In High Places

Chapter 1

From the surface of his office desk, the deportation order against Henri Duval stared up at Alan Maitland.

… 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 the country of your birth, or to such country as may be approved…

Since the edict at the special inquiry five days earlier, the order had etched itself into Alan's mind until, eyes closed, he could repeat the words from memory. And he had repeated them often, searching in the official phraseology for a minute loophole, some tiny weakness, a cavity into which the probing antennae of the law might go.

But there had been none.

He had read statutes and old law cases, first by the dozen and later by the hundred, labouring at their involved and stilted language far into each night until his eyes were red rimmed, his body aching for lack of sleep. Through most of the daytime hours Tom Lewis had joined him in the Supreme Court law library, where together they had explored indexes, reviewed abridgements, and scrutinized case reports in ancient, seldom-opened tomes. 'I don't need lunch,' Tom said on the second day. 'My stomach's full of dust.'

What they sought was a legal precedent which would demonstrate that the Immigration Department's handling of the Duval case was in error and therefore illegal. As Tom put it:

'We need something we can slap in front of a judge and say, "Jack, the bums can't screw us, and here's why."' And later, perched wearily atop a library ladder, Tom declared, 'It isn't what you know that makes a lawyer, it's knowing where to look, and we haven't found the right place.'

Nor had they found the right place in the remaining days of the search, which was now ended. 'There's just so much anyone can do,' Alan had admitted finally. 'I guess we might as well give up.'

Now it was two in the afternoon, Tuesday, January 9th. They had quit an hour ago.

There had been one brief interruption in their law library vigil – yesterday morning when a departmental board had considered Henri Duval's appeal against the outcome of the special inquiry. But it was a hollow, formal proceeding, the outcome predictable with Edgar Kramer as chairman of the board and two immigration officers the supporting members.

This was a part of the procedure which originally Alan had hoped to delay. After his own gaffe in court it had all been too swift…

Though knowing the effort wasted, Alan had presented argument as forcefully and thoroughly as if before a judge and jury. The board – including Edgar Kramer, punctiliously polite throughout – had listened attentively, then solemnly announced its decision in favour of the earlier verdict. Afterwards Alan had told Tom Lewis, 'It was like arguing with the Queen in Alice in Wonderland, only.a lot more dull.'

Tilting his chair back in the tiny, cluttered office, stifling a yawn from tiredness, Alan found himself regretting that the case was almost over. It seemed that there was nothing more he could do. The Vastervik – its repairs completed and now loading fresh cargo – was due to sail in four days' time. Sometime before then, perhaps tomorrow, he must go down to the ship to break the final news to Henri Duval. But he knew that it would not be unexpected news; the young stowaway had learned too much about human indifference for one more disavowal to surprise him greatly.

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 Orliffe 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 that 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.'

The tone and manner were ungracious. There was also a slight slurring of speech, the result, Richardson presumed, of the tumbler of what appeared to be neat whisky in Harvey Warrender's hand, and probably several others preceding it. It was not a situation, he thought, likely to help what he had come to do. Or perhaps it might; with some people the effect of liquor was unpredictable.

The party director moved inside, stepping on to a deep Persian rug centred in a wide, oak-floored hallway. Harvey War-render gestured to a straight-backed Queen Anne chair. 'Leave -your coat,' he commanded, then, without waiting, walked down the hallway to a door already opened. Richardson slipped off his heavy overcoat and followed.

Warrender nodded to the room beyond the door, and Brian Richardson preceded him into a square, spacious study. Three of the walls, from floor to ceiling, were lined with books, many of them, Richardson noted, with expensive hand-tooled bindings. A massive stone fireplace centred the fourth mahogany-panelled wall. Earlier a fire had been burning, but now only a few charred logs smouldered in the grate. A darkly polished mahogany desk was set to one side, with leather armchairs arranged in groups around the room.

But the dominating feature was above the fireplace.

A recessed rectangle had been built into the panelling of the wall and within the rectangle illuminated by skilfully concealed lighting, was a painting of a young man in air force uniform. It was a similar, but larger version, of the painting in Harvey Warrender's office.

The base of the rectangle, Richardson observed, formed a shelf and on it were three objects – a small-scale model, of a World War II Mosquito bomber, a folded map in a pocket-size plastic case and, centred between the other two, an air force officer's cap, the cloth and cap badge faded and tarnished. With a mental shudder the party director remembered Milly's words: 'a sort of shrine'.

Harvey Warrender had come close behind him. 'You're looking at my son, Howard,' he said. The observation was more gracious than any other so far. It was also accompanied by a blast of whisky-laden breath.

