In High Places

Chapter 1

In the drawing-room of his Hotel Vancouver suite, James Howden handed his executive assistant, Elliot Prowse, a one-dollar bill. 'Go down to the lobby,' he instructed, 'and get me six chocolate bars.'

If he ever wrote his memoirs, he decided, he would point out that one of the advantages of being Prime Minister was that you could send someone else to buy your sweets. Surely that should prove a spur to any ambitious child!

When the young man – serious-faced, as always – had gone, James Howden closed the door to the room outside, shutting off the noise of telephones and clattering typewriters, manned by the temporary staff of party volunteers. Settling into an easy chair, he considered the progress of his whirlwind speaking tour so far.

Without any question it was proving a brilliant, -personal success.

In all his political life James Howden had never risen to greater heights of oratory or wooed audiences with more effect. The speech writers who had been recruited by Brian Richardson – one from Montreal, the other a Time-and-Lifer from New York – had done their work well. But even better, at times, were Howden's own improvisations, when he discarded prepared scripts and spoke with conviction and a genuine emotion which conveyed itself to most who listened.

Principally he talked – prepared and unprepared – of the North American heritage and the pressures of rival ideologies which threatened its survival. It was a time for unity, he declared; a time to make an end of smallness and bickering; a time to rise above petty issues, putting the greater cause of human freedom first.

People reacted as if the words were what they had wanted to hear; a leadership they sought…

As planned, the Prime Minister had made no mention of the Act of Union. Constitutionally, that must be revealed to Parliament first.

But there was a sense of timeliness; as if the nation was ready for closer union with the United States. James Howden sensed it, and his political instinct for the winds of change had seldom been wrong.

In Toronto his audience had stood, cheering, for minutes on end. In Fort William, Winnipeg, Regina, Calgary, Edmonton, his reception had been the same or similar. Now, as the final stop before returning East, he had come to Vancouver where tonight, in the Queen Elizabeth Civic Theatre, he would address an audience of three thousand.

Press coverage of his tour, as well as press reaction, had been remarkably good. In newspapers, as on TV and radio, his own speeches were first-feature items. It was outstanding good luck, Howden thought, that over the past several days there had been a remarkable absence of competing news, and that, so far, neither a major disaster, some lurid sex killing nor a localized outbreak of war had intervened to snatch the spotlight away.

It was true there had been minor annoyances. The incident of the would-be immigrant, Henri Duval, was still mentioned daily in the newspapers, and criticisms of the Government's stand on the matter had continued. There had also been the demonstrators, with placards supporting the stowaway at every stop, and some heckling on the subject at those of his meetings which had been open to the public. But he sensed the clamour was dying, weakening.- perhaps because nothing was eclipsed faster than enthusiasm for a lost cause.

He wished young Prowse would hurry.

A moment later, his pockets bulging with chocolate, the subject of his thoughts came in.

'Would you like one?' the Prime Minister asked. He removed a wrapper himself and began contentedly chewing.

'No, thank you sir,' the executive assistant responded. 'To tell me truth, I don't care much for sweet things.'

You wouldn't, Howden thought. Aloud he said, 'Have you talked to the local man here in charge of immigration?'

'Yes, he was in this morning. His name is Kramer.'

'What's he say about this Duval business?'

'He assured me there is nothing further legally that the man's sponsors can do. It would appear that the case is virtually defunct.'

Only Elliot Prowse, Howden thought, would use words like 'virtually defunct' in conversation. 'Well,' he said, 'this time I hope he's right. I don't mind telling you, though, I'll be glad when the corpse is removed. When does the ship sail?'

'The evening of the day after tomorrow.'

The same day, Howden thought, on which he would announce the Act of Union in Ottawa.

'Mr Kramer was most anxious to see you personally,' the executive assistant said. 'He seemed to want to explain his actions in the case. But I told him it was quite impossible.'

Howden nodded approval. Plenty of civil servants would like to explain their actions to the Prime Minister, especially when they had mismanaged a situation. Obviously Kramer was no exception.

