In High Places

Chapter 1

The Prime Minister's flight had landed at Ottawa airport a few minutes before 1.30 in the afternoon. Eastern Standard Time. In Vancouver at the same moment – four provinces and three time zones to the west – it was still morning and nearing 10.30 AM, at which hour the order nisi affecting the future and freedom of Henri Duval was due to be heard in judge's chambers.

'Why judge's chambers?' Dan Orliffe asked Alan Maitland, whom he had intercepted in the bustling upper floor corridor of the BC Supreme Court Building. 'Why not in a courtroom?' Alan had come in a moment earlier from outside where, overnight, a bitter blustering wind had set the city shivering. Now, in the warm building, a press of human traffic swirled around them: hurrying lawyers, gowns billowing; others with litigants in last-minute conclaves; court officials; news reporters – more of the latter than usual today because-of interest the Duval case had aroused.

'The hearing will be in a courtroom,' Alan said hurriedly. 'Look, I can't stop; we'll be heard in a few minutes.' He was uncomfortably aware of Dan Orliffe's poised pencil and open notebook. He had faced so many in the past few days: ever since Orliffe's original news story; then yesterday again, after the news had broken of his application for a habaeas corpus writ. There had been a spate of interviews and questions: Did he really have a case? What did he expect would happen? If the full writ was granted, what next?…

He had sidestepped most of the questions, excusing himself on professional grounds; and in any event, he had said, he could not discuss a case which was now sub judice. He had -been conscious too of the disfavour with which judges looked on publicity-seeking lawyers, and the press attention so far had made him acutely uncomfortable on this score. But none of this concern had stopped the headlines, yesterday and today; or the news reports on radio and television…

Then, starting yesterday afternoon, there had been the phone calls and telegrams, pouring in from across the country; from strangers – most of them people he had never heard of, though a few big names among them that he had. All had wished him well, a few had offered money, and he found himself moved that the plight of a single hapless man should, after all, cause such genuine concern.

Now, in the moment or so during which Alan had stopped to speak with Dan Orliffe, other reporters were surrounding him. One of the out-of-town men whom Alan remembered from yesterday – from the Montreal Gazette, he thought -asked, 'Yes, what's with this "chambers" business?'

Alan supposed he had better take a minute to spell things out. These were not regular court reporters, and the Press had helped him when he needed help…

'All matters, other than formal trials,' he explained quickly, 'are dealt with in judge's chambers instead of in court. But usually there are so many items to be heard, with a lot of people involved, that the judge moves into a courtroom which, for the time being, becomes his chambers.'

'Hell!' a derisive voice said from the rear. 'What's that old line about the law being an ass?'

Alan grinned. 'If I agreed with you, you might quote me.'

A small man at the front asked, 'Will Duval be here today?'

'No,' Alan answered. 'He's still on the ship. We can only get him off the ship if the order nisi is made absolute – that is, a habeas corpus writ. That's what today's hearing is about.'

Tom Lewis pushed his short chunky figure through the group. Taking Alan's arm he urged, 'Let's go, man!'

Alan glanced at his watch; it was almost 10.30. 'That's all,' he told the reporters. 'We'd all better get inside.'

'Good luck, chum!' one of the wire service men said. 'We're pulling for you.'

As the outer door swung closed behind the last to enter, the court clerk called 'Order!' At the front of the small, square courtroom, preceded by a clerk, the spare, bony figure of Mr Justice Willis entered briskly. He mounted the judge's' dais, bowed formally to counsel – the twenty or so who would appear briefly before him within the next half-hour – and, without turning, dropped smartly into the seat which the clerk had placed behind him.

Leaning towards Alan beside him, Tom Lewis whispered, 'K that guy is ever late with the chair it'll be Humpty Dumpty all over.'

For an instant the judge glanced in their direction, his sharp angular face austere beneath the bushy grey eyebrows and brooding eyes which Alan had been so aware of two days earlier. Alan wondered if he had heard, then decided it was impossible. Now with a tight, formal nod to the clerk, the judge indicated that chambers procedure could begin.

Glancing around the mahogany-panelled courtroom, Alan saw that the Press had occupied two full rows of seats, near the front, on the opposite side of the centre aisle. On his own side, behind and in front, were fellow lawyers, most clasping or reading legal documents, ready for the moment their business would be called. Then, while his head was turned towards the rear, five men came in.

The first was Captain Jaabeck in a blue serge suit with a trench coat over his arm, moving uncertainly in the unfamiliar surroundings. He was accompanied by an older, well-dressed man whom Alan recognized as a partner in a downtown legal firm specializing in marine law. Presumably this was the shipping company's lawyer. The two took seats behind the reporters, the lawyer – whom Alan had met once – looking across and nodding agreeably and Captain Jaabeck inclining his head with a slight smile.

