said Laffler. “Look!”

Not far from the entrance to Sbirro’s two figures could be seen struggling in the near darkness. They swayed back and forth and suddenly tumbled into a writhing heap on the sidewalk. The piteous howl went up again, and Laffler, despite his girth, ran toward it at a fair speed with Costain tagging cautiously behind.

Stretched out full-length on the pavement was a slender figure with the dusky complexion and white hair of one of Sbirro’s servitors. His fingers were futilely plucking at the huge hands which encircled his throat, and his knees pushed weakly up at the gigantic bulk of a man who brutally bore down with his full weight.

Laffler came up panting. “Stop this!” he shouted. “What’s going on here?”

The pleading eyes almost bulging from their sockets turned toward Laffler. “Help, sair. This man — drunk—”

“Drunk am I, ya dirty—” Costain saw now that the man was a sailor in a badly soiled uniform. The air around him reeked with the stench of liquor. “Pick me pocket and then call me drunk, will ya!” He dug his fingers in harder, and his victim groaned.

Laffler seized the sailor’s shoulder. “Let go of him, do you hear! Let go of him at once!” he cried, and the next instant was sent careening into Costain, who staggered back under the force of the blow.

The attack on his own person sent Laffler into immediate and berserk action. Without a sound he leaped at the sailor, striking and kicking furiously at the unprotected face and flanks. Stunned at first, the man came to his feet with a rush and turned on Laffler. For a moment they stood locked together, and then as Costain joined the attack, all three went sprawling to the ground. Slowly Laffler and Costain got to their feet and looked down at the body before them.

“He’s either out cold from liquor,” said Costain, “or he struck his head going down. In any case, it’s a job for the police.”

“No, no, sair!” The waiter crawled weakly to his feet, and stood swaying. “No police, sair. Mr. Sbirro do not want such. You understand, sair.” He caught hold of Costain with a pleading hand, and Costain looked at Laffler.

“Of course not,” said Laffler. “We won’t have to bother with the police. They’ll pick him up soon enough, the murderous sot. But what in the world started all this?”

“That man, sair. He make most erratic way while walking, and with no meaning I push against him. Then he attack me, accusing me to rob him.”

“As I thought.” Laffler pushed the waiter gently along. “Now go on in and get yourself attended to.”

The man seemed ready to burst into tears. “To you, sair, I owe my life. If there is anything I can do—”

Laffler turned into the areaway that led to Sbirro’s door. “No, no, it was nothing. You go along, and if Sbirro has any questions send him to me. I’ll straighten it out.”

“My life, sair,” were the last words they heard as the inner door closed behind them.

“There you are, Costain,” said Laffler, as a few minutes later he drew his chair under the table, “civilized man in all his glory. Reeking with alcohol, strangling to death some miserable innocent who came too close.”

Costain made an effort to gloss over the nerve-shattering memory of the episode. “It’s the neurotic cat that takes to alcohol,” he said. “Surely there’s a reason for that sailor’s condition.”

“Reason? Of course there is. Plain atavistic savagery!” Laffler swept his arm in an all-embracing gesture. “Why do we all sit here at our meat? Not only to appease physical demands, but because our atavistic selves cry for release. Think back, Costain. Do you remember that I once described Sbirro as the epitome of civilization? Can you now see why? A brilliant man, he fully understands the nature of human beings. But unlike lesser men he bends all his efforts to the satisfaction of our innate natures without resultant harm to some innocent bystander.”

“When I think back on the wonders of lamb Amirstan,” said Costain, “I quite understand what you’re driving at. And, by the way, isn’t it nearly due to appear on the bill of fare? It must have been over a month ago that it was last served.”

The waiter, filling the tumblers, hesitated. “I am so sorry, sair. No special this evening.”

“There’s your answer,” Laffler grunted, “and probably just my luck to miss out on it altogether the next time.”

Costain stared at him. “Oh, come, that’s impossible.”

“No, blast it.” Laffler drank off half his water at a gulp and the waiter immediately refilled the glass. “I’m off to South America for a surprise tour of inspection. One month, two months, Lord knows how long.”

“Are things that bad down there?”

“They could be better.” Laffler suddenly grinned. “Mustn’t forget it takes very mundane dollars and cents to pay the tariff at Sbirro’s.”

“I haven’t heard a word of this around the office.”

“Wouldn’t be a surprise tour if you had. Nobody knows about this except myself — and now you. I want to walk in on them completely unsuspected. Find out what flimflammery they’re up to down there. As far as the office is concerned, I’m off on a jaunt somewhere. Maybe recuperating in some sanatorium from my hard work. Anyhow, the business will be in good hands. Yours, among them.”

“Mine?” said Costain, surprised.

“When you go in tomorrow you’ll find yourself in receipt of a promotion, even if I’m not there to hand it to you personally. Mind you, it has nothing to do with our friendship either; you’ve done fine work, and I’m immensely grateful for it.”

Costain reddened under the praise. “You don’t expect to be in tomorrow. Then you’re leaving tonight?”

