D’Esopo frowned at Reagan.
“Then there’s the matter of his questionable finances. Owns a large, mortgage-free house on the water in Winthrop; he owns a farm in Ireland—”
“Locked Phooey,” Grover said.
“—has four children in private school—”
“Went to the wrong courtroom this morning.” Grover grinned in Flynn’s direction. “He was supposed to go to Courtroom 6 but went to Courtroom 9 instead.”
“Did he?” Walsh asked with great interest.
“Who is this guy?” D’Esopo asked Reagan. “Sergeant Richard T. Wailing? Whatever?”
“Captain Timothy Walsh’s nephew,” Reagan said. “Promoted ahead of his time, you might say. Ahead of your time, too. We put him over in the Old Records Building with Frank to keep him out of harm’s way.”
Flynn muttered, “He’s Grover.”
D’Esopo asked the standing sergeant: “You’re Grover?”
Grover nodded less enthusiastically.
“Well, we can fix that.” To Reagan: “Are we still planning nightly foot patrols in the combat zone?”
Reagan said, “Eddy, you might as well send Grover directly to the emergency room at Boston City Hospital.”
D’Esopo cleared his throat. “Are you applying for early retirement, Timothy?”
“Me?” Captain Walsh’s nose reddened. “No. At my age? Whatever made you think that?”
“It seems to me that you are.”
“How can you say that?”
“It seems to me you’re questioning my judgment.”
“That’s a very good way to win early retirement, Timothy,” Reagan advised him.
“Why are you questioning Inspector Flynn at all, Timothy?”
“Grave irregularities concerning Flynn have come to my attention, Eddy. Commissioner. I outrank ‘Inspector’ Flynn. So—”
“Who says you do?”
“I’m a captain, Eddy. I have the duty—”
“We only have one inspector, Timothy. I assigned Francis Xavier Flynn the rank of inspector. How do you know I didn’t mean the rank of ‘inspector,’ as you belch the word, higher than the rank of ‘captain’?”
“Is it?”
“It is, if I say it is. Captain Walsh, do you know everything about everything?”
“Well, no. I’d never say—”
“Then what makes you think you know where Francis Xavier Flynn came from, why he’s here, what he’s doing here . . . even who he is?”
“Well, I guess I don’t. If you put it that way.”
“Do you think I run such a sloppy police department I don’t well know Frank has had his appendix out twice? I visited him, personally, in the hospital, both times. That his mother has died five times? I attended every funeral, myself. Even sent flowers. I’ve heard this morning Inspector Flynn’s mother is feeling poorly again, poor dear.”
“Eddy, I didn’t mean—”
“To stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong? I suggest you take your nephew, Sergeant Richard T. Whining, downstairs, and each stick your nose in a cup of strong, black coffee.”
Captain Walsh jumped up, to obey.
“And after you’ve done that, Sergeant Richard T. Writhing, go get a car, and wait for Inspector Flynn outside the front door. I suspect shortly he’ll want to go to Cambridge.”
Grover said, “Cambridge isn’t in our jurisdiction.”
D’Esopo looked at Reagan.
Reagan said, “Go along, there’s a good lad, Grover. Do as we tell you. Take Inspector Flynn to Cambridge, then to his home; then go to your own wee nest, make a nice fire of your written report on Inspector Flynn, and try not to burn your fingers any more than you already have.”
Before leaving his office, Sergeant Richard T. Whelan turned and said to Captain Reagan: “My name’s not Grover.”
His was the face of the four-year-old who had confused Christmas with April Fools’ Day.
FIVE
“Frank,” Commissioner Eddy D’Esopo asked. “How do you know the President of Harvard University?”
“I don’t think I do,” Flynn said. “Of course, one meets all sorts on a bus.”
“He seems to know you.”
“Does he?”
“He called me personally asking if I would ask you to make some time for him today. At your convenience.”
“I’ve heard Harvards have nice manners. Shall we have him up for tea?”
“He asked if you are out of town.”
“Am I?”
“He said he called your home yesterday. Left a message asking you to return his call.”
“That he did,” Flynn said. “Come to think of it.”
Captain Reagan chuckled. “If the President of Harvard University called me, I think I’d remember it. A lifetime. I think I’d return his call, too.”
“I was half asleep when Elsbeth told me. I’d just returned from doing a bit of surgery in a graveyard, you know, tree surgery, depending on your perspective—”
D’Esopo looked at Reagan. “What’s he talking about?”
“Who knows?” Reagan shrugged. “Who ever knows?”
“Have you ever been in the mansion of the President of Harvard University, Frank?”
“Not that I remember.”
Reagan chuckled.
“God.” The commissioner sighed. “I’d love to see inside that place. Anyway, now’s your chance. Captain Reagan will call and say you’re on your way.”
“Any idea what this is about?” Flynn asked. “Lost dog? Cat up a tree? Noisy neighbors, do you suppose?”
“Probably wants your advice, Frank, on how to invest their multibillion-dollar endowment.”
“Ah, could that be it? I’ll offer them my idea regarding billboards. I’m sure there’s a profit to be made there.”