Immediately following was a trio – Edgar Kramer, as usual neatly attired in a well-pressed pin-stripe suit with white pocket handkerchief carefully folded, a second, stockily built man with a trim, toothbrush moustache, who deferred to Kramer as they entered – probably an assistant in the Immigration Department, Alan reasoned; and, ushering the other two, a heavy-set distinguished figure who, from his air of confidence in the court, was almost certainly another lawyer.

At the front of the courtroom the day's crop of applications had begun, called one after another by the clerk. As each was named, a lawyer Would stand up, stating his business briefly. Usually there was a casual question or two from the judge, then a nod, signifying approval of the application.

Tom Lewis nudged Alan. 'Is that your friend Kramer – the one with the acid-Jar face?' Alan nodded.

Tom swivelled his head to examine the others, then a moment later turned back, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. He whispered: 'Have you seen who's with him?'

'The fashion plate in the grey suit?' Alan whispered back. 'I don't recognize him. Do you?'

Tom put a hand to his mouth, speaking behind it. 'I sure do. A. R. Butler, QC, no less. They're firing the big guns at you, boy! Feel like running?'

'Frankly,' Alan murmured, 'yes.'

A. R. Butler was a name to conjure with. One of the city's most successful trial lawyers, he had a reputation for consummate legal skill and his examinations and argument could be deadly. Normally he interested himself in major cases only. It must have taken some persuasion, Alan thought, plus a fat fee, for the Department of Immigration to have secured his services. Already, Alan noticed, there was a stirring of interest among the Press.

The clerk called: 'In the matter of Henri Duval – application for habeas corpus.'

Alan stood. He said quickly, 'My lord, may this stand until second reading?' It was a normal courtesy to other lawyers present. Those behind him on the list, and with application requiring no argument could transact it speedily and go. Afterwards the residue of names – those anticipating lengthier proceedings – would be called again.

As the judge nodded, the clerk intoned the next name. Resuming his seat, Alan felt a hand touch his shoulder. It was A. R. Butler. The older lawyer had moved across during Alan's interjection, taking the seat behind. He brought with him a waft of perfumed after-shave lotion.

'Good morning,' he whispered. 'I'm appearing in your case – for the department. My name is Butler.' Smiling courteously, as became a senior approaching a junior member of the bar, he offered his hand.

Alan shook the soft, well manicured hand. 'Yes,' he murmured, 'I know.'

'Harry Tolland is representing Nordic shipping.' Still whispering, the other gestured to the lawyer who had accompanied Captain Jaabeck. 'They're the owners of the ship; I expect you knew.'

'No,' Alan breathed, 'I didn't. Thank you.'

'That's all right, old chap; just thought you'd like the information.' Again A. R. Butler put a hand on Alan's shoulder. 'Interesting point you've raised; we'll have a good go at it.' With a friendly nod he moved back to the other side of the courtroom.

Alan glanced across, intending to return courtesy for courtesy by greeting Edgar Kramer. For a moment he caught Kramer watching him. Then, his expression bleak, the civil servant turned away.

A hand covering his mouth, Tom said, 'Ease round and rub your coat against me – right where the great man touched you.'

Alan grinned. 'Very friendly, I thought.' But the outward confidence was a pose. Tension and a growing nervousness were creeping over him.

'One of the nice things about our profession,' Tom murmured, 'everybody smiles before they plunge the knife in.'

The second reading had begun.

Normally by now the courtroom would have been almost empty, but so far only one or two of the other lawyers had left. It was obvious they were staying because of the interest the

Duval case had aroused.

A divorce matter immediately ahead had been dealt with.

Now there was an air of expectancy. As he had before, the clerk called: 'In the matter of Henri Duval.'

Alan rose. When he spoke, unexpectedly, his voice was strained.

'My lord…' He hesitated, coughed, then stopped. There was silence in the courtroom. Reporters turned their heads.

The appraising grey eyes of Mr Justice Willis were upon him. Now he began again.

'My lord, I am appearing on behalf of the applicant Henri Duval. My name is Alan Maitland, and my learned friend Mr Butler' – Alan glanced across the court as A. R. Butler rose and bowed – 'is appearing on behalf of the Department of Citizenship and Immigration, and my learned friend Mr Tolland' – Alan consulted a note he had made a moment ago -'represents the Nordic Shipping Company.' The lawyer beside Captain Jaabeck rose and bowed to the judge.

'All right,' Mr Justice Willis said gruffly, 'what's all this about?'

For all its gruffness, the question had a quiet irony. It was unlikely that even the remote figure of a Supreme Court judge – who presumably read newspapers – could have remained unaware during the past eleven days of the existence of Henri Duval. But it was a reminder also that the Court would concern itself solely with facts and submissions properly presented. Moreover, Alan was aware that the arguments he had outlined two days earlier must be restated here in full. Still nervously, at times his voice halting, he began. 'If it please Your Lordship, the facts of the matter are these.' Once more Alan Maitland described the status of Henri Duval aboard the Vastervik, coupled with Captain Jaabeck's 'refusal' on two occasions to bring the stowaway before immigration authorities ashore. Again he submitted the argument that this constituted an illegal imprisonment of Duval, violating, in turn, a principle of individual human rights.

