Read Online The Cambridge Theorem by Tony Cape - Free Book Online

to catch up with his note-taking and saw that Davies had begun pulling at the green polyester tie again.
    â€œProfessor, do you think Simon Bowles would have come and told you if he had been worried or afraid of something?” asked Smailes. To his relief, Davies did not take offense at the remark, as Hawken would have.
    â€œWell, you know, Simon was different than a lot of the men,” Davies began. “A lot of them have absolutely no feeling for the place. Just regard Cambridge as a place to mess around before they have to go off and get a job. They certainly don’t appreciate having to talk to a tutor once or twice a term, and the meetings are often very difficult, embarassing. I think those people are most foolish, arrogant, you know, and that they are missing the whole point. I mean, just because we’re a bit older and make a living as teachers and scholars doesn’t mean that we’re not human, that we can’t lend a sympathetic ear and perhaps even be helpful now and again. Of course, the fact that we represent the authority of the University can sometimes make things awkward, but basically there’s no contradiction.”
    Like hell, thought Smailes. He wondered if he would want to see this hyperactive Welshman if he really had something on his mind. Compared with Hawken, though, he was all right. He got the impression there was no love lost between the two dons.
    â€œBut Simon wasn’t like that. Wasn’t stuck up at all. He had a sort of child-like quality to him, tremendous enthusiasms, but very little guile, you know. No guile.
    â€œSo I think he was frank with me. He didn’t have many close friends and we had gotten along well over the years. Another man might have been offended or embarassed to meet with a tutor as a graduate fellow, you know, but Simon didn’t seem to mind. Yes, I think he would have mentioned it if he was worried about something.”
    Reluctantly, Smailes unrolled the standard question, as he had with Hawken.
    â€œDo you know of any difficulties with money, girlfriends or drugs which might have got him into trouble?” he asked.
    â€œSimon? No, he really wasn’t the type, I don’t think. I got the impression he lived quite a quiet life.”
    â€œWas he a religious man, to your knowledge?”
    â€œSimon? No, I’m sure he wasn’t. Why do you ask?”
    â€œOh, a poster in his room. It’s Albert Schweitzer, I think.”
    â€œNo, no, that’s Russell. Bertrand Russell. One of his heroes, I suppose.”
    â€œYes, that would make sense,” said Smailes, writing carefully in his notebook. “So you have no idea why he might have taken his own life?”
    â€œNo, officer, I really don’t. It’s a mystery. A mystery, you know.”
    Smailes thought for a moment then got up from the desk and walked to the leaded window overlooking the soupy water of the Cam. The faded graffiti against the red brick caused a sudden flicker of recognition.
    â€œI know that,” he said to himself, absently.
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Davies, and Smailes remembered he had an audience.
    â€œThat’s Norman Mailer,” he said.
    â€œEh, what’s that?” asked Davies again, advancing towards the window as if to see the old pugilist punting up the river. Smailes was embarrassed, but he had committed himself.
    â€œThose words—VIETNAM HOT DAMN—they’re the last line of Norman Mailer’s Why Are We in Vietnam .”
    â€œYes,” said Davies. “Bloody vandals.”
    Smailes felt like a fool and the two men stood in silence watching the river. The phone rang and the detective caught it in the third ring. It was Hawken, being business-like.
    â€œAh, Mr. Smailes, I thought you’d like to know. Beecroft has ascertained with whom Mr. Bowles spent last evening, or at least the latter part of it. It seems he was in the college bar with two friends—a Mr.