'You can relay a message to him,' James Howden said. It would do no harm, he decided, to give the man a jolt. 'Tell him that I was extremely dissatisfied with his handling of the case in judge's chambers. He should not have offered a special inquiry. It merely reopened the affair when it was almost closed.'

'It was that, I think, he wanted to explain…'

'Inform him that I expect better performance in the future,' Howden added firmly. His tone made it plain that the subject was closed.

The executive assistant hesitated, then said apologetically, 'There's the other matter, also about Duval. The man's lawyer, Mr Maitland, has arrived to see you. You remember you agreed…'

'For God's sake!' In a sudden burst of temper the Prime Minister slammed his hand on the table beside him. 'Is there never to be an end…?'

'I was wondering that myself, sir.' A year or so ago, when " Elliot Prowse had been new, one of James Howden's temper tantrums could leave him upset for days. More recently he had learned to take them in his stride.

The Prime Minister inquired angrily, 'It was that damned interfering newspaper's idea, wasn't it?'

'Yes, the Vancouver Post. They suggested…'

'I know what they suggested, and it's typical.' He stormed on, 'Newspapers aren't content with reporting the news any more. They have to make it themselves.'

'But you did agree…'

'I know damn well I agreed! Why do you keep telling me what I already know?'

Wooden-faced, Prowse answered, 'Because I wasn't sure if you remembered.'

Sometimes Howden wondered if his executive assistant was as completely humourless as he seemed.

The request had been made to him yesterday in Calgary, after the Vancouver Post had run a news story saying that the lawyer, Maitland, would seek an interview with the Prime Minister when he reached the West Coast. The wire services had picked up the item and broadcast it.

After a telephone discussion with Brian Richardson they had agreed there was only one answer he could give. Now Maitland was here.

'All right,' James Howden instructed bleakly. 'Send him in.'

Alan Maitland had been waiting for three quarters of an hour in an outer room of the hotel suite and, with the passage of each few minutes, his nervousness and uncertainty had increased. Now, as he was ushered into the inner room, he wondered what he was doing here at all.

'Good morning,' the Prime Minister said briskly. 'I understand you wished to see me.'

The two appraised each other warily. Interest overcoming nervousness, Alan saw a tall figure, slightly stooped, slumped into a comfortable upholstered chair. The features – heavy hawklike face, brooding eyes, and long-beaked nose – were familiar from a thousand newspaper pages and television screens. And yet the face was older, more seamed than pictures showed it. There was an air of tiredness he had not expected.

'Thank you for seeing me, Mr Prime Minister,' Alan said. 'I wanted to appeal to you personally on behalf of Henri Duval.'

Young lawyers were younger than ever nowadays, James Howden thought. Or was it simply that to older lawyers, becoming older still, they merely appeared that way? He wondered if, forty years ago, he himself had seemed as youthful and vigorous as the crew-cut, athletically built young man who stood, uncertainly, before him now.

'Well, sit down.' The Prime Minister indicated a facing chair, which Alan took. 'You will have to be brief, Mr Maitland, because I can't spare more than a few minutes.'

'I'd expected that, sir.' Alan was careful to keep his tone respectful. 'So I thought I'd omit the facts of the case. I imagine you've heard most of them already.'

'Heard them!' Howden resisted a sudden craving for hysterical laughter. 'Great heavens! – for weeks I seem to have heard nothing else.'

Alan smiled – a warm, boyish smile, Howden observed, which quickly came and went. Then, immediately serious, he began, 'There are a lot of things, Mr Prime Minister, which the facts don't tell: the conditions on the ship; a man cooped up in a hole no better than an animal's cage; a human being with no freedom, no hope…'

'Has it occurred to you, Mr Maitland,' Howden interjected, 'that this is not a Canadian ship; that some of these conditions have existed for a considerable time; and that they are of no concern to this country?'

'Then whose concern are they? Sir, I ask you.' Alan's eyes flashed fire, his initial nervousness forgotten. 'Are we not to have concern for human beings who don't belong to our nice tight club?'