'Yes,' Richardson said, 'I expected that's who it was.' He had a sense of going through a ritual enforced upon all visitors. It was one which he wanted to get away from quickly.

But Harvey Warrender was not to be deterred. 'You're wondering about the things beneath the picture, I expect,' he said. 'They were all Howard's. I had them sent back to me – everything he had when he was killed in action. I have a cupboard-fill and I change them every few days. Tomorrow I shall take away the little aeroplane and put a pocket compass there. Next week I have a wallet of Howard's which I shall substitute for the map. I leave the cap there most of the time. Sometimes I have the feeling he'll walk into this room and put it on.'

What could you say in answer? Richardson thought. He wondered how many others had suffered the same embarrassment. A goodly number, if rumour were true.

'He was fine,' Warrender said. His speech was still slurred. 'Fine in character through and through, and he died a hero. I expect you've heard that.' Sharply: 'You must have heard it.'

'Well,' Richardson began, then stopped. He had the feeling that whatever he said, there would be no stemming the other's flow of words.

'There was an air raid over France,' the Immigration Minister declared. His voice warmed, as if he had told the story many times before. 'They were flying Mosquitoes – two-seater bombers like the little model there. Howard didn't have to go. He'd already done more than his share of operations, but he volunteered. He was in command of the squadron.'

'Look,' Richardson interjected, 'don't you think we should…' He wanted to stop this; stop it now, at once…

Warrender did not even hear the interruption. He boomed, "Thanks to Howard, the raid was a success. The target was heavily defended but they clobbered it. That's what they used to say, "clobbered the target".'

With a sense of helplessness-the party director listened.

'Then, on the way back, Howard's aeroplane was hit, and Howard mortally wounded. But he went on flying… a crippled aeroplane… fighting it every mile of the way home; wanted to save his navigator… though dying himself…' Warrender's voice broke; he appeared, alcoholically, to be stifling a sob.

Oh God, Richardson thought; for God's sake let this end. But it went on.

'He made it home… and landed; the navigator safe… and Howard died.' Now the voice changed and became querulous. 'He should have been awarded a posthumous VC. Or at least a DFC. Sometimes, even now, I think I should go after it… for Howard's sake.'

'Don't!' The party director raised his voice, determined to make himself heard. 'Let the past stay dead. Leave it alone.'

The Immigration Minister raised his glass and drained it. He gestured at Richardson. 'If you want a drink, mix it yourself.'

'Thanks.' Brian Richardson turned to the desk where there was a tray of glasses, ice, and bottles. I need this, he thought. He poured a generous rye, added ice and ginger ale.

When he turned around, it was to find Harvey Warrender watching him intently. 'I've never liked you,' the Immigration Minister said. 'Right from the beginning I never did.'

Brian Richardson shrugged. 'Well, I guess you're not the only one.'

'You were Jim Howden's man, not mine,' Warrender insisted. 'When Jim wanted you to be party director I spoke out against it. I guess Jim's told you that, trying to set you against me.'

'No, he never told me.' Richardson shook his head. 'And I don't think he'd want to set me against you either. There'd be no reason for it.'

Abruptly Warrender asked, 'What did you do in the war?'

'Oh, I was in the Army for a while. Nothing very spectacular.' He forebore to mention three years in the desert -North Africa, then Italy, through some of the toughest wartime fighting. Ex-Sergeant Richardson seldom spoke of it now, even to close friends. War reminiscences, the parade of hollow victories, bored him.

'That's the trouble with you fellows who had soft billets. You all came through. Those that mattered most…' Harvey Warrender's eyes swung back to the portrait'… a good many of those didn't.'

'Mr Minister,' the party director said, 'couldn't we sit down? There's something I'd like to talk to you about.' He wanted to have done with it all, and get out of this house. For the first time he wondered about Harvey Warrender's sanity.

'Go on then.' The Immigration Minister pointed to two facing armchairs.

Richardson dropped into one of the chairs as Warrender crossed to the desk, splashing whisky into his glass. 'All right,' he said, returning and sitting down, 'get on with it.'

He might as well, Richardson decided, come directly to the point.

He said quietly, 'I know about the agreement between you and the Prime Minister – the leadership, the television franchise, all the rest.'

There was a startled silence. Then, his eyes narrowed, Harvey Warrender snarled, 'Jim Howden told you. He's a double-crossing…'

'No.' Richardson shook his head emphatically. 'The chief didn't tell me, and he doesn't know that I'm aware of it. If he did, I think he'd be shocked.'

'You lying son of a bitch!' Warrender jumped up, weaving unsteadily.

'You can think that if you like,' Richardson said calmly. 'But why would I bother lying? In any case, how I know doesn't make any difference. The fact is, I do.'

