In High Places

Chapter 1

A few minutes after 7.30 AM the telephone rang in Alan Maitland's Gilford Street apartment. Alan, still sleepy and in pyjama trousers only – he never used the tops and had a collection of them in their original wrappers – was preparing breakfast at his portable two-burner stove. Unplugging the toaster, which had a habit of reducing bread to a cinder if unwatched, he answered on the second ring.

'Good morning,' Sharon's voice said brightly. 'What are you doing?'

'I'm boiling an egg.' Trailing the telephone cord, Alan inspected an hourglass timer on the kitchenette table. 'It's been on three minutes; one to go.'

'Give it another six,' Sharon suggested cheerfully. 'Then you can have it hard-boiled tomorrow. Granddaddy would like you to have breakfast with us.'

Alan reflected swiftly. 'I suppose I could.' He corrected himself: 'At least – thank you, I mean.'

'Good.'

He interjected, 'I presume your grandfather knows the Duval hearing is this morning.'

'I think that's what he wants to talk about,' Sharon said. 'How long will you be?'

'I'll be up in half an hour.'

While dressing he ate the egg anyway.

At the South West Marine Drive mansion the butler, who still moved as if his feet hurt, showed Alan into a spacious dining-room, its walls lined – like the main entrance hall -with polished linen-fold panelling. An oak refectory table, Alan saw, was laid for three, with gleaming silver and white napery. On a 'carved oak sideboard several lidded chafing dishes, presumably containing breakfast, were arranged. The butler announced, 'Senator and Miss Deveraux will join you in a moment, sir.'

'Thank you,' Alan said. Waiting, he strolled the room's width to damask-draped windows facing the broad Fraser River a hundred feet below. Looking downward he could see the great log booms, touched by sunlight breaking through the morning mist. The source of wealth, he thought: of this house and others like it.

'Good morning, my boy.' It was Senator Deveraux, in the doorway, with Sharon. Alan turned.

As on the last occasion, the Senator's voice seemed weak. Today he was leaning heavily on a cane and, on the opposite side, Sharon supported his free arm. She smiled at Alan warmly. He felt his breath catch at the sight of her again.

'Good morning, sir,' Alan said. He pulled out a chair as Sharon helped her grandfather into it. 'I hope you're well.'

'I'm perfectly splendid, thank you.' Momentarily the voice had some of its earlier ring. 'My only trouble, periodically, is a touch of anno Domini.' He regarded Sharon and Alan who had joined him at the table. 'Even you young people will suffer from it in the end.'

The butler had silently reappeared and began to serve breakfast from the chafing dishes on to warmed plates. There were eggs Florentine and scrambled. Alan chose Florentine. Sharon said solicitously, 'We can do a boiled one if you like.'

'No thanks!' Alan surveyed the generous portion placed before him. 'Only reason I have them that way at home is that

I'm a good water boiler.'

'You are, indeed, an accomplished boiler,' the Senator observed. 'And not only with water.' He added slowly, 'I find that your boiling can have unexpected results.'

When the butler had left, closing the door softly behind him, Sharon announced, 'I'm going to court today. I hope you don't mind.' 'I almost wish you hadn't told me.' Alan smiled across the table. 'I might be self-conscious.'

Abruptly Senator Deveraux inquired, 'Tell me, my boy: is your law practice prospering?'

'Frankly, no.' Alan grinned ruefully. 'We had a thin time to begin with, and most of our savings soon disappeared. Then we began to break even. This month, though, I'm afraid we won't.'

Sharon frowned, as if puzzled. 'But surely all the publicity will help. Won't that bring you clients?'

'I thought so at first,' Alan answered frankly. 'But now I believe it's keeping people away. Tom and I were talking about it last night.' He explained to the Senator: 'Tom Lewis is my partner.'

'Yes, I'm aware of that,' the older man acknowledged. He added: 'I made some inquiries about you both.'

'The thing is, I think,' Alan expounded, 'conservative clients, like businessmen for instance, don't care for their lawyers being involved in a lot of publicity; and others, with small legal things to be done, have the idea we're too important or expensive.'

The Senator nodded. 'A remarkably shrewd assessment, I should say.'

'If it's true,' Sharon said, 'it's horribly unfair.'

'I understand,' Senator Deveraux remarked, 'that your Mr Lewis is especially interested in corporation law.'

Surprised, Alan answered, 'That's right; Tom always has been. Eventually he hopes to specialize.' Curiously, he wondered where this conversation was leading.

'It occurs to me,' the Senator said ponderously, 'that it might be of assistance to you if we settled two things this morning. First, there is the question of an advance on the final fee for your present services. I wonder if two thousand dollars would be agreeable.'

Alan swallowed the mouthful of eggs Florentine he had been chewing. Dazedly he replied, 'Frankly, sir, I hadn't considered that the final bill would be anywhere near that amount.'

