With the words he entered the doorway Sharon had used earlier, closing it partially behind him.
'Is he all right?' Alan asked doubtfully.
'I don't know.' Sharon's eyes were on the doorway. Turning back to Alan, she added, 'Even if he isn't, there's nothing he'll let me do. Why is it that some men are so obstinate?'
'I'm not obstinate.' 'Not much!' Sharon laughed. 'From you it comes in waves.
Anyway, let's have lunch.' There was vichyssoise, shrimp casserole, curried turkey's wings, and jellied tongue on the buffet table. The elderly waiter hurried forward.
'Thank you,' Sharon said. 'We'll serve ourselves.' 'Very well, Miss Deveraux.' Inclining his head respectfully, the man closed the double doors behind him, leaving them alone.
Alan ladled two cups of vichyssoise and gave one to Sharon.
They sipped, standing.
Alan's heart was pounding. 'When all this is over,' he asked slowly, 'shall I see you sometimes?'
'I hope so.' Sharon smiled. 'Otherwise I might have to stay around the law courts all the time.'
He was conscious of the faint perfume he had detected at their meeting in the house on the Drive. And of Sharon's eyes, mirroring amusement and perhaps something else.
Alan put down his soup cup. He said decisively, 'Give me yours.'
Sharon protested, 'I haven't finished yet.'
'Never mind that.' He reached out, taking it, and returned it to the table.
He held out his hands to Sharon and she came to him. Their faces were close. His arms went around her and their lips met softly. He had a blissful, breathless sense of floating on air.
After a moment, shyly, he touched her hair and whispered, 'I've wanted to do this ever since Christmas morning.'
'So have I,' Sharon said happily. 'Why ever did you take so long?'
They kissed again. As if from some other unreal world the sound of Senator Deveraux's voice came, muffled, through the partly open door. '... so this is the time to strike, Bonar ... naturally you will lead the House ... Howden on the defensive ... splendid, my boy, splendid! ...' To Alan, the words seemed unimportant, unconnected with himself.
'Don't worry about Granddaddy,' Sharon whispered. 'He's always ages on the phone to Ottawa.'
'Stop talking,' Alan said. You're wasting time.'
Ten minutes later the voice stopped and they broke away. After an interval Senator Deveraux came out, walking slowly. He lowered himself carefully on to a sofa facing the buffet table. If he noticed that the luncheon was virtually untouched, he made no comment.
After pausing for breath, the Senator announced, 'I have some excellent news.'
With a sense of returning to earth, hoping his voice sounded normal, Alan asked, 'Has the Government given in? Will they let Duval stay?'
'Not that.' The old man shook his head. 'In fact, if that happened it might upset our present strategy.'
'What then?' Alan had both feet on the ground now. He contained his irritation that politics, apparently, still came first.
'Come on, Granddaddy,' Sharon said; 'give!' 'Tomorrow in Ottawa,' the Senator declared grandly, 'the Parliamentary Opposition will stage a full-dress House of Commons debate in support of our young friend, Henri Duval.' 'Do you think it will do any good?' Alan asked.
The Senator replied sharply, 'It won't do any harm, will it? And it will keep your client's name very much in the news.' 'Yes,' Alan acknowledged. He nodded thoughtfully. 'It will certainly help us that way.'
'I'm sure it will, my boy. So at your special inquiry this afternoon remember that others are working with you in the same good cause.'
'Thank you. Senator. I will,' Alan glanced at his watch and realized he had better be moving. Acutely conscious of Sharon close by, he walked to the closet where the waiter had put his coat. 'Concerning this afternoon,' Senator Deveraux said softly,
'I have a single small suggestion.'
Slipping into his coat, Alan turned. 'Yes, sir?' There was a glint of amusement in the old man's eyes. 'It might be better,' he said, 'if sometime before the hearing you removed the lipstick.'
Chapter 4
At five minutes to four a Department of Immigration clerk politely ushered Alan Maitland into a board room of the waterfront Immigration Building, where the special inquiry affecting Henri Duval was due to be held.