Even while speaking Alan was aware of the flimsy structure he was building. But though his fluency and confidence were less than on the previous occasion, a dogged obstinacy kept him pounding on. To his right, as he spoke, he was aware of A. R. Butler, QC, listening politely, one ear cocked, and occasionally making a note on a pad of paper. Only once, as Alan glanced sideways, did the senior lawyer's expression betray a faint indulgent smile. Captain Jaabeck, he could see, was following his words intently.

Again, as he knew he must in these surroundings, Alan was careful to avoid reference to the emotional aspects of the case. But throughout, in a crevice of his mind, he remembered the young stowaway's haunting face with its strange admixture of hope and resignation. In an hour or two from now, which would dominate – the hope or resignation?

He ended with his own closing argument of two days ago: even a stowaway, he claimed, had the right to demand a special Department of Immigration inquiry into his immigration status. If such an inquiry were denied to all comers, perhaps even a bona fide Canadian citizen – temporarily without proof of identity – might be refused access to his own country. It was the same argument which had elicited a smile from Mr Justice Willis when presented before.

There was no smile now. Only, from the white-haired erect figure on the bench, a bleakness of impassivity.

Miserably conscious of what he thought of as his own inadequacy, after an address of ten minutes, Alan sat down.

Now the confident, broad-shouldered figure of A. R. Butler rose. With effortless dignity – like a Roman senator, Alan thought – he faced the bench.

'My lord' – the urbane, deep voice filled the courtroom – 'I have listened with both interest and admiration to the argument of my distinguished colleague, Mr Maitland.'

There was a studied pause in which Tom Lewis whispered, 'The bastard managed to say you were inexperienced without ever using the word.'

Alan nodded. He had thought the same thing.

The voice continued: 'Interest because Mr Maitland has presented a most novel inversion of a somewhat simple point of law; admiration because of a remarkable ability to make bricks – or seem to make them – from the merest handful of legal straw.'

From anyone else it would have been crude and brutal. From A. R. Butler, delivered with a cordial smile, the words seemed a good-natured homily with the merest edge of gentle ribbing.

Behind Alan someone tittered.

R. Butler continued, 'The plain truth of the matter, as I shall seek to show, my lord, is that my friend's client, Mr Duval, of whose peculiar problem we are all aware and to which, I may say, the Department of Immigration is extremely sympathetic… The truth of the matter is that Duval is detained, not illegally, but legally, pursuant to a detention order, issued with due and proper process under the Immigration Act of Canada. Furthermore, I shall submit to Your Lordship that the captain of the vessel Vastervik has acted with entire legality in detaining Duval, as my 'earned friend reports is being done. In fact, if the ship's captain had failed to do this…' circuitously, sometimes returning again to nibble, A. R. Butler dealt effectively with each item in turn, then moved swiftly to the next.

His arguments were convincing: that the detention was legal; that everything necessary by law had been done; that the ship's captain had not erred nor, in its procedures, had the Department of Immigration; that, as a stowaway, Henri Duval had no legal rights and therefore a special immigration inquiry could not be demanded; that Alan's argument about a hypothetical Canadian citizen being denied entry was so flimsy as to be laughable. And laugh – good-naturedly, of course -A. R. Butler did.

It was, Alan admitted to himself, a superb performance. A. R. Butler concluded: 'My lord, I ask for dismissal of the application and discharge of the order nisi.' After bowing ceremoniously, he resumed his seat.

As though a star had been on stage and gone, there was a stillness in the small courtroom. Since his original words – 'What's this all about?' – Mr Justice Willis had not spoken. Even though emotion had no place here, Alan had expected at least some show of judicial concern, but there had been none. As far as the bench was concerned they might, he thought, have been discussing bricks or cement, and not a living human being. Now the judge moved, changing his ramrod-like position in the high-backed judicial chair, studying his notes, reaching out for ice water which he sipped. The reporters were becoming restive, Alan observed; he noticed several checking their watches. For some, he supposed, a deadline was approaching. Although it was after eleven o'clock, the room was still unusually full. Only a few of the lawyers with other business had left and now, turning his head, he noticed that more seats behind had filled.

For the first time Alan was conscious of the sounds of the city from outside: the wind, rising and falling; traffic; a reverberating rumble that sounded like pneumatic drills; distantly a bell; and from the water front a tugboat's brass horn: perhaps a ship was leaving, as the Vastervik would leave soon, with or without Henri Duval. Well, in a moment they would know.

In the quiet, a chair scraped back. It was Tolland, the shipping-company lawyer. In a voice which rasped oddly in contrast to the mellifluous tones of A. R. Butler, he began, 'If Your Lordship pleases…'

Mr Justice Willis looked up sharply from his notes and across the courtroom. 'No, Mr Tolland,' he said, 'I need not trouble you.'

The lawyer bowed and sat down.

So that was it.

The judge's interjection meant one thing only. Alan's case had collapsed and no additional argument was needed to help demolish it.