James Howden answered patiently, 'You speak of a nice tight club. Are you aware that Canada's record on immigration is one of the best in the world?'

Alan Maitland leaned forward in his chair. 'There really isn't much competition, is there?'

Touche, Howden thought. Aloud he replied sharply, 'That's beside the point. The real thing is that there are laws and regulations covering this kind of thing and if they're to mean anything they must be observed.'

'Some of the law is pretty arbitrary,' Alan said, 'especially where it concerns human rights.'

'If that's your opinion, then you have legal recourse to the courts.'

'Your immigration chief in Vancouver didn't think so. He told me that no court had any business interfering.'

'Nevertheless,' the Prime Minister insisted, 'you did go to court, and you lost your case.'

Alan admitted ruefully, 'Yes, we lost. And that's why I'm here – to beg.' The smile flashed again. 'If necessary I'll get down on my knees.'

'No.' Howden smiled in response. 'I don't want you to do that.'

'I'd like to tell you, sir, about Henri Duval.' If his time were short, Alan thought, he would at least make the most of it. 'He's a good little man, sturdy, a hard worker; I'm convinced he'd make a good citizen. True, he doesn't speak English well; he's had no education…'

'Mr Maitland,' the Prime Minister interrupted firmly, 'the reason this man cannot be admitted is quite simple. The world is full of people who, on the surface of things, are perhaps worth helping. But there must be some order to the help; some plan, some scheme of action. It's the reason we have an Immigration Act…'

Besides, he thought obstinately, he would not give way to this absurd and disproportionate public clamour. The indignity at Ottawa airport still rankled. And even if he ignored the threat of Harvey Warrender, a concession now would seem weak and ridiculous. As Prime Minister he had made his decision known; surely that should count for something.

Alan Maitland was arguing, 'Henri Duval is in Vancouver, Mr Prime Minister. He isn't in Hungary, or Ethiopia, or China. He's here and now.' He added, with a trace of bitterness, 'In a country where the underprivileged are supposed to get a break.'

The underprivileged. For an instant James Howden had a troubled memory of the orphanage; the outside, unexpected chance, won for himself through one man – his own Alan Maitland, long ago. But at least he had been born here. He decided the interview had gone on long enough.

'The Immigration Act is the law of this country, Mr Maitland. No doubt it has its faults, but the way it is, is the way the people of Canada choose to have it. Under the law I regret the answer to you must be no.'

The concluding, speedy civilities were observed. Standing, James Howden shook Alan's hand. 'Allow me to wish you great success in your profession,' he remarked. 'Perhaps one day you'll enter political life. I've a notion you'd do well.'

Alan answered quietly, 'I don't think so, sir. There are too many things about it I don't like.'

When Alan Maitland had gone, the Prime Minister selected a second chocolate bar and nibbled it thoughtfully. After a while he summoned his executive assistant and irritably demanded the draft of his evening speech.

Chapter 2

In the Hotel Vancouver lobby Dan Orliffe was waiting for Alan Maitland. He asked expectantly, 'Any change?'

Alan shook his head.

'Well,' Orliffe said cheerfully, 'you're keeping the case before the public, and that's worth something.'

Alan asked dourly, 'It is? Just tell me what the public can do when the Government won't budge.'

'Haven't you heard? The public can change the Government; that's what.'

'Oh, great!' Alan said. 'We'll wait for an election, then send Henri a postcard with the news. If we can find out where he is.'

'Come on,' Dan told him. 'I'll drive you to your office. On the way you can tell me what Howden said.'

Tom Lewis was working in his own small cubicle when Alan came in. Dan Orliffe had driven away after their session in the car, presumably to the Post. Once more, for Tom's benefit, Alan repeated what had transpired.

'I'll say this,' Tom said. 'You don't let go of the bone once your teeth are in.'

Alan nodded. He wondered if he should call Sharon; or perhaps there was really no reason. They had not talked since their telephone conversation two days earlier.

'By the way,' Tom said, 'a parcel came for you – chauffeur-delivered and all. It's in your office.'