'Allow me to give you some sound advice.' Senator Deveraux had finished the small portion of breakfast he had received. Now, pushing his plate away, he leaned forward across the table. 'In this life never sell yourself cheaply. In professional services some of the highest fees – law, medicine, everything else – are commanded by sheer audacity. Have audacity, my boy! It will carry you a long way.'

'Besides,' Sharon said, 'in Granddaddy's case it comes off taxes.'

Alan grinned. 'Thank you, sir. When you put it like that,

I'll take your advice.'

'Then there is the second subject.' The Senator took a cigar from the pocket of his suit coat and clipped the end. When it was lighted he continued, 'Culliner, Bryant, etcetera now handle most of my business affairs requiring legal attention. Lately, however, the quantity of work has increased and I have considered splitting it. I believe it might prove satisfactory if you and your Mr Lewis took over Deveraux Forestry Limited. It is a substantial account and should form a solid basis for your legal practice.' He added, 'We can discuss a retaining fee later.'

'I don't know what to say,' Alan said. 'Except that this seems to be my morning.' He had a sense of wanting to cheer aloud; he must get to a telephone quickly and share the joyous news with Tom.

Sharon was smiling.

'I hoped you'd be pleased, my boy. Now there is one further matter I would like to speak of. But perhaps, while we are doing it' – he glanced at Sharon – 'you would be good enough to prepare a cheque for two thousand dollars for me to sign.' He considered, then added: 'On the Consolidated Fund, I think.'

When you had money, Alan thought amusedly, it must be a problem knowing which account to draw it from.

'All right,' Sharon said brightly. She rose, taking her coffee cup with her. '

When the door had closed, the Senator faced his guest across the table. 'If I may inquire,' he said directly, 'what are your feelings about Sharon?'

'We haven't talked about it,' Alan answered quietly. 'But sometime soon I shall ask her to marry me.'

The Senator nodded. He put down the cigar. 'I suspected something of the kind. You realize, I suppose, that Sharon will be wealthy – in her own right.'

'I'd assumed that,' Alan said.

'Do you believe that that difference between you would impede a happy marriage?'

'No, I don't,' Alan affirmed. 'I intend to work hard and build my own career. If we love one another, it would be silly to let something like that stand in the way.'

Senator Deveraux sighed. 'You are a remarkably sane and competent young man.' His hands were clasped in front of him; his eyes went down to them. He said slowly, 'I find myself wishing that my own son – Sharon's father – had been more like you. Unfortunately, he is an authority on fast motor boats, women of the same kind, and nothing more.'

There was nothing to say, Alan thought; nothing at all. He sat, silently.

At length the Senator raised his eyes. 'What is between you and Sharon will remain between you. Sharon will make her own decision, as she always has. But I may tell you that if it were in your favour I, for one, would not stand in your way.'

'Thank you,' Alan said. He felt grateful – and dazed. So much was happening in so short a time. He would ask Sharon soon; perhaps today.

'As a culmination to all that we have talked of,' the older man said, 'I have one request.'

Alan answered, 'If it's something I can do, sir, I will.'

'Tell me: do you expect to win your case in court today?'

Surprised, Alan answered, 'Yes, I'm sure I can.'

'Is there a possibility that you might lose?'

'There's always that possibility,' Alan admitted. 'The Immigration Department won't give in without a struggle, and I shall have to counter their arguments. But we've a strong case; much stronger than before.'

'Suppose, just suppose, you were slightly lax in countering the arguments. Could you lose… without it being obvious… lose deliberately…?'

Alan flushed. 'Yes, but-'

'I want you to lose,' Senator Deveraux said softly. 'I want you to lose and Henri Duval to be deported. That is my request.'

It took a long, full minute for the implication to sink in.

Incredulously, his voice strained, Alan protested. 'Have you any idea what you are asking?'

'Yes, my boy,' the Senator replied carefully, 'I believe I have. I'm aware of asking a great deal because I know how much this case has meant to you. But I'm also appealing to you to believe that there are good and valid reasons for my request.'

'Tell me,' Alan demanded. 'Tell me what they are.'

'You understand,' the Senator intoned slowly, 'that what we are saying now is between the two of us, within the confines of this room. If you agree, as I hope you will, no one, not even Sharon, need ever know what has taken place.'

'The reasons,' Alan insisted softly. 'Give me the reasons.'

'There are two,' the Senator answered, 'and I will name the least important first. Your stowaway will better serve our cause – and the cause of others like him – if he is expelled, despite the efforts made on his behalf. Some men among us achieve their greatest heights in martyrdom. He is one.'

Alan said quietly, 'What you really mean is that politically it would make Howden's party look worse – because they threw Duval out – and your own party better because you tried to save him, or at least appeared to.'

The Senator gave the slightest of shrugs. 'You have your words, my boy. I choose mine.'

'And the second reason?'