'Well,' Tom whispered. 'At least we tried.'

Alan nodded. He supposed that all along he had expected defeat. After all, he had known from the beginning that his strategy was no more than a long shot. But now that defeat had come, there was a taste of bitterness. He wondered how much to blame was his own inexperience, his verbal awkwardness in court. If he had been more assured – as convincing, say, as A. R. Butler, QC – might he have succeeded instead of failed?

Or if he had had the better fortune to appear before another judge – more sympathetic than the austere, forbidding figure upon the bench – would the result be different now? As it happened, it would not.

In the mind of Mr Justice Stanley Willis the decision he was about to render had appeared inevitable before either lawyer had begun to speak. He had, in fact, recognized the glaring weakness of Alan Maitland's case, despite its equally obvious ingenuity, within seconds of its presentation two days earlier.

But at the time there had been sufficient grounds to grant the order nisi. Now, however – to the judge's keen regret -there were no grounds for issuance of a habeas corpus writ.

Mr Justice Willis considered A. R. Butler, QC, an exhibitionist and a poseur. The rhetoric and flowing speech, the show of affable benevolence, were histrionic tricks in the bag which might, and did, influence juries, but judges were often less impressed. Nevertheless there was nothing wrong with A. R. Butler's legal knowledge, and the arguments he had just concluded were virtually unanswerable.

Mr Justice Willis must – and in a moment would – reject the habeas corpus application. But he wished fervently that there were some way in which he could help the young lawyer Alan Maitland and, thereby, Henri Duval.

The wish had two origins. First, as an avid newspaper reader, Mr Justice Willis had been convinced that the homeless stowaway should be given a chance to land and live in Canada. From the first report he had believed that the Immigration Department should waive regulations as had been done, he knew, for countless others. It had astounded and angered him to learn that not only would this not be done, but that the Government – through its immigration officials – had taken what he considered to be an inflexible and arbitrary stand.

The second reason was that Mr Justice Willis liked what he had seen of Alan Maitland. The awkwardness, an occasional stumbling, mattered not in the least in the judge's mind; a sound lawyer, as he well knew, need be no Demosthenes.

When the Duval case had broken in the newspapers Mr Justice Willis had assumed that one of the senior members of the bar, out of compassion for the stowaway, would promptly volunteer legal aid. At first it had saddened him that no one had done so, then, at the news that a single young lawyer had filled the breach, he had been secretly pleased. Now, watching Alan Maitland, the pleasure had extended into pride.

His own involvement in the case had, of course, been entirely coincidental. And naturally no personal prejudice must influence his judicial function. All the same, sometimes there were small things a judge could do…

It all depended, Mr Justice Willis thought, on how astute the youthful counsel for Henri Duval turned out to be.

Briefly the judge announced his reasons for upholding the argument of A. R. Butler. The captain's detention of Duval conformed to the Immigration Department's lawful detention order, the judge ruled. Therefore it was not an illegal detention for which habeas corpus could be issued. He added gruffly: 'The application is dismissed.'

Preparing to leave, Alan was gloomily putting papers into a briefcase when the same voice said distinctly, 'Mr Maitland!' Alan rose. 'Yes, my lord.'

The bushy eyebrows seemed even more formidable. Alan wondered what was coming. A sharply worded reprimand, perhaps. Others, who had stood up to leave, resumed their seats.

'You stated in argument,' the judge proclaimed sternly, 'that your client has a right to an immigration hearing. The logical course, I suggest, is for you to apply for that hearing to the Department of Citizenship and Immigration whose officials' – Mr Justice Willis glanced at the group of which Edgar Kramer was the centre – 'will undoubtedly facilitate what you are seeking.'

'But, my lord…' Alan began impatiently. He stopped, frustrated, seething. Even with legal circumlocutions there was no way you could say to a judge of the province's Supreme Court: 'What you are telling me is nonsense. Haven't you heard? – the Immigration Department refuses to grant a hearing, which is the reason we have been arguing here today.

Didn't you listen to what was said? Or understand? Or were you just asleep?'

It was bad enough, Alan thought, to have drawn a hard, unfeeling judge. To be obliged to suffer a fool into the bargain was a crowning mockery.

'Of course,' Mr Justice Willis observed, 'if the Immigration Department proved adamant, you could always apply for a writ of mandamus, couldn't you?'

Heated words sprang to Alan's tongue. This was too much to endure. Wasn't it enough to have lost without…

A darting thought stopped him. Alongside he could see Tom Lewis, his expression a mixture of impatience and disgust. Obviously, Tom also had shared his feelings about the absurd suggestion of the judge.

And yet…

Alan Maitland's mind raced back… through half-remembered law-school lectures… dusty law books, opened and forgotten… Somewhere he was sure there was a key, if he could turn it… Then memory stirred; pieces fell in place.

Alan's tongue touched his lips. Facing the bench he said slowly, 'If it please Your Lordship…'

The eyes impaled him. 'Yes, Mr Maitland?'