Laffler nodded. “I’ve been trying to wangle some reservations. If they come through, well, this will be in the nature of a farewell celebration.”

“You know,” said Costain slowly, “I devoutly hope that your reservations don’t come through. I believe our dinners here have come to mean more to me than I ever dared imagine.”

The waiter’s voice broke in. “Do you wish to be served now, sair?” and they both started.

“Of course, of course,” said Laffler sharply, “I didn’t realize you were waiting.”

“What bothers me,” he told Costain as the waiter turned away, “is the thought of the lamb Amirstan I’m bound to miss. To tell you the truth, I’ve already put off my departure a week, hoping to hit a lucky night, and now I simply can’t delay anymore. I do hope that when you’re sitting over your share of lamb Amirstan, you’ll think of me with suitable regrets.”

Costain laughed. “I will indeed,” he said as he turned to his dinner.

Hardly had he cleared the plate when a waiter silently reached for it. It was not their usual waiter, he observed; it was none other than the victim of the assault.

“Well,” Costain said, “how do you feel now? Still under the weather?”

The waiter paid no attention to him. Instead, with the air of a man under great strain, he turned to Laffler. “Sair,” he whispered. “My life. I owe it to you. I can repay you!”

Laffler looked up in amazement, then shook his head firmly. “No,” he said; “I want nothing from you, understand? You have repaid me sufficiently with your thanks. Now get on with your work and let’s hear no more about it.”

The waiter did not stir an inch, but his voice rose slightly. “By the body and blood of your God, sair, I will help you even if you do not want! Do not go into the kitchen, sair. I trade you my life for yours, sair, when I speak this. Tonight or any night of your life, do not go into the kitchen at Sbirro’s!”

Laffler sat back, completely dumbfounded. “Not go into the kitchen? Why shouldn’t I go into the kitchen if Mr. Sbirro ever took it into his head to invite me there? What’s all this about?”

A hard hand was laid on Costain’s back, and another gripped the waiter’s arm. The waiter remained frozen to the spot, his lips compressed, his eyes downcast.

“What is all what about, gentlemen?” purred the voice. “So opportune an arrival. In time as ever, I see, to answer all the questions, hurr?”

Laffler breathed a sigh of relief. “Ah, Sbirro, thank heaven you’re here. This man is saying something about my not going into your kitchen. Do you know what he means?”

The teeth showed in a broad grin. “But of course. This good man was giving you advice in all amiability. It so happens that my too emotional chef heard some rumor that I might have a guest into his precious kitchen, and he flew into a fearful rage. Such a rage, gentlemen! He even threatened to give notice on the spot, and you can understand what that would mean to Sbirro’s, hurr? Fortunately, I succeeded in showing him what a signal honor it is to have an esteemed patron and true connoisseur observe him at his work first hand, and now he is quite amenable. Quite, hurr?”

He released the waiter’s arm. “You are at the wrong table,” he said softly. “See that it does not happen again.”

The waiter slipped off without daring to raise his eyes and Sbirro drew a chair to the table. He seated himself and brushed his hand lightly over his hair. “Now I am afraid that the cat is out of the bag, hurr? This invitation to you, Mr. Laffler, was to be a surprise; but the surprise is gone, and all that is left is the invitation.”

Laffler mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “Are you serious?” he said huskily. “Do you mean that we are really to witness the preparation of your food tonight?”

Sbirro drew a sharp fingernail along the tablecloth, leaving a thin, straight line printed in the linen. “Ah,” he said, “I am faced with a dilemma of great proportions.” He studied the line soberly. “You, Mr. Laffler, have been my guest for ten long years. But our friend here—”

Costain raised his hand in protest. “I understand perfectly. This invitation is solely to Mr. Laffler, and naturally my presence is embarrassing. As it happens, I have an early engagement for this evening and must be on my way anyhow. So you see there’s no dilemma at all, really.”

“No,” said Laffler, “absolutely not. That wouldn’t be fair at all. We’ve been sharing this until now, Costain, and I won’t enjoy this experience half as much if you’re not along. Surely Sbirro can make his conditions flexible, this one occasion.”

They both looked at Sbirro, who shrugged his shoulders regretfully.

Costain rose abruptly. “I’m not going to sit here, Laffler, and spoil your great adventure. And then too,” he bantered, “think of that ferocious chef waiting to get his cleaver on you. I prefer not to be at the scene. I’ll just say goodbye,” he went on, to cover Laffler’s guilty silence, “and leave you to Sbirro. I’m sure he’ll take pains to give you a good show.” He held out his hand and Laffler squeezed it painfully hard.

“You’re being very decent, Costain,” he said. “I hope you’ll continue to dine here until we meet again. It shouldn’t be too long.”

Sbirro made way for Costain to pass. “I will expect you,” he said. “Au ’voir.”

Costain stopped briefly in the dim foyer to adjust his scarf and fix his Homburg at the proper angle. When he turned away from the mirror, satisfied at last, he saw with a final glance that Laffler and Sbirro were already at the kitchen door; Sbirro holding the door invitingly wide with one hand, while the other rested, almost tenderly, on Laffler’s meaty shoulders.