Curiously Alan went in. A square, wrapped package was in the centre of the desk. Untying it, he drew out a box and removed the lid. Under layers of tissue paper was a clay-moulded figure – head and shoulders. A note beside it read: 'I tried to make it like Mr Kramer, but it kept coming out the way it is. So, please, no pins – ever! With love – Sharon.'

He lifted the figure. It was, he saw glowing, a passable imitation of himself.

Chapter 3

Less than a quarter-mile from the Prime Minister's suite in the Hotel Vancouver, Mr Justice Stanley Willis of the British Columbia Supreme Court paced restlessly, as he had for more than an hour, his private Judge's chambers.

Mr Justice Willis, stern-faced, severe, and outwardly imperturbable, was waging an inward mental battle.

The lines of battles were clearly drawn. On one side was his judicial integrity, on the other his personal conscience. Both were focused upon a single subject: Henri Duval.

Edgar Kramer had told the Prime Minister's executive assistant: 'There is nothing further legally that the man's sponsors can do.' Alan Maitland, after a week-long search for legal precedents, had reached the same opinion.

Mr Justice Willis possessed knowledge demonstrating both to be wrong. The knowledge was such that, if used promptly, it would free Henri Duval from his shipboard prison, at least temporarily, and possibly for good.

The key to the situation lay in a heavy, bound volume – BC Reports, Vol 34, 1921 – on the judge's desk. It was open at a page headed Rex vs A hmed Singh.

The paper upon which the words – and those which followed – appeared was faded and yellow. But the proposition of law – ratio decidendi – was as binding as if enunciated yesterday.

A Canadian judge had ruled: Ahmed Singh in 1921… and therefore Henri Duval today… could not be deported solely to a ship.

Any individual (the long dead judge had declared in 1921) must be deported to the country from whence he came, and not to any other place.

But the Vastervik was not destined to Lebanon… the country whence Henri Duval had come… where be had boarded the ship. The MV Vastervik was an ocean-going tramp, its next port of call Belfast, its routing beyond that point uncertain…

The deportation order against Henri Duval was therefore unlawful and invalid.

Rex vs Ahmed Singh said so.

Mr Justice Stanley Willis had elicited the facts about the Vastervik discreetly, as he had followed other details of the case discreetly.

He had received word of the search by Alan Maitland and Tom Lewis for legal precedents which would prevent the deportation of Henri Duval. He had learned also of their failure and it did not surprise him.

He had no criticism of the two young lawyers for failing to discover Rex vs Ahmed Singh. The case was wrongly summarized and indexed in Canadian Abridgements, a not unusual happening. The judge himself would not have known of it, except that years before he had stumbled across the old report by merest chance, and it had remained in mind.

Knowing what he did, Mr Justice Willis reflected, if he were Henri Duval's lawyer he would apply at once – this afternoon – for a new writ of habeas corpus. And, as a judge, if confronted by the application he would immediately accede -not with the half-measure order nisi, as earlier, but with full habeas corpus which would free Henri Duval from the Vastervik at once.

But he was a judge; and he was not a lawyer. And no man could be both.

The business of a judge was to deal judicially with matters brought before him. It was no part of his function to meddle directly in legal cases or to initiate action favouring one litigant over another. Occasionally, to be sure, a judge might nudge counsel, hinting at steps to be followed which, in his opinion, would advance the cause of justice. He himself had done this with Alan Maitland at the nisi hearing affecting Henri Duval.

But beyond that point judicial interference was reprehensible. More, it was betrayal of a judge's role.

Once more Mr Justice Willis paced the rug between the window and his desk. Today the wide, bony shoulders were stooped over the spare body, as if responsibility weighed heavily upon them. The long, angular face, tense with thought, was troubled.

If I were not what I am, Mr Justice Willis thought, it would be so simple. I would pick up the telephone on the desk and ask for Alan Maitland. When he answered I would simply say: Look at BC Reports, Volume 34, 1921, page 191, Rex vs Ahmed Singh. Nothing more would be needed. He is an astute young man and before the court Registry closes today he would be here with a habeas corpus writ.