'I have an old and reliable nose,' Senator Deveraux said, 'for political trouble. I smell it now.'

'Trouble?'

'It is possible that sometime soon the reins of government will be transferred. The star of James Howden is dimming, our own ascending.'

'Your own,' Alan reminded him. 'Not mine.'

'Frankly, I had hoped it might soon become yours also. But for the time being let us say that the fortunes of the party of which I have the honour to be chairman are on the mend.'

'You said trouble,' Alan insisted. 'What kind of trouble?'

The Senator met Alan's eyes directly. 'Your stowaway – if he is allowed to remain here – could become a source of acute embarrassment to his sponsors. His kind never fits. I speak from long experience; there have been other incidents like this before. If that happened, if he went wrong, the matter could become an harassment to our own party – a perpetual thorn -just as we have made it one to the Government now.'

'What makes you so sure,' Alan asked, 'that – as you put it -he'll go wrong?'

Senator Deveraux said firmly, 'Because it is inevitable he should. With his background… in our North American society…'

'I disagree,' Alan said heatedly. 'I disagree just about as much as anyone could.'

'Your law partner, Mr Lewis, doesn't.' The Senator said softly, 'I understand his words were to the effect that there is a flaw in the man – "a crack down the middle" – and that if you got him ashore he would, to quote your partner, "come apart in pieces".'

Alan thought bitterly: so Sharon had reported their conversation the day of the chambers hearing. He wondered if she had any idea it would be used against him in this way. Perhaps so; he found himself beginning to doubt the motives of everyone around him.

'It's a pity,' he said bleakly, 'that you didn't think of this before the case was started.'

'I give you my word, my boy, that if I had known it would lead to this moment I would never have begun.' There was genuineness in the older man's voice. He went on, 'I confess I underrated you. I never dreamed you would succeed as remarkably as you have.'

He had to move, Alan thought; change position, pace… Perhaps moving the muscles of his body could help to quell the turmoil of his mind. Pushing back his chair from the breakfast table, he rose and crossed to the window where he had stood earlier.

Looking down he could see the river again. The sun had cleared the mist. On a slight swell the logs, in tethered booms, were rising and falling gently.

'There are choices we are obliged to make,' the Senator was saying, 'which give us pain, but afterwards we know they were best and wisest…'

Swinging around, Alan said, 'I'd like to be clear about something, if you don't mind.'

Senator Deveraux, too, had moved back from the table but remained in his chair. He nodded. 'Certainly.'

'If I refuse to do what you ask, what of the things we were discussing – the legal work, Deveraux Forestry…?'

The Senator looked pained. 'I'd rather not put it on that basis, my boy.'

'But I would,' Alan said bluntly. He waited for an answer. 'I suppose… in certain circumstances… I might be obliged to reconsider.'

'Thank you,' Alan said. 'I just wanted to be clear.'

With bitterness, he thought: he had been shown the promised land, and now…

For an instant he weakened; temptation beckoned him. The Senator had said: no one… not even Sharon… need ever know. It could be done so easily: an omission, a laxity in argument, a concession to opposing counsel… Professionally, he might be criticized, but he was young; inexperience could be a cloak. Such things were quickly forgotten.

Then he dismissed the thought, as if it had never been.

His words were clear and strong.

'Senator Deveraux,' he declared, 'I already intended to go into court this morning and win. I would like you to know that I shall still win, except that now I am ten times more determined.'

There was no answer. Only the eyes uplifted, the face weary as if drained by effort.

'Just one more thing.' Alan's voice took on a cutting edge. 'I wish to make it clear that you are no longer retaining me in any capacity. My client is Henri Duval, and no one else.'

The door to the dining-room opened. Sharon appeared, a slip of paper in her hand. She inquired uncertainly, 'Is something wrong?'

Alan gestured to the cheque. 'You won't be needing that. I suggest you put it back in the Consolidated Fund.'

'Why, Alan? Why?' Sharon's lips were parted, her face pale.

Suddenly, unreasonably, he wanted to hurt and wound.

'Your precious grandfather made me a proposition,' he answered savagely. 'I suggest you ask him about it. After all, you were included in the deal.'

He brushed rudely by, not stopping until he had reached his battered Chevrolet in the driveway. Turning it, he drove swiftly towards town.

Chapter 2

Alan Maitland knocked sharply at the outer entrance of the Hotel Vancouver suite reserved for Henri Duval. After a moment, the door opened partially, behind it the broad, bulky figure of Dan Orliffe. Opening the door fully, the reporter asked, 'What kept you?'

'I had another engagement,' Alan answered shortly. Entering, he glanced about him at the comfortably appointed living-room, unoccupied except for Orliffe. 'It's time we were moving. Is Henri ready?'

'Just about,' the reporter acknowledged. 'He's in there dressing.' He nodded towards a closed bedroom door.

