Flynn's World (9 page)

“Is it true you found a kid with his head nailed to a tree?”

“Yes. His ear nailed to a tree.”

“What’s that got to do with the professor?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to know what he thought about it. I wanted to open him up a bit, to us.”

“It wasn’t one of your kids, was it?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Was this the first time Flynn ever saw Grover smile? “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Sergeant, I have a full schedule of appointments here today, beginning with lunch with the dean. Why don’t you go do whatever, to prepare for the Policepersons’ Ball? I’ll find my own way back to the office.”

“Lucky bastards.” Grover glared at the young people milling around in front of the building. “Do they get to feel this buzz in the head all the time? It’s a pleasure!” He turned his glare on Flynn. “If anyone, anyone at all, touches one hair on that great man’s head, I’ll tie him naked in a sack of tomcats and throw him in the Charles River!”

Flynn finally said, “That’s the idea.”

“Isn’t education a foine thing?” In the Harvard Faculty Club dining room Flynn pronounced his brogue. “Sure, everyone should be exposed to it at least once.”

Across the table from him, Dean Wincomb put boredom rather than humor in his eyes. “Are you a university man yourself, Flynn?”

“I can only claim to a short seminary training.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I suspected certainty stunts growth.”

The dean’s eyes changed to appreciation.

Then the dean said, “Would you like to try the horse meat?”

“I pray I’ve eaten my last horse. And dog. And snake. And broccoli.” Viciously, he rolled the
R.

The dean ordered lamb chops; Flynn, a venison stew.

“The President’s office asked me to lunch with you today. I have no idea why. Of course we did meet last night, at my house.”

“We did not meet,” Flynn said. “I met no one at your house last night but Professor Louis Loveson. I had to introduce myself to him.”

“Yes. Well . . . Therefore I’m guessing you wish to talk to me about Professor Louis Loveson.”

The venison stew was brought well before the lamb chops. “Dean, is there reason here for anyone, or any group of people, to be threatening Professor Loveson?”

“‘Threatening’ him! Good God, no. You don’t mean to tell me . . . Actually threatening him?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Is that why we’re having lunch? The President thinks someone might actually be threatening Louis Loveson? Really threatening him? Why would anyone do that?”

“Money is a motive for many crimes. So is position. Prestige. Career advancement.”

“Not in a university, Flynn! I think you can trust us to be a little more . . .”

“A little more what?”

“Trust us to keep a schooled perspective on such things as greed, ambition.”

Flynn tilted his head. “You say that with a straight face?”

The chops were served.

The stew had cooled.

“I was engaged in no conversation at your house last evening, Dean, except, briefly, with Professor Loveson. Would you list for me the topics of conversation you had with those with whom you did speak?”

“Well . . . Well . . .” A blue tinge came into the dean’s face. “Well, no! I won’t.”

“Did you speak on intellectual matters?”

“Of course.”

“Of students?”

“Surely.”

“Of new writings?”

“We must have.”

“Remarkable,” Flynn said. “Every such meeting I’ve ever attended has been devoted to career politics. Your little get-together last evening must have been a first.”

“I really don’t know what this is about, Mr. Flynn—”

“Nor do I. Trying to get my footing, as it were. What, simply, do people have against Professor Louis Loveson?”

“For starters, he’s rather the President’s pet.”

“And that causes resentment?”

“You might say so. If he weren’t, for example, I might be having lunch at my desk playing a computer game rather than sitting here listening to your grave suspicions regarding university politics. Are you familiar with the game, ‘What if . . . ?,’ Flynn? You know, What if John Kennedy hadn’t been shot? What if—?”

“No, sir. I have come to assume that is the province of contemporary journalism.”

The dean frowned. “Loveson’s a good topic for the ‘What if . . . ?’ game. What if he had retired when he was supposed to?”

“What if, indeed?” asked Flynn.

“For one thing, his academic chair, the prestigious Samson Chair, would have been vacated.”

“And awarded to whom?”

“There are several sterling candidates.”

“Would your name be among them?”

“No. I haven’t the reputation.”

“Loveson did not retire as expected,” stated Flynn. “Last night he indicated to me that was because he feels he must defend himself, his work, by staying on.”

“Some consider his work indefensible.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, it enjoyed its fashion. One might see it as the intellectual swan song of the white male. You know, Western culture tied into a neat package.”

Flynn nodded. “Again, talking with him last night, I had the impression he cares a great deal for his students. Past, present, and future.”

“I suspect the old boy feels he must defend them against the barbarians at the gates.”

“And who are these barbarians?”

“Anyone who isn’t a white male in the Judeo-Christian tradition. All rather medieval, of course. Anyway, he has damned few students at present. Seven, I think is the number. We have him in the smallest lecture hall available. We’d put him in a telephone booth, if we could still find one with a door on it.”

“And why does he attract so few students now?”

“He still believes in the superiority of one idea over another, you see.”

“Ah! One of those, is he?”

The dean gave Flynn a sharp look. “He’s still teaching intellectual history, Flynn, the history of ideas as a continuum. As if it were all a straight line. A logical progression.”

“And history cannot be seen that way?”

“Well, it can, of course. Rather egocentric, don’t you think?”

“‘Egocentric.’” Flynn mulled the word.

“Egocentric.” The dean was enjoying his bite of lamb chop. “Wouldn’t you consider it a luxury to be able to select the ideas which permit you to justify whatever you are thinking at the moment?”