A moment ago Alan had heard quiet footsteps going towards the outer door. Now they were returning. A chair creaked as the owner of the feet sat down. The others in the courtroom waited.

A. R. Butler had his eyes on Alan's face. They shifted to the judge. And back.

Edgar Kramer was frankly puzzled. Alan observed that Kramer was also strangely restless. Several times he shifted around uneasily in his seat as if physically uncomfortable.

'Would Your Lordship be kind enough,' Alan asked, 'to repeat the last statement?'

The eyebrows beetled. Was there the faintest of smiles beneath them? It was hard to decide.

'I stated,' Mr Justice Willis answered, 'that if the Immigration Department was adamant, you could always apply for a writ of mandamus.'

A dawning comprehension – and anger – were mirrored in

A. R. Butler's face. In Alan's mind two words drummed out like starter's pistols: obiter dictum.

Obiter dictum: that which is said by the way… a judge's opinion, off the cuff, on a point of law not material to his immediate decision… Obiter dictum, without binding authority… intended for guidance… Guidance.

Mr Justice Willis had spoken casually, as if an offhand thought had come and gone. But there was nothing casual, Alan now realized, about the mind of this shrewd judge whom he had so falsely suspected of indifference and dozing.

'Thank you, my lord,' Alan said. 'I shall apply for mandamus immediately.'

A writ of mandamus was not material today. But it could be, if applied for. Mandamus, the ancient 'we command!'… instructing a public officer to do his public duty… prerogative of English kings since the Reformation, and nowadays of judges, though seldom invoked.

Such a writ, directed to Edgar Kramer with all the power of the court behind it, would compel him to hold the hearing Alan sought without delay or further question. And by obiter dictum Mr Justice Willis had made clear that a mandamus writ, if sought, would now be granted.

'Look at them huddling,' Tom Lewis whispered. 'They're in a real sweat.'

Across the courtroom, heads together, A. R. Butler, Edgar Kramer and the shipping-company lawyer were engaged in urgent, low-voiced discussion.

After a moment A. R. Butler, red-faced and no longer affable, rose and faced the bench. With barely controlled politeness, he said, 'I request Your Lordship's permission for a few moments' discussion with my client.'

'Very well.' His fingertips together, the judge surveyed the ceiling as he waited. Counsel for the stowaway had been as alert and astute as he had hoped.

Alan sat down.

'Bless his old grey hairs!' Tom Lewis murmured.

'Did you get it?' Alan asked.

'I didn't at first,' Tom whispered, 'I do now. Good for you!'

Alan nodded. Inwardly beaming, he was careful not to show it.

The judge's seemingly casual words had, he knew, placed the other side in an impossible position. The Immigration Department, in the person of Edgar Kramer, must choose immediately between one of two courses: either continue to refuse the special inquiry which Alan sought, or change its mind and grant it. If the first choice were made, Alan could apply for the writ of mandamus which would force Kramer's hand. Moreover, by taking his time about obtaining the writ and serving it, Alan could make certain that Henri Duval was ashore, enmeshed in legal proceedings, when the Vastervik sailed.

On the other hand – as Edgar Kramer had shrewdly pointed out at their first meeting – if the department granted the hearing it would have recognized Henri Duval officially, thus opening the way to further legal steps, including avenues of appeal. And this way too, chances were good that procedures could be extended until the Vastervik had gone leaving Henri Duval in Canada as a fait accompli.

A. R. Butler was on his feet again. Some, though not all, of the apparent good humour had returned. But behind him Edgar Kramer was scowling.

'My lord, I wish to announce that the Department of Citizenship and Immigration, having regard to Your Lordship's wishes – though not, I would point out, legally bound to do so – has decided to hold a special inquiry into the case of my friend's client, Mr Duval.'

Leaning forward, Mr Justice Willis said sharply, 'I expressed no wish.'

'If Your Lordship pleases…'

'I expressed no wish,' the judge repeated firmly. 'If the department chooses to hold a hearing, it is its own decision. But there has been no pressure from this source. Is that clearly understood, Mr Butler?'

A. R. Butler appeared to swallow. 'Yes, my lord, it is understood.'

Facing Alan, the judge asked sternly, 'Are you satisfied, Mr Maitland?'

Alan rose, 'Yes, my lord,' he answered. 'Entirely satisfied.'

There was a second hurried consultation between A. R. Butler and Edgar Kramer. The latter appeared to be making an emphatic point. The lawyer nodded several times and, at the end, was smiling. Now he faced the judge again.

'There is one further point, my lord.'

'Yes?'

Glancing sideways towards Alan, A. R. Butler asked, 'Would Mr Maitland be free for further consultation on this matter later today?'

Mr Justice Willis frowned. This was time wasting. Private meetings between opposing counsel were no business of the court's.

With a sense of embarrassment for Butler, Alan nodded and answered, 'Yes.' Now that he had gained his objective there was no point, he thought, in being uncooperative.