It would prevent Henri Duval from sailing with the ship.

And I care, he thought. Alan Maitland cares. And so do I.

But because I am what I am, I cannot… directly or indirectly… do this thing.

And yet… there was the inarticulate major premise.

It was a phrase he remembered from law school long ago. It was still taught, though – in the presence of judges – seldom mentioned.

The inarticulate major premise was the doctrine that no judge, whatever his intention, could ever be impartial. A judge was human; therefore he could never hold the scales exactly even. Consciously or unconsciously his every thought and action were influenced by the events and background of his life.

Mr Justice Stanley Willis accepted the postularion. He also knew that he himself possessed a major premise. It could be summarized in one word.

Belsen.

It had been 1945.

The law career of Stanley Willis, like that of many others of his generation, had been interrupted by the years of World War II. As an artillery officer he had served with the Canadians in Europe from 1940 until the war's end. And, near its end. Major Stanley Willis, MC, liaison officer with the British Second Army, had accompanied the 63rd Anti-Tank Regiment in its liberation of the Nazi concentration camp of Bergen-Belsen.

He had remained at Belsen a month, and what he had seen had been the single most haunting experience of his life. For years afterwards, and sometimes even now, the horror of those thirty days could return to him in feverish, vivid dreams. And Stanley Willis – a scholarly, sensitive man beneath an austere facade – had departed from Belsen with an avowed intention: that, in the years left to him, whatever he could personally do to relieve the wretchedness of mistreated and afflicted human beings, that much he would do.

As a judge, it had not been easy. There had been occasions when despite inner misgivings he had been obliged to pass sentence on the guilty where instinct told him that society, and not individuals, was the principal 'offender. But, sometimes, some hapless miserable felon, dismissed by most as beyond salvation had received a light or mitigated sentence because a shadow of the past… the inarticulate major premise… had touched the mind of Mr Justice Willis.

As now.

The plight of Henri Duval, as it had before the nisi hearing, continued to stir him deeply.

A man was incarcerated. A man could be justly freed.

Between the one and the other stood the judge's honourable pride.

With humbled pride the lesson just, he thought. And he crossed to the telephone.

He must not call Alan Maitland directly; that much, discretion demanded. But there was another way. He could speak to his own former law partner, a respected senior counsel who was astute and would understand the implications of a conversation. The information conveyed would be relayed promptly, without revelation of the source. But his former law partner was also a man who held strong views on judges' meddling…

Mr Justice Willis sighed. In conspiracy, he thought, there was no perfect pattern.

The connexion was made. He announced, "This is Stanley Willis.' /

A deep voice on the telephone said affably, 'It's a pleasant surprise. Your Lordship.'

The judge interjected quickly, 'An informal call, Ben.'

A chuckle down the line. 'How are you Stan? It's been a long time.' There was a note of genuine affection.

'I know. We must get together sometime.' But he doubted if they would. A judge, by reason of his office, was forced to tread a lonely path.

'Well, Stan, what can I do for you? Is there somebody you'd like to sue?'

'No,' Mr Justice Willis said. He was never very good at small talk. 'I thought I'd have a word with you about this Duval case.'

'Oh yes; the stowaway affair. I read your ruling. A pity, but I don't see what else you could have done.'

'No,' the judge acknowledged, 'there was nothing else. All the same, young Maitland's a bright young lawyer.'

'I agree,' the voice said. 'I think he'll do the profession a lot of credit.'

'I hear there's been quite a search for precedents.'

'The way it was told to me,' the deep voice said with a chuckle, 'Maitland and his partner have turned the law library inside out. But they haven't had any luck.'

'I've been wondering,' Mr Justice Willis said slowly, 'why they haven't gone to Rex vs Ahmed Singh, BC Reports, Volume 34, 1921, page 191. I should think, on that, they could get habeas corpus without question.'

There was a silence at the other end of the line. The judge could imagine eyebrows raised, a sense of disapproval. Then, more coolly than before, the voice said, 'You'd better give me that reference again. I didn't get all of it.'

