Alan eased his six-foot length upright, scratched his crew-cut head, then wandered from his glass-panelled cubicle to the modest outer office. It was deserted. Tom Lewis was downtown, involved in some real estate work they had been fortunate in getting a day or two ago; and their grandmotherly widow typist, exhausted from the unwonted pressure of the past few days, had gone home at lunchtime, as she put it, 'to sleep the clock round, Mr Maitland, and if you take my advice you'll do the same'. Maybe it'd be smart at that, Alan thought. He was tempted to go home to the cramped Gilford Street apartment, let down the landing-gear bed and forget everything, including stowaways, immigration, and the general disagreeableness of mankind. Except Sharon. That was it: he would concentrate his thoughts on Sharon exclusively. He wondered where she was at this moment; what she had been doing since their last meeting two days ago - a snatched few minutes over coffee in between sessions in the law library; what she was thinking about; how she looked; if she were smiling, or frowning in that quizzical way she did sometimes .. ."
He decided to telephone her. There was time on his hands; nothing further he could do for Henri Duval. Using the outer office phone, he dialled the Deveraux number. The butler answered. Yes, Miss Deveraux was in; would Mr Maitland kindly wait?
A minute or two later he heard light footsteps coming to the phone.
'Alan!' Sharon's voice was excited. 'You've found something!'
'I wish we had,' he said. 'I'm afraid we've quit.'
'Oh, no!' The tone of regret was genuine.
He explained the fruitless search; the futility of going on.
'All the same,' Sharon said, 'I can't believe it's the end. You'll keep thinking and thinking, and come up with something the way you did before.'
He was touched by her confidence but did not share it.
'I did have one idea,' he said. 'I thought I'd make a model of Edgar Kramer and stick pins in. It's the only bit we haven't tried.'
Sharon laughed. 'I used to model in clay.'
'Let's do it tonight,' he suggested, brightening. 'We'll start with dinner and maybe get to the clay later.'
'Oh, Alan; I'm sorry, but I can't.'
Impulsively he asked, 'Why not?'
There was a moment's hesitation, then Sharon said, 'I already have a date.'
Well, he thought; you ask questions, you get answers. He wondered who the date was with; if it was someone Sharon had known long; where they would go. He had a pang of jealousy, then told himself it was irrational. After all, Sharon must have had a social life, and a full one, long before he himself had appeared upon the scene. And a kiss in the hotel was no firm claim...
'I'm sorry, Alan; really I am. But it's something I couldn't break.'
'I wouldn't want you to.' With determined cheerfulness he told her, 'Have fun; I'll call you if there's any news.'
Sharon said uncertainly, 'Goodbye.'
When he had replaced the phone, the office seemed smaller and more depressing than before. Aimlessly, wishing he had not made the telephone call, he walked its length.
On the stenographer's desk a pile of opened telegrams caught his eye. He had never received as many telegrams in his life as in the past few days. Picking one from the top of the pile, he read:
CONGRATULATIONS ON SPLENDID FIGHT EVERY WARMHEARTED CITIZEN MUST BE CHEERING FOR YOU
K. R. BROWNE
Who was K. R. Browne, he wondered. Man or Woman? Rich or poor? And what kind of a person? Did he or she really care about all injustice and oppression ... or merely get caught up in sentimental fervour? He put the message down and selected another.
JESUS SAID INASMUCH AS YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE MY BRETHREN YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME AS MOTHER OF FOUR SONS AM PRAYING FOR YOU AND THAT POOR BOY
BERTHA MCLEISH
A third, longer than the rest, drew his attention.
THE TWENTY-EIGHT MEMBERS OF STAPLETON AND DISTRICT MANITOBA KIWANIS CLUB HERE GATHERED SALUTE YOU AND WISH ALL SUCCESS IN FINE HUMANITARIAN EFFORT STOP WE ARE PROUD OF YOU AS FELLOW CANADIAN STOP WE HAVE PASSED AROUND HAT AND CHEQUE FOLLOWS STOP PLEASE USE MONEY ANY WAY YOU SEE FIT
GEORGE EARNDT, SECRETARY
The cheque, Alan remembered, had arrived this morning. It had been passed, with others, to a BC trust company which had offered to administer donations for Henri Duval. As of today, something like eleven hundred dollars had flowed in.
