Dictator's Way

by E. R. Punshon

  “No, 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 could never bring himself to believe that his tall form, well disciplined bearing more alert and lively than that of most soldiers, something even in his way of looking around as if all he saw might be of interest to him, were all a little apt to suggest police to those who had any reason to suppose that police might be interested in them.

  “Has there been any serving drinks after hours?” a comparatively new waiter whispered, and was told sharply by a senior colleague that that sort of thing was not done at the ‘Twin Wolves’.

  “Here Madame sees that all is correct,” added another, and, as an afterthought: “So does the patron. It may be there is a client who is wanted.”

  In the room above Bobby chose a corner whence he thought he could see without being seen, ordered a glass of sherry, and devoted himself to a study of the menu to see what was the cheapest dish available – cheapest being purely a matter of comparison, for up here the prices were a little devastating considered in relation to a detective-sergeant’s pocket. However, before he could decide he saw enter the room the tall, pale, thin faced girl, with the eager features and the vivid eyes, who the evening before had known how to use a hose so effectively. With her was a young man of middle height, but well and sturdily built, with strongly marked features, a bronzed complexion that told he was no city dweller, and the clear, far looking eyes of the sailor, eyes used to search far horizons.

  Almost immediately Olive caught sight of Bobby, though in his sheltered corner he had thought himself fairly safe from observation. Evidently she recognized him and he saw that she was saying something to her companion. Bobby rose to his feet. They were coming towards him. She said aloud:

  “I told you so, Peter, they are after me already.” To Bobby she said: “Is it about the murder? Well, I can prove I didn’t get there in time to murder anyone or even to go inside the house.”

  Her companion put his hand quickly on her arm. It was a warning gesture. Of that Bobby was certain. He said:

  “Madam, how did you know there had been a murder?”

  CHAPTER 8

  AT THE “TWIN WOLVES”

  Olive did not answer. She might not even have heard, so impassive, so unmoved did she seem. It was her companion who replied. He said swiftly:

  “Miss Farrar knew because I told her.”

  Bobby turned his attention to him, wondering whether this was the truth or just an effort to save the girl from awkward questioning.

  “Is that so?” he asked her sharply.

  “You heard what Mr. Albert said,” she answered, and Bobby supposed it was not possible for her face to be more pale, her eyes more bright and glittering and feverish.

  She was not looking directly at him and yet he was aware of an impression that never had two people been more vividly aware of each other’s presence.

  “My good chap, of course it’s so,” interposed the young man she had referred to as Mr. Albert. He was smiling a little, but his eyes were alert and watchful and in them showed no mirth at all. “I told Miss Farrar a minute or two ago and she said at once she was at the Manor and so she would probably be suspected, and then she said she had only just got there when you saw her, so she wouldn’t have had time.”

  “How was it you knew?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, that’s simple,” Albert answered. “Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you. Sitting’s as cheap as standing. Have a Grey Lady, Olive?” To Bobby he explained: “One of their specials here – it’s a White Lady, only different. Their secret. What about you?”

  Bobby shook his head.

  “Ah, you’ve a sherry,” Albert said. “O.K. Two Grey Ladies,” he said to the waiter. “Bring them to the table in the corner over there, by the window. Come along, or someone else will bag it first.”

  He hustled his companion off to the table indicated and Bobby followed, telling himself grimly that all this simply meant that young Mr. Albert was playing for time while he tried to think up some plausible story. He saw that Bobby was following and called to another waiter:

  “Bring this gentleman’s sherry over here, will you?” They seated themselves. Bobby waited. Albert said: “You can see a lot here, everyone else in the room and all down the street. By the way, you are police, aren’t you?”

  Bobby put his official card on the table.

  “I am waiting to hear,” he said, “how you knew about the murder?”

  “Chap rang me up and told me.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Now, there you’ve got me,” said Albert, bestowing on Bobby his most ingenuous smile. “Ah, here come the Grey Ladies. Next time you’re here, try one. Their sherry – well, it’s just sherry. Sherry always is, isn’t it? But their Grey Lady is all their own.”

  “Are you asking me to believe,” Bobby said, “that someone rang you up and told you a murder had taken place but you don’t know who or why?”