It was a strictly utilitarian room, Alan observed - about fifteen feet wide and twice as long, with varnished plywood panels topped by pebbled glass on all four sides, extending to the ceiling. A plain office table, also varnished, occupied the centre, and around the table five wooden chairs were set neatly in place. On the table before each chair were a pad of paper and a sharpened pencil. Four ashtrays, symmetrically in line, were spaced evenly down the table's length. On a smaller side table were glasses and a jug of ice water. There was no other furniture. Three people had preceded Alan. One was a red-haired girl stenographer, already seated, with her notebook open at a blank page, now languidly inspecting her manicured nails. The second was A. R. Butler, perched with dignified casualness on a corner of the table. Chatting with Butler was the stockily built man with the trim toothbrush moustache who had accompanied Edgar Kramer to the morning hearing. A. R. Butler observed Alan first.
'Welcome and congratulations!' Standing, his smile broad and warm, the older lawyer offered his hand. 'Judging by the afternoon papers, we are in the presence of a public hero. I suppose you've seen them.'
Embarrassed, Alan nodded. 'Yes, I'm afraid I have.' He had bought copies of the early editions of the Post and Colonist soon after leaving Sharon and the Senator. In both papers the hearing in judge's chambers had been the top story on page one, with pictures of Alan prominently featured. Dan Orliffe's report in the Post had used phrases like 'shrewd legal moves', 'a successful Maitland coup', and 'tactical victory'. The Colonist, still not quite as heated as the Post about Henri Duval, had been less laudatory, though most of the facts were reasonably correct.
'Well,' A. R. Butler said good-humouredly, 'where would we lawyers be without the Press. Even with inaccuracies, it's the only advertising we're allowed. Oh, by the way, do you know Mr Tamkynhil?'
'No,' Alan said, 'I don't think I do.'
'George Tamkynhil,' the moustached man said. They shook hands. 'I'm with the department, Mr Maitland. I'll be conducting the inquiry.'
'Mr Tamkynhil has had a good deal of experience in this kind of thing,' A. R. Butler said. 'You'll find him extremely fair.'
'Thank you.' He would wait and see, Alan decided. But at feast he was glad the inquiry officer would not be Edgar Kramer.
There was a light tap and the door opened. A uniformed immigration officer ushered in Henri Duval.
On the previous occasion on which Alan Maitland had seen the young stowaway, Duval had been grimed and grease-stained, his hair matted from labouring in the Vastervik's bilges. Today, in contrast, be was clean and scrubbed, his face freshly shaven, and his long black hair combed tidily in place.
His clothing was simple: as before, patched denims, a darned blue seaman's jersey, and old cloth shoes - probably rejected, Alan thought, by some other member of the ship's crew.
But as usual it was the face and eyes which held attention: the face with its round, strong, boyish features; the deep set eyes appealing and intelligent, yet with wariness never far behind.
At a nod from Tamkynhil the uniformed officer withdrew.
Standing by the door, Henri Duval's gaze moved quickly from one face to the next. He saw Alan last and, as he did, gave a warm smile of recognition.
'How are you, Henri?' Alan moved forward so that they were close. He placed a hand reassuringly on the young stowaway's arm.
'I good, real good.' Henri Duval nodded, then, looking into Alan's face, asked hopefully, 'Now I work Canada - stay?'
'No, Henri,' Alan shook his head. 'Not yet, I'm afraid. But these gentlemen are here to ask you questions. This is an inquiry.'
The young man glanced around him. With a tra
ce of nervousness he asked, 'You stay with me?'
'Yes, I shall stay.'
'Mr Maitland,' Tamkynhil interjected.
'Yes.'
'If you'd care for a few minutes alone with this young man,' the inquiry officer announced courteously, 'the rest of us will gladly withdraw.'
'Thank you,' Alan acknowledged. 'I don't believe that's necessary. If I can just explain to him, though...'
'By all means.'
'Henri, this is Mr Tamkynhil from Canadian Immigration, and Mr Butler, who is a lawyer.' As Alan spoke, Duval turned .his head inquiringly from one man to the other and each rejoined with an amiable nod. 'They are going to ask you questions and you must answer them honestly. If you do not understand anything that is said, you must say so and I will try to explain. But you must hold nothing back. Do you understand?'
The stowaway nodded vigorously. 'I tell truth. All time, truth.'
