by Trevanian
LaPointe turns from the window and looks flatly at Guttmann, who catches the movement and glances up with his habitual smile, which fades as he realizes he has been humming again.
“Sorry.”
LaPointe nods curtly.
“By the way, sir, I ran the name Antonio Verdini and the alias Tony Green through ID. They haven’t called back yet.”
“They won’t have anything.”
“Maybe not, but I thought I should run it through anyway.”
LaPointe sits again before his paper work. “Just like it says in the book,” he mutters.
“Yes, sir,” Guttmann says, more than a little tired of LaPointe’s cafard this morning, “just like it says in the book.” The book also says that reports of investigations must be turned in within forty-eight hours, and some of this crap on Guttmann’s desk is weeks late, and almost all of it is incomplete, a couple of scribbled notes that are almost indecipherable. But Guttmann decides against mentioning that.
LaPointe makes a guttural sound and pushes aside a departmental form packet: green copy, yellow copy, blue copy, pink fucking copy…
“I’m going down to Bouvier’s shop for a cup of coffee, if anyone wants me. You keep up the good work.” He dumps all his unfinished work into Guttmann’s in-box.
“Thank you, sir.”
The telephone rings, catching LaPointe at the door. Guttmann answers, rather hoping it is something that will annoy the Lieutenant. He listens awhile, then puts his palm over the mouthpiece. “It’s the desk. There’s a guy down there asking to speak to you. It’s about the Green stabbing.”
“What’s his name?”
Guttmann takes his hand away and repeats the question. “It’s someone who knows you. A Mr. W—.”
He mentions the name of the wealthiest of the old Anglo families in Montreal. “Is that the Mr. W—?”
LaPointe nods.
Guttmann raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I didn’t know you had Connections in Important Places, sir.”
“Yes, well… Tell you what. While I’m down with Bouvier, you interview Mr. W—. Tell him you’re my assistant and I have every confidence in you. He won’t know you’re lying.”
“But, sir…”
“You’re here to get experience, aren’t you? No better way to learn to swim than by jumping off the dock.”
LaPointe leaves, closing the door behind him.
Guttmann clears his throat before saying into the phone, “Send Mr. W—up, will you?”
“Another cup, Claude?” Dr. Bouvier asks, catching a folder that is slipping from the tip of his high-heaped desk, holding it close to his clear lens to read the title, then tucking it back in toward the bottom.
“No, I don’t think I could handle another.” Bouvier laughs ritually and pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his stubby nose. But they slip down immediately because the dirty adhesive tape with which they are repaired is loose again. He must get them fixed someday. “Did you see the report I sent up on your stabbing? We ran his clothes through the lab and the result was zero.”
“I didn’t see the report. But I’m not surprised.”
“If you didn’t come down here to talk about the report, then what? You just come down to improve your mind? Or is the weather getting you down? One of my young men was complaining about the weather this morning, grousing about the way it keeps threatening snow without delivering. He said he wished it would either shit or get off the pot. Now, there’s a daunting image for the bareheaded pedestrian. I warned the lad about the dangers of indiscriminate personification, but I doubt that he took it to heart. All right, let’s talk then. I suppose you’re pissed about that stabbing of yours getting into the papers so soon. I’m sorry about that; but the leak didn’t come from this office. Someone up in the Commissioner’s shop released it.”
“Those assholes.”
“Penetrating evaluation, if something of an anatomic synecdoche. But come on, it’s not so grave. Just a couple of column inches. No photograph. No details. You still have the advantage of surprise as you walk your way through the case. By the way, how’s that stroll coming along?”
LaPointe shrugs. “Nothing much. The victim’s turning out to be a real turd, the kind anyone might have wanted to kill.”
“I see. You have assholes for bosses and a turd for a victim. There’s a certain consistency in that. I hear your Joan ran a name and an alias through ID this morning. Your victim?” Bouvier points his face toward LaPointe, one eye hidden behind the nicotine lens, the other huge and distorted. He is showing off a bit, proving he knows everything that goes on.
“Yes, that’s the victim.”
“Hm-m. An Italian kid with an Anglo alias. No record of fingerprints. Not a legal immigrant. What does that give us? A sailor who jumped ship?”
“I doubt it.”
“Yes. The hands were wrong. No calluses. Any leads to a skill or a craft?”
“No.” LaPointe’s head rises just as Bouvier’s eye is opening wide. They have the same thought at the same moment.
It is Bouvier who expresses it. “Do you think your victim was being laundered?”
“Possible.”