  “I daresay I could find out,” said Albert brightly. Bobby looked at him, feeling a little baffled. He looked at Olive, too, and felt more baffled still. She might not have heard a word they said, so impassive was her attitude, so unmoved her thin, pale features, so aloof the distant gaze of her bright and eager eyes. Bobby did not know what to make of her. He had the impression that she was hiding behind a mask. There was something in her rapt, intent expression that seemed familiar in a way and yet he could not think why. He perceived that she was aware of his scrutiny, but he could not tell whether she resented it, or feared it, or was merely indifferent. He transferred his attention to her companion. A more ordinary type, Bobby thought. Young, frank, pleasant, clean living, athletic, so Bobby would have summed him up. One of the finer products
of the public school system, with all the readiness to take responsibility the public school teaches, but with perhaps a clearer sense of what responsibility implies. Like the heroes of Homer he would feel he was entitled to the warmer seat by the fire, to the richer food and the stronger wine, but would know as clearly as they what he must give in return.

  Bobby sighed. Neither of them criminal types, he felt. Nor yet of that unbalanced hysterical type which is ready to be swayed by any gust of passion and then find for it some high-sounding name. Yet both of them apparently in some way implicated in this dread business of murder and neither being frank with him.

  “I think I ought to warn you,” he said presently, “that in police work we find it advisable to accept nothing that is told us until it is confirmed.”

  Olive spoke for the first time, though still without looking at either of them, her gaze still directed down the long, straight London street that led at last to the open country far beyond.

  “Lies everywhere,” she said, “it’s all lies – even Nature never tells you what she is.”

  “That’s right,” Albert agreed. “All a put-up job, appearance one thing, reality another. Well, I suppose I had better start at the beginning. May as well feed at the same time, though. Miss Farrar has to get back to business and I’ve an engagement myself.”

  “I may have to ask you to come to Scotland Yard with me,” Bobby said gravely.

  ‘‘Bad as that,” said Albert and glanced at Olive who, however, Bobby saw, now seemed to have lapsed again into indifference, as though nothing of all this was of any interest to her. Yet Bobby was well convinced that nothing that they said, no least change even in the inflection of their voices, was lost upon her, so aloof and so indifferent as she seemed. He had the feeling that he was watching an intense activity held fiercely in restraint, but a restraint that might at any moment give way, the activity as it were of flood waters held by a dam on the point of yielding.

  Bobby said to her sharply and suddenly:

  “Do you care to say anything? or do you prefer to wait till we get to the Yard?”

  “I will wait,” she answered and somehow made the words sound as if they meant for ever.

  “Well, you’ll let us lunch first, won’t you?” said her companion cheerfully. “Hang it all, murders may come and murders may go but man must lunch. Especially at the ‘Twin Wolves’.” He beckoned the hovering waiter and gave a careful order, asking for counsel now and then as from one expert to another, choosing with knowledge and discretion. Bobby listened gloomily. For all Mr. Albert’s frank, ingenuous, almost boyish appearance, he was showing very great skill in postponing his answers to Bobby’s questions. All the time, probably, behind that open smiling exterior, he was busy concocting a plausible story. Grapefruit, truite de la maison, grouse a la reine Marguerite, peche Melba, with a chateau wine to follow, that was the final decision. Plainly the young man was not short of ready cash. A meal like that was going to put him down three or four pounds, and Bobby was perfectly sure that Olive would have appreciated equally a soft boiled egg and two cream buns. This may be woman’s century of triumph but she has not yet conquered all her natural weaknesses. Bobby declined an invitation to join in the meal. He would wait, he said, and tried, but failed, to give ‘wait’ as he uttered it something of the significance with which Olive had managed to invest the word.

  “Right-ho,” said Albert cheerfully. “Bit delicate to feed with a fellow and be feeling for the handcuffs all the time. Why not have your own eats here, though? Bit trying for us, you know, feeding with someone else looking on. Embarrassing, but have your own way.” The waiter appeared with the grapefruit and Albert said to him: “Where’s Mr. Troya? I don’t see him about.”

  “He is not well,” the waiter explained. “He has a cold and madame is afraid it may turn to pneumonia.”

  “Cold? in this weather? how did he manage that?” Albert asked.

  There was something in his tone that caught Bobby’s attention and an idea struck him suddenly.

  “Did Mr. Troya get wet yesterday?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, sir, I don’t think so,” the waiter answered, plainly surprised. “It didn’t rain yesterday.”

  But Bobby saw that Olive’s attitude of frozen indifference had grown more tense still, that her companion’s hold on the grape-fruit glass had tightened suddenly. Bobby once more produced his official card:

  “There is a photograph of Mr. Troya in his private office,” he said. “Bring it here.”

  The startled waiter retreated hurriedly and Bobby saw him consulting a colleague by the service trap. He sent them a warning frown to show them he meant it, and thereon they vanished precipitately into the back regions. Albert said to Bobby:

  “How on earth did you know Troya had his photo there?”