'I'd like him to wear the dark suit,' Alan said. 'It'll look better in court.' They had purchased two new suits for Duval the previous day, as well as shoes and other accessories, utilizing money from the small accumulated trust fund. The suits were ready-mades, hastily adjusted but well-fitting. They had been delivered late yesterday.

Dan Orliffe shook his head. 'He can't wear the dark one. He gave it away.'

Alan said irritably, 'What do you mean – gave it away?'

'Exactly what I say. There was a room-service waiter about Henri's size. So Henri gave the suit to him. Just like that. Oh yes, and he threw in a couple of the new shirts and a pair of shoes.'

'If this is a joke,' Alan snapped, 'I don't think it's very funny.'

'Listen, chum,' Orliffe cautioned, 'whatever's biting you, don't take it out on me. And for the record, I don't think it's funny either.'

Alan grimaced. 'Sorry. I guess I've a sort of emotional hangover.'

'It happened before I got here,' Orliffe explained. 'Apparently Henri took a shine to this guy, and that was it. I phoned downstairs to try and get the suit back, but the waiter's gone off duty.'

'What did Henri say?'

'When I asked him about it, he sort of shrugged and told me there will be many more suits and he wants to give away a lot of things.'

'We'll soon straighten him out on that,' Alan said grimly. He crossed to the bedroom door and opened it. Inside, Henri Duval, in a light brown suit, white shirt, neatly knotted tie, and polished shoes, was studying himself in a long mirror. He turned to Alan, beaming.

'I look pretty, no?'

It was impossible to ignore the infectious, boyish pleasure. Alan smiled. Henri's hair had been trimmed too; now it was neatly combed and parted. Yesterday had been a busy time: a medical exam; press and TV interviews; shopping; a fitting for the suits.

'Sure you look pretty.' Alan tried to make his voice sound stern. 'But that doesn't mean you can give away new suits, bought for you specially.'

Henri's face took on an injured look. He said, 'The man I give, my friend.'

'As far as I can make out,' Dan Orliffe put in from behind, 'it was the first time they'd met. Henri makes friends pretty fast.'

Alan instructed, 'You don't give your own new clothes away, even to friends.'

The young stowaway pouted like a child. Alan sighed. There were going to be problems, he could see, in adapting Henri Duval to his new environment. Aloud he announced, 'We'd better go. We mustn't be late in court.'

On the way out Alan stopped. Looking around the suite, he told Duval, 'If we are successful in court, this afternoon we will find a room for you to live in.'

The young stowaway looked puzzled. 'Why not here? This place good.'

Alan said sharply, 'I don't doubt it. But we don't happen to have this kind of money.'

Henri Duval asserted brightly, 'The newspaper pay.'

'Not after today,' Dan Orliffe shook his head. 'My editor's already beefing about the cost. Oh yes, and there's another thing.' He told Alan: 'Henri has decided that from now on we must pay him if we take his picture. He informed me this morning.'

Alan felt a return of his earlier irritability. 'He doesn't understand these things. And I hope you won't print that in the paper.'

'I won't,' Dan said quietly. 'But others will if they hear it. Sometime soon, I suggest you have an earnest talk with our young friend.'

Henri Duval beamed at them both.

Chapter 3

There was a milling crowd of people outside the courtroom in which this morning's hearing would be held. The public sears were already full; politely but firmly, ushers were turning newcomers away. Pressing through the throng, ignoring questions from reporters close behind him, Alan steered Henri Duval through the centre courtroom door.

Alan had already stopped to put on a counsel's gown with starched white tabs. Today's would be a full dress hearing with all protocol observed. Entering, he was aware of the spaciously impressive courtroom with its carved oak furnishings, rich red carpet, and matching crimson and gold drapes at the high arched windows. Through Venetian blinds sunlight streamed in.

At one of the long counsel's tables, Edgar Kramer. A. R.

Butler, QC, and the shipping-company lawyer, Tolland, were already seared in straight-backed leather chairs, facing the canopied Judge's bench with its royal coat of arms above.

With Henri Duval, Alan moved to the second table. To his right the Press table was crowded, Dan Orliffe, the latest arrival, squeezing in among the others. The clerk of the court and court reporter were seated below the judge's bench. From the packed spectators' seats, behind counsel, came a low-pitched buzz of conversation.

Glancing sideways, Alan observed that the other two lawyers had turned towards him. They smiled and nodded, and he returned their greeting. As on the earlier occasion, Edgar Kramer's eyes were studiedly averted. A moment later Tom Lewis, also gowned, dropped into the seat beside Alan. Looking around, he remarked irreverently, 'Reminds me of our office, only bigger.' He nodded to Duval. 'Good morning,

Henri.'

Alan wondered when he should break the news to Tom that there would no longer be a fee for the work which they were doing; that through impetuous pride he had brushed aside payment to which they were properly entitled, whatever his quarrel with Senator Deveraux might be. Perhaps it might mean the end of their partnership; at the very least there would be hardship for them both.

