Dictator's Way by E.R. Punshon Page A

Wolves’ had been a restaurant good among others of its class but in no way remarkable. But after his second marriage Mr. Troya had begun to serve to his more favoured customers national Etrurian dishes – and even in Paris itself Etrurian dishes and Etrurian cooking are famous. Gradually the news had spread. The Etrurian Ambassador himself had paid a visit there – incognito, of course – and was reported to have sworn that he would recommend the proprietor for the ‘Insignia of the Tearing Vulture’, the highest Etrurian order. The smart young Etrurian attaches, too, would sometimes whisper its praises to those of their English friends they thought worthy of the knowledge, and indeed at the Embassy it was a common joke that as a result of his visits there the Military Attaché, Major Cathay, had so much increased his girth he had had to order an entirely new set of uniforms. It was said, too, that in an effort to bring his figure back to its former more graceful outline he was beginning to make a point of walking to and from the remote district of London where the ‘Twin Wolves’ still so modestly existed. For very wisely Mr. Troya turned a deaf ear to all suggestions that he should migrate to the West End, to all offers of capital from friendly financiers ready to advance him any cash needed for the change.
    â€œNo, no,” he would say, “here I am freehold. Up there, it is for the landlord one works and for the mortgage holder. One becomes simply a cow to be milked. Is it too much,” he would demand with the Etrurian’s dramatic gestures, “to ask of those who understand how to dine, that they should take just one little car drive?”
    Of all this Bobby was well aware. He had in fact dined at the ‘Twin Wolves’ himself, though modestly and on the ground floor, not in the privileged upper chamber. As it happened, the ‘Twin Wolves’, though situated in a suburb respectable even among suburbs, was within a short distance of a district to which, as by some natural instinct, half the less dangerous but more violent of London’s criminals seemed to gravitate, so that duty had called Bobby to the neighbourhood more than once. He had entered the ‘Twin Wolves’ by chance, and had been amused afterwards to find that his modest cutlet had been eaten in so renowned a temple of gastronomy.
    He had heard, too, though he had not been personally concerned, the tale of how a gang of roughs from the adjoining district already mentioned had thought it would be a good idea to invade the premises and demand food without payment, and of how the fierce little proprietor, a carving knife in one hand and a soup ladle in the other, had headed a charge of his staff that had driven the invaders pell-mell into the street so that on the arrival of the police there had been nothing for them to do but pick up one of the gang knocked senseless by a swinging blow from the aforesaid soup ladle. Subsequent dark threats of vengeance had induced Mr. Troya to apply for permission to keep a pistol in his office, a pistol which had been the chief booty of a burglary carried out later on, apparently in pursuit of the threatened vengeance. Now Mr. Troya carried both the new pistol he had obtained and the evening’s receipts back to his home each night, and had let it be known that if he were interfered with, he meant to shoot.
    However Bobby made no mention of all this to the presiding priestess of Miss Farrar’s establishment. He thanked her, said how sorry he was to have troubled her and to have missed Miss Farrar and how he hoped that if he came again he would have better luck. Therewith he departed and in due time arrived at the ‘Twin Wolves’. He passed through what might be called the steak and kidney pie section, found the half hidden stairs at the back and ascended them, conscious that two or three of the waiters were watching. He wondered why, for he