Thank you K. R. Browne, Mrs McLeish, and the Stapleton Kiwanians, Alan thought. And all the others. He thumbed the thick sheaf of telegrams. I haven't managed to do any good, but thank you all the same.
There were two big heaps of newspapers on the floor in a corner, he observed, and another batch piled high upon a chair. A good many, in all three piles, were out-of-town papers -from Toronto, Montreal, Winnipeg, Regina, Ottawa, and other cities. There was one, he noticed, from as far away as Halifax, Nova Scotia. Some of the visiting reporters had dropped off copies which, they said, had stories about himself. And an office neighbour across the hall had added a couple of New York Times, presumably for the same reason. So far Alan had not had time to do more than glance at a few. Sometime soon he would go through them all, and he supposed he should make a scrapbook; he would probably never again be as prominent in the news. He wondered about a title for the scrapbook. Perhaps something like: 'Testament to a Lost Cause.'
'Aw, cut it out, Maitland,' he said aloud. 'You're getting sorrier for yourself than you are for Duval.'
With the last word there was a short knock on the outer door, which opened. A head came around - the ruddy, broad-cheeked face of Dan Orliffe. The reporter followed the head with his burly farmer's body, then looked about him. He asked, 'Are you alone?'
Alan nodded.
'I thought I heard someone talking.'
'You did. It was me talking to myself.' Alan grinned wryly. 'That's the stage I've got to.'
'You need help,' Dan Orliffe said. 'How'd it be if I set up a talk with someone more interesting.'
'Who, for instance?.'
Orliffe answered casually, 'I thought we might start with (he Prime Minister. He's due in Vancouver the day after tomorrow.'
'Howden himself?'
'No less.'
'Oh sure.' Alan dropped into the stenographer's chair, leaning back and raising his feet alongside the battered typewriter. 'Tell you what I'll do: I'll rent a put-you-up and invite him to stay in my apartment.'
'Look,' Dan pleaded. 'I'm not kidding. This is for real. A meeting could be arranged, and it might do some good.' He asked questioningly, 'There's not much more you can do for Duval through the courts, is there?'
Alan shook his head. 'We're at the end of the line.'
'Well then, what i& there to lose?'
'Nothing, I guess. But what's the point?'
'You can plead, can't you?' Dan urged. '"The quality of mercy" and all that stuff. Isn't that what lawyers are for?'
'You're supposed to have a few solid arguments too.' Alan grimaced. 'I can just see the way it would be: me down on my knees and the PM wiping away tears. "Alan, my boy," he'd say, "All these weeks I've been so terribly wrong. Now if you'll just sign here we'll forget the whole thing, and you can have everything-you want."'
'Okay,' Dan Orliffe admitted, 'so it won't be any pushover. But neither was any of the rest you've done. Why give up now?'
'One simple reason,' Alan replied quietly. 'Because there comes a time when it's sensible to admit you're licked.'
'You disappoint me,' Dan said. He extended a foot and scuffed a desk leg disconsolately.
'Sorry. I wish I could do more.' There was a pause, then Alan asked curiously, 'Why's the Prime Minister coming to Vancouver anyway?'
'It's some sort of nation-wide tour he's making. All very sudden; there's a lot of speculation about it.' The reporter shrugged. 'That's somebody else's business. My idea was to get the two of you together.'
'He'd never see me,' Alan declared.
'If he were asked, he couldn't afford not to.' Dan O
rliffe pointed to the pile of newspapers on the office chair. 'D'you mind if I move these?'
'Go ahead.'
Dan dumped the papers on to the floor, turned the chair around, and straddled the seat. He faced Alan, his elbows on the chair back. 'Look, chum,' he contended earnestly, 'if you haven't figured it by now, let me lay this out. To ten million people, maybe more - to everyone who reads a newspaper, watches television or listens to a radio - you're Mr Valiant-for-Truth.'
'Mr Valiant-for-Truth,' Alan repeated. He inquired curiously, 'That's from Pilgrim's Progress, isn't it?'