'All right,' Warrender stormed, 'so you've come here to blackmail me. Well, let me tell you, Mr Fancy-Pants Party Director, I don't care about that agreement being known. Instead of your threatening me with exposure, I'll get the last laugh yet. I'll beat you to it! I'll call the reporters and tell them – here, tonight!'

'Please sit down,' Brian Richardson urged, 'and shouldn't we lower our voices? We might disturb your wife.'

'She's out,' Harvey Warrender said shortly. 'There's no one else in the house.' But he resumed his seat.

'I haven't come here to threaten,' the party director said. 'I've come to plead.' He would try the obvious way first, he thought. He had little hope of it succeeding. But the alternative must only be used when everything else had failed.

'Plead?' Warrender queried. 'What do you mean by plead?'

'Exactly that. I'm pleading with you to give up your hold over the chief; to let the past be finished; to surrender that written agreement…'

'Oh yes,' Warrender said sarcastically, 'I imagined you'd get around to that.'

Richardson tried to make his tone persuasive. 'No good can come from it now, Mr Minister. Don't you see that?'

'All I can see, suddenly, is why you're doing this. You're trying to protect yourself. If I expose Jim Howden, he's finished, and when he goes, so do you.'

'I expect that would happen,' Richardson said tiredly. 'And you can believe it or not, but I hadn't thought too much about it.'

It was true, he reasoned; that possibility had been least in his mind. He wondered: why was he doing this? Was it personal loyalty to James Howden? That was part of it, he supposed; but surely the real answer should be more than that. Wasn't it that Howden, with all his faults, had been good for the country as Prime Minister; and whatever indulgences he had taken, as a means of retaining power, he had given more, far more, in return? He deserved better – and so did Canada – than defeat in disgrace and ignominy. Perhaps, Brian Richardson thought, what he himself was doing now was a kind of patriotism, twice removed.

'No,' Harvey Warrender said. 'My answer is positively and finally no.' '

So, after all, the weapon must be used.

There was a silence as the two surveyed each other.

'If I were to tell you,' the party director said slowly, 'that I possess certain knowledge which would force you to change your mind… knowledge which, even between ourselves I am reluctant to discuss… would you change your mind, change it even now?'

, The Immigration Minister said firmly, 'There is no know-, ledge in heaven or earth which would make me alter what I have already said.'

'I think there is,' Brian Richardson contended quietly. 'You see, I know the truth about your son.'

It seemed as if the quiet in the room would never end.

At length, his face pale, Harvey Warrender whispered, 'What do you know?'

'For God's sake,' Richardson urged, 'isn't it enough that I know? Don't make me spell it out.'

Still a whisper. 'Tell me what it is you know.'

There was to be nothing presumed, nothing unsaid, no avoidance of the grim and tragic truth.

'All right,' Richardson said softly. 'But I'm sorry you've insisted.' He looked the other directly in the eye. 'Your son Howard was never a hero. He was court-martialled for cowardice in the face of the enemy, for deserting and imperilling his companions, and for causing the death of his own aircraft navigator. The court martial found him guilty oh all counts. He was awaiting sentence when he committed suicide by hanging.'

Harvey Warrender's face was drained of colour.

With grim reluctance, Richardson went on, 'Yes, there was a raid to France. But your son wasn't in command, except of his own aeroplane with a single navigator. And he didn't volunteer. It was his first mission, the very first.'

The party director's lips were dry. He moistened them with his tongue, then continued: 'The squadron was flying defensive formation. Near the target they came under heavy attack. The other aeroplanes pressed on and bombed; some were lost. Your son – despite the pleas of his own navigator – broke formation and turned back, leaving his companions vulnerable.'

Warrender's hands trembled as he put the whisky glass ''' down.

'On the way back,' Richardson said, 'the aeroplane was ' struck by shellfire. The navigator was badly wounded, but your son was unhurt. Nevertheless your son left the pilot's seat and refused to fly. The navigator, despite his wounds and the fact that he was not a qualified pilot, took over in an attempt to bring the aeroplane home.'… If he closed his eyes, he nought, he could visualize the scene: the tiny, crowded, noisy cockpit, bloody from the navigator's wounds; the motors deafening; the gaping hole where the shell had hit, the wind tearing through, outside the bark of gunfire. And within… fear over all, like a dank and evil-smelling cloud. And, in the corner of the cockpit, the cowering, broken figure…

You poor bastard, Richardson thought. You poor benighted bastard. You broke, that's all. You crossed the hairline a good many of us wavered over. You did what others wanted to do often enough. God knows. Who are we to criticize you now? -

Tears were streaming down Harvey Warrender's face. Rising, he said brokenly, 'I don't want to hear any more.'