He thought of Sharon. He was sure now that she had had no knowledge of what her grandfather proposed this morning, and that was the reason she had been sent from the room. If she had stayed, she would have protested as he himself had done. But instead of having faith, he had doubted her. Suddenly, miserably, he remembered the words he had used to Sharon: You were included in the deal. He wished desperately that he could call them back. He supposed that she would not wish to see him again.

A thought occurred to him. Sharon had said she would be in court this morning. He craned around, surveying the public seats. As he had feared, she was not there.

'Order!' It was the clerk of the court.

The officials, counsel, and spectators rose as, robes rustling, Mr Justice Stanley Willis entered and took his seat upon the bench.

When the court had settled, the clerk announced, 'Supreme Court, January 13th, in the matter of Henri Duval.'

Alan Maitland was on his feet. Speedily he dealt with the preliminaries, then began, 'My lord, for centuries, every individual who is subject to the jurisdiction of the Crown -whether in the country temporarily or not – has been entitled to seek redress from injustice at the foot of the throne. Expressed in essence, in this application of habeas corpus, that is my client's plea today.'

In its correct sense, Alan knew, the hearing would be legally formalistic, with points of abstruse law being debated by himself and A. R. Butler. But he had decided in advance to introduce every ounce of humanity that he could. Now he continued, 'I draw the Court's attention to the deportation order issued by the Department of Immigration.' Alan quoted the words he knew by heart, '… 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…'

An individual, he argued, could not be deported to four places at the same time; therefore there must be some decision as to which of the four was to apply. 'Who is to make this decision?' Alan inquired rhetorically, then answered his own question: 'One would conclude – the authorities issuing the deportation order. And yet there has been no decision; only that my client, Henri Duval, shall be imprisoned on the ship.'

By this action – or inaction – Alan claimed, the ship's captain was being forced to make an impossible choice of the four alternatives. Alan declared vehemently, 'It is as if Your Lordship found an individual guilty of a crime and said, "I sentence this man either to three years in the penitentiary, or to twelve strokes of the paddle, or six months in local jail, and I leave it to someone else outside this courtroom to determine which it shall be."'

As Alan paused, sipping from a glass of ice water which Tom Lewis poured, there was a hint of a smile on the judge's face. At the other counsel's table, A. R. Butler, his distinguished features impassive, made a pencilled note.

Alan continued: 'I submit, my lord, that the deportation order affecting Henri Duval is defective because it cannot be carried out precisely.'

Now – the strongest pillar of his case – he sketched in the history of Rex vs Ahmed Singh, reading in detail from the volume of law reports he had brought to court, the significant portion flagged. In the 1921 case, stripped of legal verbiage, a Canadian judge had ruled: a rejected immigrant, Ahmed Singh, could not be deported solely to a ship. Nor, Alan insisted, could Henri Duval.

'Under the law,' Alan declared, 'the two situations are identical. Thus, under habeas corpus proceedings, the order should be quashed and my client freed.'

A. R. Butler stirred and made another note; soon he would have the opportunity of rebuttal and initiating argument himself. Meanwhile, Alan's words and reasoning flowed confidently on. He had told Senator Deveraux: I intend to win…

In the seat beside A. R. Butler, Edgar Kramer listened unhappily to the lengthening proceedings.

Edgar Kramer had a working knowledge of the law, and knowledge plus instinct told him that, for the Immigration Department, the hearing was not proceeding well. He also had a secondary instinct: that, if the verdict was adverse, a scapegoat might be found within the department. And there was an obvious one: himself.

He had been aware of this ever since the curt and cutting message two days earlier: 'The Prime Minister… extremely dissatisfied… handling of the case in judge's chambers… should not have offered a special inquiry… expect better performance in future.' The executive assistant who had relayed the censure by telephone had seemed to do so with especial relish.

Edgar Kramer seethed anew at the bitter, gross injustice. He had even been denied the elementary privilege of self-defence; of explaining to the Prime Minister personally that the special inquiry had been forced upon him by this judge, and that, faced with two impossible situations, he had chosen the least harmful and most expeditious.

It had been the correct thing to do, as everything he had done had been correct from the moment he had reached Vancouver.

In Ottawa, his instructions before departure had been explicit. The deputy minister had told him personally: if the stowaway Duval did not qualify for admittance as an immigrant under the law, then, under no circumstances would he be admitted. Furthermore, Edgar Kramer was authorized to take all necessary legal steps to prevent such admittance, whatever they might be.

There had been another assurance; political pressure or a public outcry would not be allowed to interfere with application of the law. The assurance, he was told, had come directly from the Minister, Mr Warrender.