Speaking to Alan, A. R. Butler said, 'There won't be any questioning from me, by the way. I'm just here with a watching brief.' He smiled blandly. 'You might say that my business is to ensure the law is carefully observed.'
'For that matter,' Alan said pointedly, 'so is mine.'
George Tamkynhil had taken the chair at the head of the table. 'Well, gentlemen,' he announced firmly, 'if you're ready I think we can begin.'
Alan Maitland and Henri Duval sat together on one side of the table, the stenographer and A. R. Butler facing them.
Tamkynhil opened a file before him, selected a paper on top and passed a carbon copy to the stenographer. In a careful, precise voice he read, 'This is an inquiry held under the provision of the Immigration Act at the Canadian Immigration Building, Vancouver, BC, on January 4th, by me, George Tamkynhil, a special inquiry officer, duly nominated by the Minister of Citizenship and Immigration under Subsection I of Section II of the Immigration Act.'
Through the rest of the official wording the voice droned on. It was all so pretentiously correct, Alan thought. He had little hope about the outcome of this inquiry; it was unlikely in the extreme that the department would reverse its own firm stand as a result of a procedure it controlled itself, especially since no new facts were likely to emerge. And yet, because he had demanded that this be done, the formalities - all of them -were to be observed. Even now he wondered if anything had been gained by his own efforts so far. And vet in law, so often, you could only take one step at a time, hoping that something would turn up before the next step was due.
The promulgation finished, Tamkynhil asked Henri Duval, 'Do you understand why this inquiry is being held?'
The young stowaway nodded eagerly. 'Yes, yes. I understand.'
Consulting a note, Tamkynhil continued, 'If you so desire, and at your own expense, you have the right to be represented by counsel at this hearing. Is Mr Maitland, present here, your counsel?' /
A nod again. 'Yes.'
'Will you take an oath upon the Bible?'
'Yes.'
With the familiar ritual Duval affirmed that he would tell the truth. The stenographer wrote in longhand, her polished fingernails gleaming, 'Henry Duval duly sworn.'
Now, putting his notes aside, Tamkynhil stroked his moustache meditatively. From now on, Alan knew, the questions would be unrehearsed.
Tamkynhil asked quietly, 'What is your correct name?'
'My name, Henri Duval.'
'Have you ever used any other name?'
'Never. That is the name my father give me. I never see him. My mother tell me.'
'Where were you born?'
It was a repetition of the questioning which Duval had undergone - first from Dan Orliffe, then Alan Maitland -since his arrival twelve days earlier.
Steadily, eliciting a single short answer at a time, the queries and answers went on. Tamkynhil, Alan conceded mentally, was indeed a skilled and conscientious interrogator. His questions were simple, direct, and quietly spoken. As far as feasible, he dealt with events in correct chronology. Where, through difficulty of language, there seemed misunderstanding, he patiently went back to clear it up. There was no attempt at haste, no browbeating, no effort to score, nor any trickery. At no time did Tamkynhil raise his voice.
Each Question and answer was dutifully recorded by the stenographer. The inquiry transcript, Alan realized, would be a model of correct procedure to which, obviously, it would be difficult to object on grounds of error or unfairness. A. R. Butler, from his occasional approving nods, evidently thought so too.
The story, emerging point by point, was much as Alan had heard it before: The lonely birth of Henri Duval on the unknown ship; the return to Djibouti; early childhood - poverty and wandering, but with a mother's love at least ... and then his mother's death when he was six years old. Afterwards, the frightening aloneness: an animal existence scavenging in the native quarter; the elderly Somali who gave him shelter. Then, wandering once more, but this time alone. Ethiopia to British Somaliland ... Ethiopia again ... attachment to a camel train; food for work; crossing borders with other children...
Then, a child no longer, his rejection at French Somaliland, which he had thought of as his home ... The crushing realization of belonging nowhere, officially non-existent, without ; documents of any kind ... The retreat to Massawa, stealing on ,' the way; his detection in the market place; the sudden flight; ' terror ... the pursuers ... and the Italian ship.