Richardson stopped. There was little more to tell: The crash landing in England – the best the navigator could do. The two of them pulled from the wreckage; Howard War-' render miraculously unhurt, the navigator dying… Afterwards the medics said he would have lived except for loss of blood through the exertion flying back… The court martial; the verdict – guilty… Suicide… And, in the end, reports hushed up; the subject closed.

But Harvey Warrender had known. Known, even as he built the false and foolish legend of a hero's death.

'What do you want?' he-asked brokenly. 'What do you want of me?'

Richardson told him evenly. 'That 'written agreement between you and the chief.'

Briefly a spark of resistance flared. 'And if I won't give it up?'

'I was hoping,' Richardson said, 'you wouldn't ask me that.'

'I am asking you.'

The party director sighed deeply. 'In that case I shall summarize the court martial proceedings and have mimeo copies made. The copies will be mailed, anonymously in plain envelopes, to everyone who counts in Ottawa – MPs, ministers, the press gallery, civil servants, your own department heads…'

'You swine!' Warrender choked on the words. 'You rotten evil swine.'

Richardson shrugged. 'I don't want to do it unless you force me.'

'People would understand,' Harvey Warrender said. The colour was returning to his face. 'I tell you they'd understand and sympathize. Howard was young; just a boy…'

'They'd always have sympathized,' Richardson said. 'And even now, they may feel sorry for your son. But not for you. They might have once, but not any more.' He nodded to the portrait in its illuminated recess, the absurd and useless relics beneath. 'They'll remember this charade, and you'll be the laughing stock of Ottawa.'

In his mind he wondered if it were true. There would be curiosity in plenty, and speculation, but perhaps little laughter. People sometimes were capable of unexpected depths of understanding and compassion. Most, perhaps, would wonder what strange quirk of mind had led Harvey Warrender to the deception he had practised. Had his own dreams of glory been reflected towards his son? Had the bitter disappointment, the tragedy of death, unhinged his mind? Richardson himself felt only an aching kind of pity.

But Warrender believed he would be laughed at. The muscles of his face were working. Suddenly he rushed to the fireplace and seized a poker from the stand beside it. Reaching up, he slashed savagely at the portrait, hacking, tearing, until only the frame and some shreds of canvas remained. With a single stroke he smashed the little aeroplane, then flung the map case and faded cap into the fireplace below. Turning, his breath coming fast, he asked, 'Well, are you satisfied?'

Richardson was standing too. He said quietly, 'I'm sorry you did that. It wasn't necessary.'

The tears were beginning again. The Immigration Minister went, almost docilely, to a chair. As if instinctively, he reached for the whisky glass he had put down earlier. 'All right,' he said softly, 'I'll give you the agreement.'

'And all copies, as well as your assurance that no more exist?'

Warrender nodded.

'When?'

'It will take two or three days. I have to go to Toronto. The paper is in a safety deposit box there.'

'Very well,' Richardson instructed. 'When you get it I want you to give it directly to the chief. And he is not to know about what happened here tonight. That's part of our agreement, you understand?'

Again a nod.

That way he would be taking the arrangement on trust. But there would be no defection now. He was sure of that.

Harvey Warrender lifted his head and there was hatred in his eyes. It was amazing, Richardson thought, how the other man's moods and emotions could ebb and flow so swiftly.

'There was a time,' Warrender said slowly, 'when I could have broken you.' With a touch of petulance, he added, 'I'm still in the Cabinet, you know.'

Richardson shrugged indifferently. 'Maybe. But frankly, I don't think you count for anything any more.' At the doorway he called over his shoulder, 'Don't get up, I'll let myself out.'

Chapter 3

Driving away, the reaction set in: shame, disgust, an abyss of depression.

More than anything else, at this moment, Brian Richardson wanted warm, human companionship. Nearing the city centre, he stopped by a pay phone and, leaving the Jaguar's motor running, dialled Milly's number. He prayed silently: Please be at home; tonight I need you. Please, please. The ringing tone continued unanswered. Eventually he hung up.

There was no other place to go but his own apartment. He even found himself hoping that, just this once, Eloise might be there. She was not.

He walked through the empty, lonely rooms, then took a tumbler, an unopened bottle of rye, and proceeded methodically to get drunk.

Two hours later, shortly after 1 AM, Eloise Richardson, cool, beautiful, and elegantly gowned, let herself in by the apartment front door. Entering the living-room, with its ivory walls and Swedish walnut furniture, she found her husband prostrate and snoring drunkenly on the off-white broadloom. Beside him were an empty bottle and an overturned glass.

Wrinkling her nose in contemptuous disgust, Eloise proceeded to her own bedroom and, as usual, locked the door.