Edgar Kramer had followed instructions conscientiously, as he had always done in the course of his career. Despite what was happening here and now, he had observed the law – the Immigration Act, as passed by Parliament. He had been dutiful and loyal, and not neglectful. And it was not his fault that an upstart lawyer and a misguided judge had thrown-his efforts out of joint.

His superiors, he supposed, would understand. And yet… the Prime Minister's displeasure was something else again.

Censure from a Prime Minister could cut a civil servant down; make him a marked man, with promotion barred. And even when governments changed, such judgements had a way of hanging over.

In his own case, of course, the censure had not been major; and perhaps already the Prime Minister had erased it from his mind. AH the same, uneasily, Edgar Kramer had an instinct that the brightness of his future, compared with a week ago, was slightly dimmed.

What he must guard against was another controversial step. If the Prime Minister were reminded of his name once more…

Within the courtroom the words flowed on. The judge had intervened with questions at several points, and now A. R. Butler and Alan Maitland were politely disputing a minute point of law. '… My learned friend says the order is in the exact terms of Section 36. I submit that the addition of these commas may be important. It is not in the exact terms of Section 36…'

Edgar Kramer hated Alan Maitland's guts. He also had an urge to urinate: emotion, including anger, nowadays had this effect. And there was no denying that lately his affliction had been worse, the pain from delay greater. He tried to shield his mind… to forget… to think of something else…

He turned his eyes to Henri Duval; the stowaway was grinning, not understanding, his gaze roving the courtroom. Every instinct Kramer possessed… his years of experience… told him that this man would never make a settled immigrant. His background was against him. Despite any help he might be given, such a man could not adapt and conform to a country he would never understand. There was a pattern of behaviour for his type: short-lived industry, then idleness; the eager search for quick rewards; weakness, dissolution; trouble… the pattern always moving downward. There were many cases in department files: the harsh reality which starry-eyed idealists ignored.

'… Surely, my lord, the sole issue on the return of a habeas corpus is the question of the validity of the custody…'

The thought… the urge to urinate, near physical pain… would no longer be subdued.

Edgar Kramer squirmed miserably in his chair. But he would not leave.

Anything, anything, rather than draw attention to himself.

Closing his eyes, he prayed for a recess.

It was to be no pushover, Alan Maitland realized. A. R. Butler, QC, was fighting hard, contesting every argument, citing precedents in rebuttal against Rex vs Ahmed Singh. The Judge, too, seemed extremely querulous, questioning minutely 'as if for some reason of his own, he wished Alan's presentation turned inside out.

At this moment A. R. Butler was defending the Immigration Department's actions. 'No individual freedom has been abrogated,' he declared. 'Duval, in the case at bar, has had his rights and now they have run out.'

The older lawyer's performance, Alan thought, was as impressive as ever. The deep, urbane voice continued, 'I submit, my lord, that to admit such an individual, under such circumstances as described, would inevitably open the gates of Canada to a flood of immigrants. These would not be immigrants as we know them. They would be those demanding admittance merely because they cannot remember where they were born, possess no travel documents, or speak in monosyllables.'

Instantly Alan was on his feet. 'My lord, I object to counsel's remarks. The question of how any man speaks…'

Mr Justice Willis waved him down. 'Mr Butler,' the judge said mildly, 'I don't suppose you or I can remember being born.'

The point I was making, my lord-'

'Furthermore,' the judge said firmly, 'I imagine that some of our most respected local families are descended from those who got off a boat without travel documents. I can think of several'

'If Your Lordship will permit-'

'And as for speaking in monosyllables, I find myself doing it in my own country – as, for instance, when I visit the province of Quebec.' The judge nodded equably. 'Please proceed, Mr Butler.'

For an instant the lawyer's face flushed. Then he continued, 'The point I was making, my lord – no doubt badly, as Your Lordship was generous enough to point out – is that the people of Canada arc entitled to protection under the Immigration Act…'

Outwardly, the words were summoned and marshalled with the same easy assurance. But now, Alan realized, it was A. R. Butler who was clutching straws.

For a while, after the hearing had begun, misgiving had haunted Alan Maitland. He had feared that, despite everything, he might lose; that even at this late stage Henri Duval would be condemned to the Vastervik when it sailed tonight; that Senator Deveraux might believe, mistakenly, his blandishments had worked… But now a sense of assurance was returning.

Waiting for the present portion of argument to conclude, his thoughts switched to Henri Duval. Despite Alan's conviction that the young stowaway was a potentially good immigrant, the incident this morning in the hotel had left him disturbed. Uneasily he remembered Tom Lewis's doubts. 'A flaw somewhere; a weakness… maybe not his fault; perhaps something his background put there.'

It need not be true, Alan told himself fiercely; everyone, whatever his background, took time to adjust to new environments. Besides, the principle was what mattered most: personal liberty, the freedom of an individual. Once, glancing around the courtroom, he had found the eyes of Edgar Kramer upon him. Well, he would show this smug civil servant that there were processes of law more powerful than arbitrary administrative rulings.