The Italian shipmaster's anger; the boatswain's cruelties; near-starvation, and finally flight... The dockyard at Beirut; the guards; terror once more, and a shadow looming; in desperation - a stowaway again on the silent ship.
Discovery on the Vastervik; Captain Jaabeck; the first kindnesses; attempts to disembark him; refusals; the Vastervik a prison ... The long two years; despair, rejection; ... everywhere the tight-slammed doors: Europe; the Middle East; England, and the United States, with all their vaunted freedom ... Canada his final hope...
Listening once more, Alan Maitland wondered: could anyone hear this and not be moved? He had been watching Tamkynhil's face. There was sympathy there, he was sure. Twice the inquiry officer had hesitated in his questioning, looking doubtful, fingering his moustache. Could it have been emotion that made him pause?
A. R. Butler no longer wore a smile. For some time now he had been looking down at his hands.
But whether sympathy would do any good was another matter.
Almost two hours had gone by. The inquiry was nearing its end.
Tamkynhil asked, 'If you were allowed to remain in Canada, what would you do?'
Eagerly - even after the long interrogation - the young stowaway answered, 'I go school first, then work.' He added:
'I work good.'
'Do you have any money?'
Proudly, Henri Duval said: 'I have seven dollar, thirty cents.'
It was the money, Alan knew, which the bus drivers had collected on Christmas Eve.
'Do you have any personal belongings?'
Once more eagerly, 'Yes, sir - many: these clothes, a radio, a clock. People send me these, and fruit. They give me everything. I thank them very much, these nice people.'
In the ensuing silence the stenographer turned a page.
Finally Tamkynhil said, 'Has anyone offered you work?'
Alan interjected, 'If I may answer that.,.'
'Yes, Mr Maitland.'
Riming through papers in his briefcase, Alan produced two. 'There have been a good many letters in the past few days.'
For a moment the smile returned to A. R. Butler. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'm sure there must have been.'
'These are two specific offers of employment,' Alan explained. 'One is from the Veterans Foundry Company, the other from Columbia Towing, who would take on Duval as a deck hand.'
'Thank you,' Tamkynhil read the letters which Alan offered, then passed them to the stenographer. 'Record the names, please.'
When the letters had been returned, the inquiry officer asked, 'Mr Maitland, do you wish to cross-examine Mr Duval?'
'No,' Alan s
aid. Whatever might happen now, the proceedings had been as thorough as anyone could have wished.
Tamkynhil touched his moustache again, then shook his head. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped. Instead he inspected the file before him and removed a printed form. While the others waited, he completed several portions of the form in ink.
Well, Alan thought - once more, here it comes.
Tamkynhil looked directly at the young stowaway. 'Mr Henri Duval,' he said, then lowered his eyes to the printed form. He read quietly, 'On the basis of the evidence adduced at this inquiry I have reached the decision that you may not come into or remain in Canada as of right, and that it has been proven that you are a member of the prohibited class described in paragraph (t) of Section 5 of the Immigration Act, in that you do not fulfil or comply with the conditions or requirements of Subsections 1, 3, and 8 of Section 18 of the Immigration Regulations.'
Pausing, Tamkynhil looked again at Henri Duval. Then reading firmly, 'I hereby order you to be detained and deported to the place whence you came to Canada, or to the country of which you are a national or citizen, or to such country as may be approved by the Minister...'
Detained and deported ... paragraph (t) of Section 5 ... Subsections 1, 3, and 8 of Section 18. Alan Maitland thought:
we clothe our barbarisms in politeness and call them civilized. We are Pontius Pilates who delude ourselves we are a Christian country. We allow in a hundred tubercular immigrants and beat our breast in smug self-righteousness, ignoring millions more, broken by a war from which Canada grew rich. By selective immigration, denying visas, we sentence families and children to misery and sometimes death, then avert our eyes and nostrils that we shall not see or smell. We break, turn down, a single human being, rationalizing our shame. And whatever we do, for whichever hypocrisy, there is a law or regulation ... paragraph (t) of Section 5 ... Subsections 1, 3, and 8 of Section 18.
Alan pushed back his chair and stood. He wanted to get out of this room, to taste the cold wind outside, the clean fresh air...
Henri Duval looked up, his young face troubled. He asked the single question, 'No?'