There are a couple of small-timers up on the Italian Main who make their money by “laundering” men for the American organized-crime market. A young man who gets into trouble in Calabria or Sicily can be smuggled into Canada, usually on a Greek ship, and brought into Montreal, where he blends into the polyglot population of the Main while he learns a little English, and while the laundryman makes sure the Italian authorities are not on his tail. These “clean” men are slipped across the border to the States, where they are valuable as enforcers and hit men. Like a clean gun that the police cannot trace through registration, these laundered men have no records, no acquaintances, no fingerprints. And should they become awkward or dangerous to their employers, there is no one to avenge, even to question, their deaths.
It is possible that the good-looking kid who called himself Tony Green was in the process of being laundered when he met his death in that alley.
Dr. Bouvier takes off his glasses, turning his back so that LaPointe doesn’t see the eye normally covered by the nicotine lens. He flexes the broken bridge and slips them back on, pinching the skin of his nose to make them stay up better. “All right. Who’s active in the laundry business up on your patch?”
Old man Rovelli died six months ago. That leaves Canducci—Alfredo (Candy Al) Canducci.
“Chocolate,” LaPointe says to himself.
“What?”
“Chocolate. As in candy. As in Candy Al.”
“I assume that makes some subtle sense?”
“The kid had a ‘cousin’ who rented his room for him. The concierge thought the name had something to do with chocolate.”
“And you make that Candy Al Canducci. Interesting. And possible. I’ll tell you what—I’ll put in a little time on the case. Maybe your friendly family pathologist can come up with one of his ‘interesting little insights.’ Not that my genius is always appreciated by you street men. I remember once dropping a fresh possibility onto your colleague, Gaspard, when he was satisfied that he had already wrapped up a case. He described my assistance as being as welcome as a fart in a bathysphere. You want some more coffee?”
“No.”
Guttmann has made slight rearrangements to receive Mr. Matthew St. John W—. He has moved his chair over to LaPointe’s desk, and has seated himself in the Lieutenant’s swivel chair. He rises to greet Mr. W—, who looks around the room with some uncertainty.
“Lieutenant LaPointe isn’t here?”
“I’m sorry, sir. He’s not available just now. I’m his assistant. Perhaps I could help?”
Mr. W—looks exactly like his photographs in the society section of the Sunday papers—a slim face with fragile bones and veins close to the surface, full head of white hair combed severely back, revealing a high forehead over pale eyes. His dark blue suit is meticulously tailored
, and there is not a smudge on the high shine of his narrow, pointed black shoes.
“I had hoped to see Lieutenant LaPointe.” His voice is thin and slightly nasal, and its tone is chilly. He surveys the young policeman thoughtfully. He hesitates.
Not wanting to lose him, Guttmann waves a hand at the chair opposite him and says in as offhanded a voice as possible, “I believe you had some assistance to offer in the Green case, sir?”
Mr. W—frowns, the wrinkles very shallow in his pallid forehead. “The Green case?” he asks.
Guttmann’s jaw tightens. He is glad LaPointe isn’t there. The victim’s name was not mentioned in the newspaper. But the only thing to do is brave it out. “Yes, sir. The young man found in the alley was named Green.”
Mr. W—looks toward the corner of the room, his eyes hooded with thought. “Green,” he says, testing the sound. He sighs as he sits on the straight-backed chair, lifting his trousers an inch by the creases. “You know,” he says distantly, “I never knew that his name was Green. Green.”
Instantly, Guttmann wishes he had somebody with him, a witness or a stenographer.
But Mr. W—has anticipated his thoughts.
“Don’t worry, young man. I will repeat anything I say to you. What happens to me is not important. What does matter is that everything be handled as quietly as possible. My family… I know I could rely on Lieutenant LaPointe to be discreet. But…” Mr. W—smiles politely, indicating that he is sorry, but he has no reason to trust a young man he does not know.
“I wouldn’t do anything without consulting the Lieutenant.”
“Good. Good.” And Mr. W—seems willing to let the conversation rest there. A thin, polite smile on his lips, he looks past Guttmann’s head to the damp, metallic skies beyond the window.
“You… ah… you say you didn’t know his name was Green?” Guttmann prompts, making every effort to keep the excitement he feels from leaking into his voice.
Mr. W—shakes his head slightly. “No, I didn’t. That must seem odd to you.” He laughs a little sniff of self-ridicule. “In fact, it seems odd to me… now. But you know how these things are. The social moment when you should have exchanged names somehow passes with the thing undone, and later it seems foolish, even impolite, to ask the other person his name. Has that ever happened to you?”
“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 Carre Vallieres, 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:
Repas Pasto
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 passe 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.