The focus of arguments before the court had switched. Temporarily, A. R. Butler had resumed his seat, and now Alan sought to reopen old ground: the matter of the Immigration Department appeal following the special inquiry. At once A. R. Butler objected, but the judge ruled that the subject could be raised, then added casually, 'When convenient to counsel, I believe we might recess briefly.'

About to agree politely with the judge's suggestion, Alan had seen an expression of intense relief cross Edgar Kramer's face.-He had noticed, too, that for the past several minutes the civil servant had been moving, as if uncomfortably, in his high-backed chair. A sudden memory… instinct… made Alan hesitate.

He announced, 'With Your Lordship's permission, before recess I would appreciate completing this single portion of my argument.'

Mr Justice Willis nodded.

Alan continued to address the court. He examined the appeal proceedings, critici2ing the composition of the appeal board with its three members – including Edgar Kramer -fellow immigration officers of the special inquiry officer, George Tamkynhil.

Rhetorically he asked, 'Can it be anticipated that a group, so constituted, would nullify the findings of a close official colleague? Moreover, would such a group reverse a decision already announced in the House of Commons by the Minister of Immigration himself?'

A. R. Butler interjected heatedly, 'My friend is deliberately misinterpreting. The board is a board of review…'

The judge leaned forward. Judges were always touchy about administrative tribunals… It was something Alan had known. Now, his eyes on Edgar Kramer, he realized why he had delayed. It was a vicious impulse – a stroke of malice which, until this moment, he had not admitted to himself. Nor had it been necessary; he knew the case was won. Uneasily, he waited.

Through a tortured mental haze Edgar Kramer had heard the last exchange. He waited, pleading silently for it to end, praying for the recess the judge had promised.

Mr Justice Willis observed acidly, 'If I am to understand it, this so-called appeal from a special inquiry is nothing more than a department rubber stamp. Why in the world call it an appeal at all?' Fixing his gaze on Kramer, the judge continued austerely, 'I say to the representative of the Department of Citizenship and Immigration that the Court harbours grave doubts…'

But Edgar Kramer was no longer listening. The physical pain… the urge begun earlier and now intensified, was all consuming. His mind, his body could encompass nothing else. Brokenly, with anguish, he pushed back his chair and hurried from the courtroom.

'Stop!' It was the judge's voice, sharply commanding.

He paid no heed. In the corridor, still hastening, he could hear Mr Justice Willis bitingly addressing A. R. Butler. '…;

Warn this official… disrespect… any further occasion… contempt of court…' And then, abruptly: 'Court recessed for fifteen minutes.'

He could envisage the eager, crackling press stories which, in a moment or two, would be telephoned or written: Edgar S. Kramer, senior Immigration Department official, today was threatened with contempt of court proceedings during the British Columbia Supreme Court hearing into the case of Henri Duval. Kramer, while being addressed critically by Mr Justice Willis, walked out of court, ignoring an order by the judge…

It would appear everywhere. And it would be read by the public, colleagues, subordinates, seniors, the Minister, the Prime Minister…

He could never explain.

He knew that his career was over. There would be reprimands; and afterwards he would stay a civil servant, but without advancement. Responsibilities would grow less, respect diminishing. It had happened to others. Perhaps in his own. case there would be medical inquiries, early retirement…

He leaned forward, putting his head against the cool toilet wall, resisting an urge to weep bitter anguished tears.

Chapter 4

Tom Lewis asked: 'What comes next?'

'If you want to know,' Alan Maitland answered, 'I was just wondering myself.'

They were on the steps of the Supreme Court Building. It was early afternoon, warm, with unseasonal sunshine. Fifteen minutes earlier a favourable verdict had been handed down. Henri Duval, Mr Justice Willis ruled, could not be deported to a ship. Therefore Duval would not sail with the Vastervik tonight. There had been spontaneous applause in court, which the judge had subdued sternly.

Alan said thoughtfully, 'Henri isn't a landed immigrant yet, suppose eventually he could be sent directly to Lebanon where he boarded the ship. But I don't think the Government will do it.'

'I guess not,' Tom agreed. 'Anyway, he doesn't seem to be worrying.'

They looked across the steps to where Henri Duval was surrounded by a knot of reporters, photographers, and admirers. Several women were among the group. The former stowaway was posing for pictures, grinning broadly, his chest thrown out.

'Who's the sleazy character in the camel-hair coat?' Tom inquired.

He was watching a florid man with sharp, pock-marked features and oiled hair. He had a hand on Henri Duval's shoulders and was including himself in the pictures being taken.

'Some sort of night-club agent, I understand. He showed up a few minutes ago; says he wants to put Henri on show. I'm against it, but Henri likes the idea.' Alan said slowly, 'I don't quite see what I can do.'

'Did you talk to Duval about the job offers we have? The tugboat thing sounds good.'