When he had repeated the reference and shortly afterwards hung up, Mr Justice Willis thought: there is a price we pay for all we do. But the information, he knew, would be passed on.

He glanced at his watch before returning to an accumulation of written judgements upon his desk.

Four and a half hours later, as darkness was descending on the city, the frail elderly Registry clerk, standing at the, door, announced, 'My lord, Mr Maitland has an application for habeas corpus.'

Chapter 4

Under bright, rigged floodlights the Vastervik was loading lumber.

Confidently, exultantly, Alan Maitland raced up the rusty iron gangway to the cluttered, dilapidated main deck.

The fertilizer smell had gone. Any traces of it remaining were being dispelled by a freshening breeze blowing from the sea. The clean-scented aroma of fir and cedar were wafting through the ship.

The night was cold, but overhead stars twinkled in a clear sky.

The third officer, whom Alan had seen on Christmas morning, approached him from the ship's forecastle.

'I'm here to see Captain Jaabeck,' Alan shouted along the deck, 'and if he's in his cabin I can find my way.'

The thin, wiry ship's officer came closer. 'Then you will find your way,' he said. 'And even if you did not know, you have the mood to find your way tonight.'

'Yes,' Alan agreed, 'I guess I have.' Instinctively he touched the pocket of his suit to ensure that the precious paper was still there.

Turning into the ship's interior, he called over his shoulder, 'How's your cold?'

'It will be better,' the third officer answered, 'as soon as we have sailed.' He added, 'Forty-eight hours more, that's all.'

Forty-eight hours. It had been close, Alan thought, but it looked as if they had made it in time. This afternoon he had been at his Gilford Street apartment when the message, relayed through Tom Lewis, had reached him: Look at Rex vs Ahmed Singh.

Deciding he must leave no chance untaken, but without much hope, he had gone to the law library. There, when he read the 1921 ruling, his heart had leaped. Afterwards it had been a feverish rush of drafting, typing, checking, and assembling the multiple affidavits and writs which the law required. Emergency or not, the monster's maw must be appeased with paper…

Then the race to the courthouse – to reach the Supreme Court Registry before closing. And he had made it, though barely, and a few minutes later had appeared before Mr Justice Willis, once again, today, the chambers judge.

The judge, austere and remote as always, had listened carefully then, after a few short questions, authorized an order for habeas corpus – the order absolute and not the minor nisi writ. It was a rare and quietly dramatic moment. The original writ, and a copy, were in Alan's pocket now: Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom, Canada and her other realms and territories. Defender of the Faith… command you immediately after the receipt of this our writ… to deliver the body of Henri Duval…

Of course, there must be a court hearing, and it was set for the day after tomorrow. But the outcome was a virtual certainty: The Vastervik would sail, but Henri Duval would not be aboard.

Sometime tomorrow, Alan reminded himself, he must telephone the lawyer who had tipped them off to the case of Ahmed Singh. Tom Lewis had his name. It had been a deliverance…

He came to the captain's door and knocked. A voice inside commanded, 'Come!'

Captain Jaabeck, in shirt sleeves, wreathed in thick tobacco smoke, was making entries in a ledger under a shaded desk lamp. Putting down the pen, he stood up, courteous as ever, motioning his visitor to one of the green leather armchairs.

Coughing slightly as the smoke reached his lungs, Alan began, 'I'm interrupting…'

'It is nothing. There is enough writing for one time.' The captain reached over and closed the ledger. He added tiredly, 'Future archaeologists digging up our world will never understand it. We have left too many words for them to read.'

'Talking of words,' Alan said, 'I've brought some with me.' Smiling, he produced the habeas corpus writ and handed it to Captain Jaabeck.

The captain read slowly, his lips moving, pausing over the legal jargon. Eventually, looking up, he asked incredulously,

'You have succeeded – after all?'

'Yes,' Alan said happily. 'What the writ means is that Henri is freed from the ship. He will not be sailing with you.'