Ignoring the judge's frown, A. R. Butler said blandly, 'I am glad of Mr Maitland's assurance on that point because in view of the special circumstances it would seem expedient to bring on this matter promptly. Therefore the Department of Citizenship and Immigration proposes to hold the special inquiry later today at a time convenient to Mr Maitland and his client.'

He had, Alan realized glumly, been neatly hooked by an expert angler. Except for his own too eager assent of a moment earlier, he could have objected to the short notice, pleaded other business…

The score, if you thought of it that way, was even.

The austere gaze of Mr Justice Willis was upon him. 'We may as well settle this. Is that agreeable, Mr Maitland?'

Alan hesitated, then glanced at Tom Lewis who shrugged. They shared the same thought, Alan knew: that once more Edgar Kramer had foreseen and forestalled their plan of delaying tactics – the only real resource they had. Now, with the special inquiry this afternoon, even the legal steps to follow might not last long enough to keep Henri Duval ashore until the Vastervik sailed. Victory, which a moment ago had seemed within reach, had now receded.

Reluctantly Alan said, 'Yes, my lord – agreeable.'

As A. R. Butler smiled benignly, the reporters scrambled for the door. Only one figure was ahead of them – Edgar Kramer, his face strained and body tense, was hurrying, almost running, from the courtroom.

Chapter 2

As Alan Maitland left the courtroom he was surrounded by a half-dozen reporters who had returned from telephoning their stories.

'Mr Maitland, what are the chances now?'… 'When do we get to see Duval?'… 'Hey, Maitland! – what's with this special inquiry?'… 'Yeah, what's so special about it?'… 'Tell us about that writ business. Did you get the wrong one?'

'No; Alan snapped. 'I didn't.'

More reporters were joining the group, partially blocking the already busy corridor.

'Then what the…'

'Look,' Alan protested, 'I can't talk about a case that's still under way. You all know that.'

'Explain that to my editor, chum…'

'For crying out loud, give us something!'

'All right,' Alan said. There was an immediate quietening. The group pressed in as people from other courts pushed by.

'The situation is simply that the Department of Immigration has agreed to hold a special inquiry into my client's case.'

Some of the passers-by looked at Alan curiously.

'Who does the inquiring?'

'Usually a senior immigration officer.'

'Will young Duval be present?'

'Of course,' Alan said. 'He has to answer questions.'

'How about you?'

'Yes, I'll be there.'

'Where is it held – this hearing?'

'At the Immigration Building.'

'Can we get in?'

'No. It's a departmental inquiry and it isn't open to the public or the Press.'

'Will there be a statement afterwards?'

'You'll have to ask Mr Kramer about that.'

Someone murmured: 'That stiff-necked sod!'

'What good will a hearing do if you couldn't get Duval in the country already?'

'Sometimes at a proper inquiry new facts come out which are important.' But it was only a slender hope, Alan knew. Any real chance for the youthful stowaway lay in legal delay, which now had been circumvented.

'What's your feeling about what happened this morning?'

'Sorry. I can't discuss that.'

Tom Lewis appeared quietly beside Alan.

'Hi; Alan greeted him. 'Where'd you disappear to?'

His partner replied softly, 'I was curious about Kramer, so I followed him out. Well, did you fix a time with your buddy, Butler?'

'I talked to him. We agreed on four o'clock;

A reporter asked, 'What was that?'

Alan answered, 'The special inquiry is to be held at four o'clock. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a lot to do before then.'

Disengaging himself from the group, he moved away with Tom Lewis.

Out of the reporters' hearing Alan asked, 'What was that about Kramer?'

'Nothing really. He was just in a hurry to get to the can. While I was there I hung out beside him and for a minute or two he seemed almost in pain. I figured the poor bastard has some kind of prostate trouble.'

It explained Edgar Kramer's restlessness in court, the obvious distress towards the end. The fact was insignificant; all the same, Alan filed it away mentally.

Walking along, they had come to the wide stone stairway leading to the main floor below.

A soft voice behind them said, 'Mr Maitland, could you answer one more question?'

'I already explained…' Alan turned, then stopped. 'All I wanted to know,' Sharon Deveraux said, her deep eyes innocent, 'was where are you going to lunch?'

Startled and pleased, Alan asked, 'Where did you spring from?'

'Spring is the word,' Tom said. He was looking at Sharon's hat, a wispy affair of velvet and net veiling. 'You remind me of it.'

'I was in court,' Sharon smiled. 'I snuck in at the back. I didn't understand it all, but I thought Alan was wonderful, didn't you?'

'Oh, sure,' Tom Lewis said. 'Of course, he just happened to have the judge in his pocket, but he was wonderful, all right.' 'Aren't lawyers supposed to be responsive?' Sharon said.

'No one's answered my question about lunch.'

'I hadn't planned anything,' Alan said, then brightened. 'Right by our office we could offer you a nice line in pizza pie.'

Together they began walking down the stairs, Sharon between them.

'Or streaming, creamy spaghetti,' Tom urged. 'With oozy hot meat sauce – the kind that trickles out both corners of your mouth and meets in rivulets at the chin.'