Alan nodded. 'He told me he doesn't want to start work for a few days.'

Tom's eyebrows went up. 'Getting a little independent, isn't he?'

Alan answered shortly, 'Yes.' It had already occurred to him that certain responsibilities concerning his protege might prove an unexpected burden,

There was a pause, then Tom remarked, 'I suppose you know why Kramer went out of court the way he did.'

Alan nodded slowly. 'I remembered from the other time -what you told me.'

Tom said quietly, 'You rigged it, didn't you?'

'I wasn't sure what would happen,' Alan admitted. 'But I could see he was ready to blow.' He added miserably, 'I wish I hadn't done it.'

'I imagine Kramer does too,' Tom said. 'You fixed him, but good. I was talking to A. R. Butler after. By the way. Butler's not a bad guy when you get to know him. He told me Kramer is a good civil servant – hard-working, honest. If I may quote my learned friend, "When you consider what we pay civil servants, the Kramers of this country are a whole lot better than we deserve."'

Alan was silent.

Tom Lewis went on, 'According to Butler, Kramer already had one reprimand over this business – from the Prime Minister, no less. I should think what happened would be good for another, so you can probably figure that you managed to break him.'

Alan said slowly, 'I feel ashamed about the whole thing!'

Tom nodded. 'At least that's two of us.'

Dan Orliffe had left the group around Henri Duval and came towards them. He had a folded newspaper under his arm. 'We're going back to Henri's room,' he announced. 'Somebody has a bottle and there seems to be an urge to start a party. Coming?'

'No, thanks,' Alan said. Tom shook his head.

'Okay.' About to turn away, the reporter handed Alan the paper. 'It's the noon edition. There's a little about you, there'll be more in the final.'

As Tom and Alan watched, the group with Henri Duval moved away. The energetic centre of it was the man in the camel-hair coat. One of the women had her arm through Henri's. The former stowaway was beaming happily, enjoying the attention. He did not look back.

'I'll give him his head for now,' Alan said. 'Later on today I'll sort him out. I can't just leave him, turn him loose.'

Tom grinned sardonically. 'Good luck.'

'He may be all right,' Alan argued. 'He may turn out fine. You can never tell, and you can't prejudge – ever.'

'No,' Tom said. 'You shouldn't prejudge.'

'Even if he doesn't do well,' Alan persisted, 'the principle is more important than the man.'

'Yeah.' Tom followed Alan down the courthouse steps. 'I guess there's always that.'

Over steaming spaghetti, at the Italian restaurant near their office, Alan broke the news about their fee. Surprisingly, Tom seemed almost unconcerned.

'I'd probably have done the same,' he said. 'Don't worry; we'll get by.'

Alan felt a surge of warmth and gratitude. To hide his own emotion, he opened the newspaper Dan Orliffe had given him.

On page one there was a story of the Duval hearing, but written before the verdict and the Edgar Kramer debacle. An Ottawa CP dispatch disclosed that the Prime Minister would make 'a grave and significant announcement in the House of Commons this afternoon'; the nature of the announcement was not given, but speculation tied it to worsening international affairs. The late news box contained race results and another single item:

Senator Richard Deveraux died suddenly this morning, reportedly of a heart attack, at his Vancouver home. He was seventy-four.

Chapter 5

The door to the house was open. Alan walked through.

He found Sharon in the drawing-room, alone.

'Oh, Alan!' She came to him. Her eyes were red from crying.

He said softly, 'I hurried as soon as I heard.' He took her hands gently, steering her to a settee. They sat down side by side.

'Don't talk,' he told her. 'Unless you want to.'

After a while Sharon said, 'It happened… about an hour after you left.'

He started guiltily. It wasn't because…'

'No.' Her voice was low but firm. 'He had two heart attacks before. We'd known for a year that one more…'

'It seems inadequate,' he said. 'But I'd like to say I'm sorry.'

'I loved him, Alan. He took care of me from the time I was a baby. He was land, and generous.' Sharon's voice faltered, then went on, 'Oh, I know all about politics – there were mean things, as well as good. Sometimes it seemed as if he couldn't help himself.'

Alan said softly, 'We're all like that. I guess it's the way we're made.' He was thinking of himself and Edgar Kramer.

Sharon raised her eyes. She said steadily, 'I hadn't heard… with everything else. Did you win your case?'

He nodded slowly. 'Yes, we won.' But he wondered what he had won and what he had lost.

'After you'd gone this morning,' Sharon said carefully, 'Granddaddy told me what had happened. He knew he shouldn't have asked you what he did. He was going to tell you so.'

He said consolingly, 'It doesn't matter now.' He wished, though, that this morning he had been more gentle.

'He would have wanted you to know.' Her eyes were brimming, her voice unsure. 'He told me… that you were the finest young man… he had ever known… and if I didn't grab and marry you…'

The voice broke. Then she was in his arms.