'I guess so.' The tone of voice was indifferent.
'I remember I read it once,' Alan said thoughtfully. 'In Sunday school, I think.'
'We're a long way from Sunday school,' the reporter said. 'But maybe some of yours rubbed off.'
'Get on with it,' Alan told him. 'You were talking about ten million people.'
'They've made you a national image,' Orliffe insisted. 'You're a sort of idol. Frankly I've never seen anything quite like it.'
'It's a lot of sentiment,' Alan said. 'When all this is over I'll be a forgotten man in ten days.'
'Maybe so,' Dan conceded. 'But while you are a public figure, you have to be treated with respect. Even by Prime Ministers.'
Alan grinned, as if the idea amused him. 'If I did ask for an interview with the Prime Minister, how do you think it should be done?'
'Let the Post arrange it,' Dan Orliffe urged. 'Howden doesn't love us, but he can't ignore us either. Besides I'd like to run an exclusive story tomorrow. We'll say that you've asked for a meeting and are waiting for an answer.'
'Now we're getting to it.' Alan swung down his feet from beside the typewriter. 'I figured there was an angle somewhere.'
Dan Orliffe's face had a studied earnestness. 'Everybody has an angle, but you and I would be helping each other, and Duval too. Besides, with that kind of advance publicity, Howden wouldn't dare refuse.'
'I don't know. I just don't know.' Standing up, Alan stretched tiredly. What was the point of it all, he thought. What could be gained by attempting more?
Then, in his mind, he saw the face of Henri Duval, and behind Duval - smugly smiling and triumphant - the features of Edgar Kramer.
Suddenly Alan's face lighted, his voice strengthened. 'What the hell!' be said. 'Let's give it a whirl.'
Part 15
The Party Director
Chapter 1
The young man in the tortoise-shell glasses had said 'a couple of days'.
Actually, with a weekend in between, it had taken four.
Now, in party headquarters on Sparks Street, he faced Brian Richardson from the visitors' side of the party director's desk.
As always, Richardson's sparsely furnished office was stiflingly hot. On two walls, steam radiators, turned fully on, bubbled like simmering kettles. Although only mid-afternoon, the Venetian blinds had been lowered and shabby drapes drawn to circumvent draughts through the leaky windows of the decrepit building. Unfortunately it also had the effect of blocking out fresh air.
Outside, where a bitter blanket of arctic air had gripped
Ottawa and all Ontario since Sunday morning, the temperature was five below zero. Inside, according to a desk thermometer, it was seventy-eight, There were beads of perspiration on the young man's forehead. Richardson rearranged his heavy, broad-shouldered figure in the leather swivel chair. 'Well?' he asked. '
'I have what you wanted,' the young man said quietly. He placed a large manila envelope in the centre of the desk. The envelope was imprinted 'Department of National Defence'.
'Good work.' Brian Richardson had a sense of rising excitement. Had a hunch, a long shot, paid off? Had he remembered accurately a chance remark - a fleeting innuendo, no more -uttered long ago at a cocktail party by a man whose name he had never known? It must have been all of fifteen years ago, perhaps even twenty ... long before his own connexion with the party ... long before James Howden and Harvey Warrender were anything more to him than names in newspapers. That far back, people, places, meanings - all became distorted. And even if they were not, the original allegation might never have been true. He could, he thought, so easily be wrong.
'You'd better relax for a while,' Richardson suggested. 'Smoke if you like.'
The young man took out a thin gold cigarette case, tapped both ends of a cigarette, and lit it with a tiny flame which sprang from a corner of the case. As an afterthought he reopened the case and offered it to the party director.
'No thanks.' Richardson had already fumbled for a tobacco tin in a lower drawer of the desk. He filled his pipe and lit it before opening the envelope and removing a slim green file. When the pipe was drawing, he began to read.
He read silently for fifteen minutes. At the end of ten he knew he had what he needed. A hunch had been right; the long shot had paid off.
Closing the file, he told the young man with the tortoise-shell glasses, 'I shall need this for twenty-four hours.'
Without speaking, his lips tightly compressed, the other nodded.