“Now, wasn’t I taught there’s a difference between being rational and rationalizing?”

Finished with his two bites of his two lamb chops, the dean seemed exasperated by his peas. “Are you still dealing with such a concept, Flynn? ‘The rational’?”

“I prefer an idea that works to one which doesn’t work as well. Isn’t that rational?”

“‘Doesn’t work as well’ in whose judgment?”

“Mine.”

“There you are.” The dean smiled. “The egocentric white male.”

“More an everyman.” Flynn pretended to shiver. “Terrified of chaos.”

“But what may be chaotic to your view, may not be chaotic to another person’s view.”

The dean gave up on his peas. “Didn’t you just say something about ‘certainty stunting growth’?”

“I did. Yes. You have me there.”

The dean sipped his iced tea. “What are you, Mr. Flynn? Some sort of policeman?”

“Some sort.”

“And how much rationality do you see on the streets in your function as a policeman?”

“Yes.” Flynn nodded his head. “Chaos terrifies me.”

“Mr. Flynn?”

A woman in a tailored suit carrying a canvas bag of books rose from a chair in the foyer of the Faculty Club.

“Yes?”

“I believe I’m on your schedule to be interviewed. Or is ‘questioned’ the right word? I’m Francine Huong.”

“Dr. Huong, is it?”

“Yes. Some years ago I was Dr. Loveson’s teaching assistant. I saw you lunching with Dean Wincomb. You’re probably in a hurry.”

“Not at all. You weren’t at the soiree at the dean’s home last night, Dr. Huong.”

“No. I never attend such ice-cube fights.” She looked around the foyer. She nodded at two chairs. “If you have the time, we could talk there?”

“Certainly.”

Sitting, she said, “I’m very, very fond of Louie Loveson. His life is being threatened.”

“The President told me you say so.”

“About three weeks ago, I was in his office looking for a magazine he said he would leave for me. A book was open on his desk. What he seemed to be using as a bookmark was odd-shaped and colorful. I thought perhaps some child had made it for him. It was only natural for me to look at it.” Her chin and her voice lowered. “It read, ‘U die within month.’ The word ‘You’ was just written with a capital U, do you understand?”

“That’s very odd.”

“Why?”

“Not very academic, is it?”

“I suppose not. But anybody—”

“Yes. Anybody.”

“Louie came in. When he saw what I was looking at, he snapped it from my hand. Mr. Flynn, I’ve known and worked with Louie Loveson for years. Never have I seen him angry. About anything. When he grabbed that piece of paper from me, there was horrible anger in his eyes. At me!”

“That’s odd, too. Anger at your seeing it, instead of at the note itself?”

“Yes. I tried to ask him about it. I was stammering. In shock, at seeing what the note said. At seeing his anger. He yelled at me. He waved his arm at me. ‘Get out! Get out!’”

“Three weeks ago, you said.”

“About three weeks ago.”

“‘U die within month.’ Have you spoken with him since?”

“Many times. But I’ve never mentioned that note to him. I’ve never dared.”

“And you don’t have the note?”

“No. I said he took it from me.”

“You didn’t see him throw it away?”

“No.”

“Besides letting the President, or the President’s office know about the note, have you done anything else about it?”

“I’ve talked about Professor Loveson in the most general terms to a few people I trust. Without telling them I saw such a note. I got the impression some sort of a game is going on, to harass him. Perhaps I’m taking it too seriously, but I don’t think it’s very nice, if so. One faculty wit said, ‘It’s time that old bird had some of his feathers plucked. He’s already half-baked.’”

“And what was this half-wit’s name?”

She sighed. “Don Carver. I expect he’s on your list.”

“He is.” Cocky had received material, including a list of people to be seen, and rough schedules, from the President’s office before Flynn had arrived at Old Records that morning.

“Mr. Flynn?” The voice came from behind his chair. “Are you Mr. Flynn?”

“Yes.”

“Telephone, sir. Will you come to the desk?”

“Frank?” Cocky’s voice remained cheerful. “Perhaps with my newfound wealth I’ll buy you one of those portable telephones.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Why not? It would make life much easier for me.”

“With a phone forever buzzing in my pocket, how would I ever have time to reflect? You’re winning enough chess games off me as it is.”

“Grover’s at CommonWealth Hospital.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Got hit by a car, or something.”

“Did Grover call you himself?”

“Professor Loveson did.”

“Professor— Is he at the hospital, too?”

“I guess he’s the one who brought Grover to the hospital. I couldn’t understand him very well. He said he thought you would want to know.”

“I’ll go directly there. Postpone my afternoon schedule, will you, Cocky, old lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll let you know if Grover needs anything from the Sympathy Brigade.”

“Should I notify Captain Walsh?”

“Lord, no,” said Flynn. “He’ll suspect me of stealing Grover’s appendix or something.”

Dr. Huong waited for him in the foyer.

“I’m sorry,” Flynn said. “I must leave you for now. But I will want to talk to you again.”

“Anytime,” she said.

Going through the door with her, he said, “I’m glad to see Loveson has a friend.”

“I am his friend,” she said. “I’m not very good at investigating things, not in this century, anyway, I’m focused on the eighteenth century, but please let me help in any way I can.”

Flynn said, “There is something you could do for me. Would you prepare me a list of names of people who think they might have been awarded the Samson Chair currently occupied by Professor Loveson if he had retired on time?”

“Of course. I’d only be guessing. Do you think it might be that simple?”