“Billboards?” Reagan awaited the punch line.
“Yes,” Flynn drawled. “Some billboards should be blurry.”
“Blurry billboards?”
“Yes. For those who leave their eyeglasses at home.”
Reagan and D’Esopo enjoyed their laugh.
“Sure.” Flynn looked around the big, bright office. “Isn’t the world a better place without Grover and Timothy Walsh?”
“God.” D’Esopo fiddled with a pen on his desk. “That came off the wall at us. I admit it is hard for us, Frank, to cover the fact that you have obligations to another agency.” He raised and lowered his shoulders. “Whatever agency. I suggest that we try to do a better job at making excuses for you. Who would have thought anyone would be watching our paperwork so closely? We’ve been a little playful with it.”
“You can afford to lose a kidney, Frank.” Reagan smiled broadly. “You have two of those.”
“Kidney next time,” Flynn agreed. “Then perhaps I’ll be ready for a brain transplant.”
“The brain of a pig, Frank?” Reagan was enjoying himself. “I understand pigs are smarter than they look.”
“No one would notice the difference, I’m sure. But, while I have at least half my wits about me, hasn’t the time come now for me to be relieved of Grover? No human scares me more than the stupid person who thinks he’s clever.”
“Can’t, Frank.” D’Esopo was firm on the topic. “We can’t justify assigning anyone to you who may have a real future with the department.”
“Anyone who is capable of doing good work,” seconded Reagan. “Just use Grover as your go-for, your gopher?” Reagan’s eyes lit up. “That’s what you’ve really been calling him all these years! I’ll be damned! That’s the first thing I’ve ever understood about you, Flynn! Am I right?”
D’Esopo said, “Keep the idiot squelched.”
Flynn prepared to leave. “Lieutenant Concannon was very happy when I saw him this afternoon. I do believe he would have been jumpin’ up and down with glee, if he were able.”
“Good.” D’Esopo looked at Reagan. “You took care of the Cocky matter?”
“I did. He’s n
ow on full pay. The income he’s lost since we forced him into early retirement has been made up to him, with interest.”
“I trust,” Flynn beamed at D’Esopo, “that now Cocky is on full pay, no idiot, say, in Personnel, will think to reassign him, for example, to your staff? He wouldn’t be happy elsewhere.”
“There is no such idiot,” D’Esopo assured Flynn. “I’ve seen you two work together. You should know by now, Frank, I’m smart enough to let well enough alone.”
“That you are, Eddy. That you are. I appreciate that.”
“By the way, Flynn,” Reagan said. “Remember that the president of the United States can be called Bob or Bill, but the tradition is that the President of Harvard is called The President.”
“Is he indeed? I can understand that. My grandmother had a canary once she called The Bird.”
The houseman in the white coat repeated, “Inspector Flynn? Boston Police?” Then he said, “Would you wait here a moment, please, sir?”
He went into a room off the foyer from which uttered low murmurs.
“They’re saying their prayers in there, from the sounds of it,” Flynn said to himself. “Hope they’re facing east.”
Grover had driven Flynn to Cambridge in stony silence.
While they were going across Massachusetts Bridge, Cocky had called.
“Jackpot, Flynn.”
“What is?”
“You’ve hit the jackpot. You may have found the perfect family, at least as far as crime is concerned.”
“And what family is so perfectly criminal?”
“Perfectly non-criminal. The Caprianos.”
“Is that so?”
“The original Capriano, Anthony, came here from Italy in 1908. He worked in a butcher shop in Boston five years before starting his own butcher shop in Winthrop, which the family has run ever since. Present owners are Anthony the Third and William. There is a third brother, Francis, who left home at age eighteen and never returned. He is believed to be living in Texas.”
“If the third brother is a butcher as well, we can say they’re all cutups.”
“According to our records, no Capriano has ever been arrested for anything, ever.”
“Is that so unusual?”
“Not even for speeding. Not even for illegal parking.”
“Maybe they haven’t cars.”
“They have cars. Children. Dogs. Property.”
“Do you know anything else about them?”
“Therefore, not much. They are all members of the local Roman Catholic church, St. Jude’s. The brothers work six full days a week in their store. Together they own a summer house on a lake in Maine, which one brother’s family uses in July, the other in August. No complaints against them in the State of Maine, either. Ever.”
“Saintly people, it appears. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Trailed by the houseman, Judge Goldston entered the foyer of Harvard’s presidential mansion.
“Flynn?”
“Judge Goldston.”
“You went to Harvard?”
“Just to the libraries.”
“I’m surprised to see you here. A little off your beat, aren’t you?”
“The President asked to see me.”
“I see. Gerald, I think you should take Inspector Flynn up to the President’s private study right away. I’ll tell him you’re here, Frank.”
“Thank you.”
Flynn followed the houseman up two flights of stairs to a small room at the back of the house. Leaving, the houseman did not close the door.
The room overlooked parts of Harvard Yard, Lamont Library, Houghton Library. The room was book-lined. There was a faded crimson rug on the floor. There were a few photographs on the handsome wooden desk facing a window.