Richardson touched the closed file. 'I suppose you know what's in here.'
'Yes, I read it.' Two spots of colour came into the young man's cheeks. 'And I'd like to say that if you make use of any of it, in any way whatever, you're a lower and dirtier bastard even than I thought you were.'
For an instant the party director's normally ruddy cheeks flushed deep red. His blue eyes went steely. Then, visibly, the anger passed. He said quietly, 'I like your spirit. But I can only tell you that once in a while it becomes essential that someone gets down in the dirt, much as he may dislike doing it.'
There was no response.
'Now,' Richardson said, 'it's time to talk about you.' He reached into a file tray, thumbed through some papers and selected two sheets clipped together. When he had glanced through them he asked, 'You know where Fallingbrook is?'
'Yes, northwest Ontario.'
Richardson nodded. 'I suggest you start finding out all you can about it: the area, local people - I'll help you there -economics, history, all the rest. The riding's been represented by Hal Tedesco for twenty years. He's retiring at the next election, though it hasn't been announced yet. Fallingbrook is a good safe seat and the Prime Minister will be recommending you as a party candidate.'
'Well,' the young man said grudgingly, 'you certainly don't waste any time.'
Richardson said crisply, 'We made a deal. You kept your part, so now I'm keeping mine.' Pointing to the file on his desk, he added, 'I'll get this back to you tomorrow.'
The young man hesitated. He said uncertainly, 'I don't quite know what to say.'
'Don't say anything,' Richardson advised. For the first time in their interview he grinned. 'That's half the trouble with politics: too many people saying too much.'
Half an hour later, when he had read the file again, this time more thoroughly, he picked up one of the two telephones on his desk. It was a direct outgoing line and he dialled the Government exchange, then asked for the Department of Immigration. After another operator and two secretaries, he reached the minister.
Harvey Warrender's voice boomed down the phone. 'What can I do for you?'
'I'd like to see you, Mr Minister.' With most Cabinet members Brian Richardson was on first name terms. Warrender was one of the few exceptions.
'I'm free for an hour now,' Harvey Warrender said, 'if you want to come round.'
Richardson hesitated. 'I'd rather not do that if you don't mind. What I want to talk about is rather personal. Actually, I wondered if I could come to your house tonight. Say eight o'clock.'
The minister insisted, 'We can be plenty private in my office.'
The party director replied patiently, 'I'd still prefer to come to your house.'
It was obvious that Harvey Warrender disliked being crossed. He announced grumblingly, 'Can't say I like all the mysterioso. What's it all about?'
'As I said, it's rather personal. I think you'll agree tonight th
at we shouldn't discuss it on the phone.'
'Look here, if it's about that son-of-a-bitch stowaway...'
Richardson cut in, 'It isn't about that.' At least, he thought, not directly. Only indirectly, through a vicious pattern of duplicity which, innocently enough, the stowaway had started.
'Very well, then,' the Immigration Minister conceded disagreeably. 'If you must, come to my house. I'll expect you at eight o'clock.'
There was a click as he hung up.
Chapter 2
The residence of the Hon Harvey Warrender was an impressive two-storey house in Rockliffe Park Village, northeast of Ottawa. A few minutes after eight the party director watched the headlights of his Jaguar pick out the winding, tree-lined boulevards of the Village, once known more prosaically as McKay's Bush, and now the elegant, exclusive habitat of the capital's elite.
The Warrender house, which Richardson reached after a few minutes more of driving, was built on a large landscaped and wooded lot, approached by a long crescent-shaped driveway. The house itself, strikingly fronted with cut stone, had white double entrance doors, flanked by two white pillars. To the west and east across abutting lawns, Richardson knew, were the homes of the French Ambassador and a Supreme Court judge, with the Opposition Leader, Bonar Deitz, immediately across the street.
Parking the Jaguar in the crescent driveway, he passed between the pillars and pressed the glowing pinpoint of a bell button. Inside the house, door chimes reverberated softly.
The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration, wearing a smoking jacket and red leather slippers, opened one of the double white doors himself and peered outward. 'Oh,' he said, 'it's you. Well, you'd better come in.'