'And now – at this moment…' 'At this moment, Captain,' Alan replied decisively, 'I'd like him to pack his belongings and come with me. The writ releases him to my custody.' He added, 'If you've any doubt, we can call the Mounties…'

'No, no! It will not be needed.' Captain Jaabeck put down the writ, his face creasing in a warm engaging smile. 'I do not understand how you have done this, Mr Maitland, but you are to be congratulated. It is so sudden, that is all.' 'I know,' Alan said. 'I'm a little breathless myself.' Ten minutes later, eyes sparkling and with a wide happy grin, Henri Duval appeared in the captain's cabin. He was wearing a seaman's duffel coat several sizes too large for him and carrying a battered cardboard suitcase tied with string. One of the first things to be done tomorrow, Alan decided, must be to use some of the accumulated money to buy new clothes for the appearance in court.

'Mr Maitland is taking you away, Henri,' the captain announced.

The young stowaway nodded, his face lighting with excitement and anticipation. 'I ready now.'

'You will not be returning to the ship,' the captain said quietly. 'Now I will say goodbye.'

For a moment, excitement left the youthful face. It was as if the captain's words had revealed a reality which Henri Duval had not foreseen. He said uncertainly, 'This good ship.'

'Many things are as we make them for ourselves.' The captain held out his hand. 'It is my wish that you will be happy, Henri, and that God will bless you. Work hard, say your prayers, and do as Mr Maitland tells you.'

The stowaway nodded with dumb unhappiness. It was a strange scene, Alan thought; almost as if father and son were taking leave. He sensed a reluctance of the other two to end it.

'We'd better go.' Alan retrieved the original writ, leaving a copy for the captain's use. Shaking hands, he said, 'It's been a pleasure. Captain Jaabeck. I hope we shall meet again.'

'If I have more stowaways, Mr Maitland' – the captain smiled – 'I shall seek you as their friend.'

Word had gone swiftly around the ship. As Alan and Henri Duval appeared, the crew had quit their loading and were assembled along the rail. There was a jabber of excited voices. Stubby Gates shambled forward. 'So long matey,' he said, 'and lotsa luck. Here's something from me an' the boys.' Alan saw a small roll of bills change hands. As they went down the gangway the crew gave a ragged cheer.

'Stay where you are!' It was a commanding voice from the darkness of the dock. As Alan paused, a barrage of flashbulbs went off.

'Hey!' he called. 'What's this?'

'Press coverage,' Dan Orliffe said. 'What else?' Orliffe and other reporters crowded around.

'You got sneaky, Maitland,' someone said cheerfully, 'but we tracked you down.'

Another voice called, 'Nice work!'

'Look,' Alan protested, 'there's nothing I can say tonight. Maybe we'll have a statement in the morning.'

'How about a word from Henri?'

'Will you let Duval talk?'

'No,' Alan said firmly. 'Not now, anyway.'

Dan Orliffe asked quietly, 'How did you get down here?'

'I had a taxi,' Alan said.

'My car's right here on the dock. I'll take you wherever you want.'

'All right,' Alan agreed. 'Let's go.'

Amid cries of protest from the other reporters they climbed into Dan Orliffe's station wagon. Flashbulbs continued to go off. Henri Duval was grinning broadly.

When they were clear of the dockyard, Dan asked, 'Where are you taking him?'

There had been so much else; so many things to think of… 'Now you mention it,' Alan said, 'I hadn't thought about that.' His own apartment, he reasoned, was too small. But Tom and Lillian Lewis might be able to fix a temporary bed…

'That's what I figured,' Dan said. 'So the paper's taken a suite at the Hotel Vancouver. We'll pick up the tab.'

Alan said doubtfully, 'I guess it's all right. Though I imagined something a little simpler…'

'What the hell!' Dan accelerated to beat an amber light. 'Let Henri live a little.'

A few minutes later he added, 'About that hotel suite. I forgot to tell you – the Prime Minister's suite is just down the halt' He gave a deep chuckle. 'Won't Howden love that!'