  Bobby did not answer. It was never wise, he knew, for a detective to explain his methods. In this case he had not even known that Mr. Troya did in fact possess a private office. But it seemed a fair guess; and a fair guess, too, that it would be decorated with a photograph of the occupant. And if he were wrong, no great harm would be done. Instead of replying to the other’s question, he said:

  “You are a very long time starting your story, Mr. Albert. Of course, if you prefer to wait till we get to headquarters rather than say anything to me now, that will be quite all right.”

  “Oh, no,” Albert answered. “Not at all, only, well, you see, I’m rather like the celebrated knife grinder, no story to tell. By the way, oughtn’t you to be warning us that anything we say may be used in evidence against us?” Bobby shook his head.

  “No question of evidence against you yet, is there?” he said, “and anyhow, that warning business is only a rather stupid convention. You know you are talking to a police-officer and you know why. Nothing else is necessary.”

  “Well, then here goes,” said the young man. “Name, Peter Albert. Address, Imperial Building, Mayfair Square. Occupation, one of the unemployed but unemployment mitigated by the possession of a certain amount of coin. Shan’t tell you how much, because I try to keep the Income Tax from knowing and you might go and tell. Not that it would matter much if you did because the Income Tax people represent Omniscience here below, only some of mine comes from Etruria and that’s less their business than they seem to think. Age twenty-seven. Hobbies, Bach – the only musician God ever sent into the world; yachting – the only real fun in the world; and bridge – the only game that is a game and not a bore. Yacht for cruising, not racing, sails and motor auxiliary. Crew, three men, me, and a boy. Name, Charlie Chaplin after the only truly great man alive, I did think of calling her the Oswald Mosley, only that did seem so like asking for shipwreck and total loss. Wanted to join the British Navy, but they turned me down hard as not being hundred per cent British.”

  “Not British?” repeated Bobby, surprised, for the young man spoke with no trace of accent and seemed indeed typically British.

  “Oh, I am now.”

  “You are naturalized?”

  “No. Opted. You can, you know. My father was English. He was an artist and went on a painting tour in Etruria and to study Etrurian art. Dad liked Etruria in general and one Etrurian in particular. So he married her and settled down there on land that had been in her family for centuries and that she had some interest in. It was all rather complicated and the complications were made worse by her marriage with an Englishman, and becoming English in consequence, so the obvious thing seemed for Dad to get naturalized there, and then Mother would be an Etrurian again. In those days we weren’t all so nationality mad as we are now and I don’t suppose Dad thought it mattered much one way or another. Good for business, too, because as soon as he was understood to be a foreigner the English began to buy his pictures, especially when they realized that his wife belonged to the landed classes and owned a castle. So they used to come to London every year to see the dealers and during one of their visits I was born, so I’m British born. Then both Dad and Mother
died, and there was a bit of a tug of war over me between my Etrurian relatives and my British. Rather wearing for me, because I was keen on getting into the British Navy, and yet I hated my British relatives and liked my Etrurian ones. Even as a kid I felt they wanted me for myself, as one of the family, and Dad’s people only wanted me because they thought all foreigners disreputable, and there was a bit of money foreigners shouldn’t be allowed to get hold of. Anyhow I was brought up between the two lots – shuttlecock and battledore sort of business. The British Navy turned me down as of doubtful nationality. My Etrurian aunts and uncles spoiled me, my English ones bullied me for my own good. All the same when I came of age I opted for England on the ground of being British born.”

  “But all that, very interesting of course,” Bobby said, “doesn’t explain how it was some unknown person rang you up to tell you a murder had taken place.”

  “Persistent, aren’t you?” sighed Peter Albert. “Well, it’s this way. Miss Farrar has been once or twice to Mr. Judson’s parties at that Manor place of his. Olive and I are old pals – Dad did a portrait of her when she was two, sucking her thumb.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Olive dispassionately.

  “It’s in the Tate now,” Peter Albert explained, “but they don’t show it. Because you can tell first guess what it is. Kid in blue with doll, sucking –”

  “No,” said Olive.

  “Not sucking her thumb,” agreed Peter Albert amiably. “Old fashioned, Dad was, and when he painted a frying-pan, it was a frying-pan he painted, not a symbolical pattern in green and gamboge of the frying-pan’s ultimate reality. Good idea, though, because when it’s a frying-pan, well, anyone can check up on a frying-pan, but when it’s the frying-pan’s ultimate reality, you have to open your mouth and shut your eyes and take what’s given you. I daresay you know Judson’s shows at the Manor have the name of being a bit hot? No business of mine –”