“Sir?” Guttmann is surprised to find the conversational ball suddenly in his court. “Ah, yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

Mr. W–investigates Guttmann’s face carefully.

“Yes. You have the look of someone who’s capable of understanding.”

Guttmann clears his throat. “Did you know this Green well?”

“Well enough. Well enough. He was… that is to say, he died before we…” Mr. W–sighs, closes his eyes, and presses his fingers into the shallow sockets. “Explanations always seem so bizarre, so inadequate. You see, Green knew about the White Plot and the Ring of Seven.”

“Sir?”

“I’d better begin at the beginning. Do you remember the nursery rhyme ‘As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives’? Of course, you probably never considered the significance of the repeated sevens—the warning passed to the Christian world about the Ring of the Seven and the Jewish White Plot. Not many people have troubled to study the rhyme, to unravel its implications.”

“I see.”

“That poor young Mr. Green stumbled upon the meaning. And now he’s dead. Stabbed in an alley. Tell me, was there a bakery near where he was found?”

Guttmann glances toward the door, trying to think up something he has to go do. “Ah… yes, I suppose so. The district has lots of bakeries.”

Mr. W–smiles and nods with self-satisfaction.

“I knew it. It’s all tied up with the White Plague.”

Guttmann nods. “Tied up with the White Plague, is it?”

“Ah! So Lieutenant LaPointe has told you about that, has he? Yes, the White Plague is their name for the steady poisoning of the gentile with white foods—flour, bread, sugar, Cream of Wheat…”

“Cream of Wheat?”

“That surprises you, doesn’t it? I can’t blame you. There was a time when we hoped against hope that Cream of Wheat wasn’t in on it. But certain evidence has come into our hands. I mustn’t tell you more than you need to know. There’s no point in endangering you needlessly.”

Guttmann leans back in the swivel chair, links his fingers, and puts his palms on the top of his head. His eyes droop, as though with fatigue.

Mr. W–glances quickly toward the door to make sure no one is listening, then he leans forward and speaks with a confidential rush of words. “You see, the Ring of Seven is directed from Ottawa by the Zionist lobby there. I began to collect evidence against them seven years ago—note the significance of that figure—but only recently has the scope of their plot become…”

Guttmann is silent as he drives LaPointe up the Main in his yellow sports car. It is eleven in the morning and the street is congested with off-loading grocery and goods trucks, and with pedestrians who flow out into the street to bypass blocked sidewalks. It is necessary to crawl along and stop frequently. From time to time Guttmann glances at the Lieutenant, and he is sure there are crinkles of amusement around his eyes. But Guttmann is damned if he will give him the satisfaction of bringing it up first.

So it is LaPointe who has to ask, “Did you get a confession out of Mr. W–?”

“Very nearly, sir. Yes.”

“Did you learn about Cream of Wheat?”

“What, sir? In what connection would he mention Cream of Wheat?”

“Well, he usually…” LaPointe laughs and nods. “You almost got me, son. You heard about Cream of Wheat, all right!” He laughs again.

“You might have warned me, sir.”

“Nobody warned me the first time. I was sure I had a walk-in confession.”

Guttmann pictures LaPointe being sucked in, leaning forward to catch each word, just as he had done. He has to laugh too. “I suppose this Mr. W–is harmless enough.”

“Look out for that kid!”

“I saw him! Jesus Christ, sir.”

“Sorry. Yes, he’s harmless enough, I suppose. There was a delicate case some years ago. Your Mr. W–and a young man were picked up in a public bathroom. The kid was Jewish. Because of W–’s family, the thing was hushed up, and they were both back out on the street before morning. But the fear of scandal did something to the old man.”

“And ever since then he comes in each time there’s a murder in the papers?”

“Not every murder. Only when the victim is a young male. And only if it’s a stabbing.”

“Christ, talk about sophomore psychology.”

“That truck’s backing out!”

“I see him, sir. Are you sure you’re comfortable?”

“What do you mean?”

“It must be hard to drive from over there.”

“Come on, come on! Let’s get going!”

Guttmann waits for the truck to clear, then eases forward. “Yes, that’s real sophomore psychology stuff. The need to confess; the stabbing image.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing, sir.” It seems odd to Guttmann that LaPointe should know so much about human reactions and the human condition, but at the same time be so uneducated. He doubts that the Lieutenant could define words like “id” and “fugue.” He probably recognizes the functioning of these forces and devices without having any names for them.

The worst of the traffic tangle behind them, they continue north on St. Laurent, cresting the hill at the barren little park of Carré Vallières, squeezed in between the Main and St. Dominique. It is a meager little triangle of sooty dirt, no grass, six or seven stunted trees. There are three benches of weathered wood once painted green, where old men play draughts in the summer, and in autumn huddle in their overcoats and stare ahead, or vacantly watch passers-by. For no reason he knows, LaPointe has always associated his retirement with this little square. He pictures himself sitting on one of those benches for an hour or two—always in winter, always with snow on the ground and bright sunshine. The roar of traffic up the Main passes close to the bench he has picked out for himself, and the smell of diesel fumes never leaves the air. From the top of the little rise he will be able to keep an eye on his street, even in retirement.

Once past the park and St. Joseph Street, they are on the Italian Main, where the street loses its cosmopolitan character. Unlike the lower Main, LaPointe’s real patch, the quality of the Italian Main is not porous and ever-changing, with languages and people slowly permutating through the arrival and absorption of new tides of immigrants. The upper Main has been Italian for as long as anyone can remember, and its people do not move away to blend into the amorphous Canadian mass. The street and the people remain Italian.

At a signal from LaPointe, Guttmann pulls over and parks before a dingy little restaurant bearing the sign:

They get out and cross the street, turning down Rue Dante, past a barbershop, empty save for the owner who is enthroned in one of his leather chairs, reading the paper with the air of a man completely at his ease, a man who knows he will not be interrupted by customers. Stuck in the window are sun-faded pictures of vapid young men advertising passé hairstyles. One grins from beneath a flattop, and another sports that long-sided fashion that used to be called a “duck’s ass.” In fact, as LaPointe knows, the only customers are the barber’s relatives, who get their hair cut for free. The place is a numbers drop.

At the intersection of a narrow street, LaPointe turns down toward a small bar halfway between Rue Dante and St. Zotique. It occurs to Guttmann that in this Franco-Italian district there is something particularly appropriate about a bar being situated halfway between streets named Dante and St. Zotique. He mentions this to LaPointe, and asks if the Lieutenant ever thought of it as a kind of cultural metaphor.

“What?”

“Nothing, sir. Just a thought.”

The interior of the bar is overwarm from a large oil heater, its orange flame dimly billowing behind a mica window. The woman behind the bar is overblown, her chubby arms clattering with plastic bracelets, her high-piled hairdo an unnatural blue-black, her eye make-up and lipstick florid, and the deep V of her spangled blouse revealing the slopes of flaccid breasts that get most of their shape from the encasing fabric. She completes a languid yawn before asking the men what they will have.