Sharon laughed. 'Some day I'd love to. What I really came to say, though, is that Granddaddy wondered if you could join him. He'd very much like to hear from you directly how things are going.'

The prospect of accompanying Sharon anywhere was enticing. All the same, Alan looked doubtfully at his watch.

'It needn't take long,' Sharon assured him. 'Granddaddy has a suite in the Georgia. He keeps it for when he's downtown, and he's there now.'

'You mean,' Tom asked curiously, 'he rents a suite there all the time?'

'I know.' Sharon nodded. 'It's dreadfully extravagant and

I'm always telling him so. Sometimes it goes for weeks without being used.'

'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,' Tom told her airily. 'I'm just sorry I've never thought of it myself. Only the day before yesterday I was caught in a shower downtown with just a drugstore to go into.'

Sharon laughed again. At the foot of the stairs they halted.

For an instant Tom Lewis switched his glance between the faces of the other two: Sharon, lighthearted, unself-conscious;

Alan, at the moment serious, thoughtful, with a part of his mind still back in the courtroom where this morning's hearing had been held. And yet for all the outward difference, Tom Lewis thought, there was a warm affinity between the two. He suspected they could care about the same things. He wondered if they were aware of it yet.

Remembering his wife at home, pregnant, Tom gave an inward nostalgic sigh for carefree, single days.

'I'd love to come,' Alan said, meaning it. He took Sharon's arm. 'But do you mind if we hurry a bit? I have to be at that inquiry this afternoon.' There was just enough time, he decided – as a matter of courtesy – to fill Senator Deveraux in on the background of events so far.

Sharon asked, 'You'll join us as well, Mr Lewis, won't you?'

Tom shook his head. 'Thanks all the same, but this isn't my show. I'll walk to the hotel with you, though.'

With Alan and Tom on either side of the Senator's granddaughter, they left the echoing lobby of the Supreme Court Building by the Hornby Street side door. The cold of the narrow cavernous street outside was a sharp, biting contrast to the building's warm interior. A bitter blast of wind caught, and for a moment held them, and Sharon pulled her sable-trimmed coat tightly around her. She had a sense of pleasure at Alan's nearness.

'The weather's from the sea,' Tom said. There was a sidewalk excavation ahead and he led the way, jaywalking through traffic, to the northwest side of Hornby, turning towards West Georgia. 'It must be the coldest day of winter.'

With one hand Sharon was holding her impractical hat tightly. She told Alan, 'Every time I think of the sea I think of our stowaway, and what it must be like never going ashore. Is the ship as bad as the newspapers say?' He answered curtly, 'Worse, if anything.' 'Shall you mind very much – I mean really mind – if you don't win?'

With a vehemence that surprised himself Alan answered, 'I shall mind like hell. I shall wonder what kind of rotten, stinking country I belong to which can turn away someone homeless like this: a good man, young, who'd be an asset…'

Tom Lewis asked quietly, 'Are you sure about being an asset?'

'Yes.' Alan sounded surprised. 'Aren't you?'

'No,' Tom said. 'I don't think I am.'

'Why?' It was Sharon's question. They had come to West Georgia Street, waited for the lights, then crossed on green. 'Tell me why,' Sharon insisted. 'I don't know,' Tom said. They re-crossed Hornby, reached the Georgia Hotel and stopped, sheltering a little from the wind by the front entrance door. There was a dampness in the air which spoke of rain to come. 'I don't know,' Tom repeated. 'It isn't something you can put a finger on. A sort of instinct, I guess.'

Alan asked abruptly, 'What makes you feel that way?'

'When I served the captain's order nisi I talked to Duval. I asked you if I could meet him, remember?'

Alan nodded. 'Well, I did, and tried to like him. But I had a feeing there was a flaw somewhere; a weakness. It was almost as if he had a crack down the middle – maybe not his own fault, maybe something his background put there.' 'What kind of a crack?' Alan frowned. 'I told you it wasn't something I could be specific about.

But I had a feeling that if we get him ashore and make him an immigrant, he'll come apart in pieces.'

Sharon said, 'Isn't that all rather vague?' She had a feeling of defensiveness, as if something Alan cared about were being assailed.

'Yes,' Tom answered. 'It's why I haven't mentioned it till now.'

'I don't think you're right,' Alan said shortly. 'But even if you are it doesn't change the legal situation – his rights and all the rest.'

'I know,' Tom Lewis said. 'That's what I keep telling myself.' He pulled his coat collar tighter, preparing to turn away. 'Anyhow, good luck this afternoon!'

Chapter 3

The substantial double doors of the twelfth-floor hotel suite were open as Alan and Sharon approached, along a carpeted corridor, from the elevator. All the way up, from the moment they had left Tom Lewis in the street below, he had had an exciting awareness of their closeness to each other. It still persisted as, through the doorway of the suite, Alan could see an elderly uniformed waiter transferring the contents of a room-service trolley – apparently a buffet luncheon – to a white-clothed table in the room's centre.

