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.”