Closing the door behind him, the President said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Flynn.” They shook hands.
“A comfortable room,” Flynn said.
“This is where I choose to be, when I have a choice. I seldom bring anyone else here. Would you like a drink?”
“I had a drink, once. I didn’t much like it.”
“I see. Have you a room like this, somewhere?”
“I have a nice office. Quiet.”
“I would like to visit you in your private office, someday.”
“You’d be most welcome. Do you play chess?”
“I play no games.”
“I think I understand that.”
“I understand you’re musical.” The President indicated a small stereo in a bookcase within reach of his desk chair. “Are you able to have a stereo of some sort in your office?”
“I listen to recorded music as seldom as possible.”
“Why is that?”
“Today’s recordings are too good. Too enhanced? I believe they spoil the ears for live music.”
“Yes. Interesting.” He pointed out a photograph on his desk. “Do you know who that is?”
“Professor Louis Loveson.”
“Yes. Ever read him?”
“His volume The Ontologic, yes. Also his Usable Past. Some time ago.”
“It’s about him I wish to speak. Do sit down. I’ve been unsure as to what to do, how to do it. Finally I brought the matter up to John Roy Priddy.”
“I thought I’d hear his name this afternoon.”
“No Name has been very good to Harvard, especially to the Kennedy Government Center. We’ve had much advice from John Roy regarding matters ‘between the borders.’ You spoke at the Kennedy Center a few years ago yourself. ‘An Understanding of Islamic Fundamentalism.’”
“Were you there?”
“I heard people talking about it. So I read the transcript.”
“There was a transcript?”
“Harvard has heavy archival responsibilities, Mr. Flynn. By the way, I thought you were dead.”
“I try to be.”
“Not dead, just sleeping, is that it?”
“Trying not to be the object of the attention of K. and other such people. Even if they do know me to be alive, they believe me less of a threat to them these days.”
“N. N. 13. You must have been very successful to attain such high rank.”
“What about Professor Loveson?”
“He’s not only a great teacher—he was my beloved teacher when I was here as a student—but he is my great friend.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Yes. But something is wrong. In recent years he’s gone from one of our most beloved teachers to one of our most reviled. He is held in contempt, initially by most of his colleagues, now by an ever-increasing percentage of the student body. Ten years ago, it was difficult for students to get into any of his two courses. Now he has only one course, with only seven people in it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think it’s caused by anything he’s done or said. Is that what I mean? I mean, I don’t believe he’s changed. I don’t know why.”
“He must be rather along in years.”
“Seventy-six. By understandings, of course, he should have retired. When he found himself increasingly reviled, he stated his desire to continue teaching, until there was some satisfactory conclusion.”
“What is it people are saying about him?”
“That he’s dishonest? Can you believe that?”
“I’m not sure what they mean.”
“Neither am I.”
“I don’t see how I can help.”
“A woman who was his teaching assistant about seven years ago has come to me . . . She says she thinks Louie is being assaulted.”
“Assaulted? Who would assault a seventy-six-year-old professor?”
“Threatened. She believes he’s been receiving phone calls, notes. She said she saw such a note on his desk at the library. He snapped it away from her immediately.”
“Physically threatening him? With bodily harm?”
“I believe so. I’ve asked him about it. He denies it.”
“Some person or per
sons are threatening to kill him?”
“I don’t know. He needs a friend, Flynn. Someone to stand with him, find out all about this, someone who will know what to do if push comes to shove, if you know what I mean. I’m President of this university. Obviously I can’t do, well, more than I’ve tried.”
“If you’re asking about police protection . . .”
“No. He utterly rejected the thought of that. He wants his privacy. His wife isn’t well. If it’s any help to your matters of protocol, his apartment is in Boston. Isn’t that within your jurisdiction?”
“If he won’t talk . . .”
“You know, I rather think in some odd way he’s rather ashamed of this situation. At least, in front of his colleagues. In front of me. You’re not a member of the university, or the teaching profession. You’re a policeman. Yet you aren’t. If you’re willing to be helpful here, I will try to explain you to him, best I can. It will help that you actually read his books.”
“I’m not sure how helpful I can be.”
“Are you willing to try?”
“Well, yes. But the actual time I can spend with him will be necessarily limited. I have other duties, court appearances . . .”
“I understand. It’s more a matter of your getting to the bottom of whatever is going on, and making it stop, if possible. If my perception that he is ashamed of this situation is correct . . . I’ll assure him you will not be reporting to me, or to the police commissioner, or to anyone. Will that be all right? Are you allowed to spend time on something of this sort without having to file reports?”
“Oh, yes.”
The President took papers out of a drawer of the table beside him. “Here is a copy of his biography from Who’s Who in America. This other paper just has his address, phone number, where his office is, where and when he teaches his little class—that sort of thing.”
“Thank you.”
“I suppose it would be correct for Harvard to offer to pay your expenses . . .”
“No. Professor Loveson is a citizen, a taxpayer. He deserves our protection, to whatever extent—”
“That’s good. I really don’t want a written record of this, if you understand me. Unless, of course, something happens and it is unavoidable.”
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