Senator Deveraux was seated in an upholstered wing chair, his back to the doorway, facing the harbour view which the centre window of the suite's living-room commanded. At the sound of Sharon's and Alan's entry he turned his head without rising.

'Well, Sharon my dear, my compliments to you for successfully ensnaring the hero of the hour.' The Senator offered Alan his hand. 'Allow me to congratulate you, my boy, on a most remarkable success.'

Alan took the proffered hand. Momentarily he was shocked to see how much frailer and aged the Senator appeared than at their last meeting. The old man's face had a marked pallor, its earlier ruddiness gone, and his voice, by comparison, was weak.

"There hasn't been a success by any means,' Alan said uncomfortably. 'Not even much of a dent, I'm afraid.'

'Nonsense, my boy! – even though your modesty becomes you. Why, a moment ago I was listening to a paean of praise about you on the radio news.'

'What did they say?' Sharon asked. 'It was described as a clear-cut victory for the forces of humanity against the monstrous tyranny of our existing Government.'

Alan asked doubtfully, 'Did they actually use those words?'

The Senator waved a hand airily. 'I may have paraphrased a little, but that was the gist of it all. And Alan Maitland, that young upstanding lawyer, justly armed, was described as having routed the opposing forces.'

'If someone really said that, they may have some fancy backtracking to do.' The elderly waiter was hovering beside them and Alan slipped off his overcoat, handing it to the man, who hung it in a closet, then discreetly left. Sharon disappeared through an adjoining door. Alan's eyes followed her, then he moved to a window seat and sat facing the Senator. 'We gained a temporary advantage, it's true. But through a piece of stupidity I managed to lose part of it.' He related what happened at judge's chambers and his own final outwitting by A.

R. Butler.

Senator Deveraux nodded sagely. 'Even so, I would say your efforts have produced a splendid outcome.'

'So they did,' Sharon said, returning to join them. She had taken off her outdoor clothes, revealing a soft woollen dress.

'Alan was simply magnificent.'

Alan smiled resignedly. It seemed useless to protest. 'All the same,' he said, 'we're a long way from getting Henri Duval admitted here as a landed immigrant.'

The older man made no immediate answer, his eyes returning to the waterfront and harbour spread beneath them. Turning his head, Alan could see Burrard Inlet, spume flecked from the streaming wind, the North Shore whipped by spray. A ship was leaving port – a grain boat, low in the water, laden; from the markings it looked Japanese. A Vancouver Island ferry headed in, cutting white water through the First Narrows, beginning a wide starboard turn towards the CPR pier. Elsewhere were other arrivals, departures: of ships and men, cargoes, commerce, the weft and warp of a busy deep-sea port.

At length the Senator said, 'Well, of course, in the end we may not achieve that final objective of landing our stowaway. One can win battles and lose a war. But never underestimate the importance of the battles, my boy, particularly, in political affairs.'

'I. think we've gone over that. Senator,' Alan rejoined. 'I'm not concerned about the politics, just in doing the best I can for my client!'

'Indeed! Indeed!' The old man's voice, for the first time held a trace of testiness. 'And I think you'll allow that you lose no opportunity to point it out. Sometimes, if I may say so, there is nothing quite so tedious as the self-righteousness of the very young.'

Alan flushed at the rebuke.

'But you'll forgive an old campaigner,' the Senator said, 'if I rejoice in the discomfiture which, in certain quarters, your resourceful actions have aroused.'

'I guess there's no harm in that.' Alan tried to make the remark sound light. He had an uncomfortable feeling of having been boorish without need.

Behind them a telephone bell rang. The room-service waiter, who had quietly reappeared, answered. The man moved familiarly around, Alan noticed, as if he were used to the habits of this private suite and had served the Senator many times before.

To Alan and Sharon the Senator said, 'Why don't you two young people have lunch? It's there behind you. I think you'll find whatever you need.'

'All right,' Sharon said. 'But aren't you having something, Granddaddy?'

The Senator shook his head. 'Perhaps later, my dear; not now.'

The waiter put down the telephone and came forward. He announced, 'It's your call to Ottawa, Senator, and they have Mr Bonar Deitz on the line. Will you take it here?'

'No, I'll go in the bedroom.' The old man eased upward in the chair, then, as if the effort were too much for him, fell back. 'Dear me, I seem to be a little heavy today.'

Concernedly, Sharon came to his side. 'Granddaddy, you shouldn't try to do so much!'

'Stuff and nonsense!' The Senator reached out, taking

Sharon's hands, and she helped him to his feet.

'May I, sir?' Alan offered his arm. 'No, thank you, my boy. I'm not ready for cripplehood yet.

It's merely to overcome gravity that I need some trifling help. Perambulation I've always managed myself and always shall, I hope.'

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 trace 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 said. 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?'

'No, Henri.' Alan shook his head slowly, then put a hand on the stowaway's shoulder under the darned blue jersey. 'I'm sorry… I guess you knocked at the wrong door.'