As he moved, another shadow loomed. It was a ship.
At first he thought he had returned to the Italian freighter and his immediate impulse was to steal back on board. Better the misery he knew than the prison he envisaged waiting if police arrested him. Then he saw that the shadow was not the Italian ship but a larger one and he had scurried aboard it like a rat up a rope. It was the Vastervik, a fact he was to learn two days later and twenty miles at sea when starvation conquered fear and drove him, quaking, out of hiding. ,
Captain Sigurd Jaabeck of the Vastervik was very different from his Italian counterpart. A slow-speaking, grey-haired Norwegian, he was a firm man, but just, who had respected both the precepts of his Bible and the laws of the sea. Captain Jaabeck explained sternly but carefully to Henri Duval that a stowaway was not compelled to work but could do so voluntarily, although without pay. In any case, whether working or not, he would receive the same rations as the ship's crew. Duval chose to work.
Like the Italian shipmaster. Captain Jaabeck fully intended to dispose of his stowaway at the first port of call. But unlike the Italian - after learning that there was to be no quick disposal of Duval - the thought of ill-treatment did not occur to him.
And so for twenty months Henri Duval remained aboard while the Vastervik mooched, cargo questing, over half the oceans of the world. They jogged with tramplike monotony through the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, and the Pacific. They touched North Africa, Northern Europe, Southern Europe, England, South America, the United States, and Canada. And everywhere the petition of Henri Duval to land and remain was met with an emphatic no. The reason, when port officials bothered to give it, was always the same - the stowaway had no papers, no identity, no country, and no rights.
And then, after a while, when the Vastervik had settled down to accepting Duval as a permanency, the young stowaway had become something of a ship's pet.
The Vastervik's crew was an international miscellany which included Poles, Scandinavians, Lascars, a Chinese, an Armenian, and several English seamen of whom Stubby Gates was the accepted leader. It was the latter group which had adopted Duval and made his life, if not pleasant, at least as tolerable as crowded conditions in the ship allowed. They had helped him in speaking English, and now, although his accent was thick and phrasing awkward, at least with patience on both sides he could make himself understood.
It was one of the few genuine kindnesses that Henri Duval had ever experienced, and he responded much as an eager puppy dog responds to approval from its master. Nowadays he did personal jobs for the crew, helped the officers' steward, and ran shipboard errands. In return the men brought gifts of cigarettes and sweets from their trips ashore and occasionally Captain Jaabeck provided small sums of money which other seamen spent on Duval's behalf. But with it all, the stowaway was still a captive and the Vastervik, once a refuge, had become his prison.
Thus Henri Duval, whose only home was the sea, had come to the gates of Canada on the eve of Christmas.
Chapter 6
The interrogation had taken almost two hours. Partway through, Dan Orliffe had repeated some of his earlier questions in different terms, seeking to trip the young stowaway into an admission or inconsistency. But the ruse failed. Except for misunderstandings of language, which were cleared up as they went along, the basic story stayed the same.
Near the end, after a leading question phrased with deliberate inaccuracy, Duval had not answered. Instead he had turned his dark eyes upon his interrogator.
'You trick me. You think I lie,' the stowaway said, and again the newspaperman was aware of the same unconscious dignity he had noted earlier.
Ashamed at having his own trickery exposed, Dan Orliffe had said, 'I was just checking. I won't do it again.' And they had gone on to something else.
Now, back at his beat-up desk in the cramped, cluttered newsroom of the Vancouver Post Dan spread out his notes and reached for a sheaf of copy paper. Shuffling in carbons, he called across to the night city editor, Ed Benedict, at the city desk.
'Ed, it's a good story. How many words can you handle?'
The night city editor considered. Then he called back. 'Hold it down to a thousand.'
Pulling his chair closer to the typewriter, Dan nodded. It would do. He would have liked more but, assembled tautly, a thousand words could say a great deal.
He began to type.
Part 4
Ottawa, Christmas Eve
Chapter 1
At 6.15 AM on Christmas Eve Milly Freedeman was awakened by the telephone's insistent ringing in her apartment in the fashionable Tiffany Building on Ottawa Driveway. Slipping a robe of faded yellow terrycloth over silk pyjamas, she groped with her feet for the old, heel-trodden moccasins she .had kicked off the night before. Unable to locate them, the Prime Minister's personal secretary padded barefoot into the adjoining room and snapped on a light.
Even this early, and viewed through sleepy eyes, the room which the light revealed seemed as inviting and comfortable as always. It was a far cry, Milly knew, from the chic bachelor-girl apartments so often featured in the glossy magazines. But it was a place she loved to come home to every evening, usually tired, and sinking at first into the down cushions of the big overstuffed chesterfield - the one which had given the movers so much trouble when she had brought it here from her parents' home in Toronto.
The old chesterfield had been recovered since then, in Milly's favourite shade of green, and was flanked now by the two armchairs she had bought at an auction sale outside Ottawa - a little threadbare, but wonderfully comfortable. She kept deciding that some day soon she must have autumn-coloured chintz covers made for the chairs. The covers would go well with the apartment's walls and woodwork, painted in a warm mushroom shade. She had done the painting herself one weekend, inviting a couple of friends in for a scratch dinner, then cajoling them into helping her finish.
On the far side of the living-room was an old rocking chair, one that she was absurdly sentimental about because she had rocked in it, daydreaming, as a child. And beside the rocking chair, on a tooled-leather coffee table for which she had paid an outrageously high price, was the telephone.
Settling into the chair with a preliminary rock, Milly lifted the receiver. The caller was James Howden.
'Morning, Milly,' the Prime Minister said briskly. 'I'd like a cabinet Defence Committee meeting at eleven o'clock.' He made no reference to the earliness of the call, nor did Milly expect it. She had long ago grown used to her employer's addiction to early rising.
'Eleven this morning?' With her free hand Milly hugged the robe around her. It was cold in the apartment from a window she had left slightly open the night before.
'That's right,' Howden said.
'There'll be some complaining,' Milly pointed out. 'It's Christmas Eve.'
'I hadn't forgotten. But this is too important to stand over.'
When she had hung up she checked the time from the tiny leather travelling clock which stood beside the telephone and resisted a temptation to return to bed. Instead she closed the open window, then crossed to the tiny kitchenette and put on coffee. After that, returning to the living-room, she switched on a portable radio. The coffee was beginning to perk when the 6.30 radio news carried the official announcement of the Prime Minister's forthcoming talks in Washington.
Half an hour later, still in pyjamas, but this time with the old moccasins on her feet, she began to call the five committee members at their homes.
The Minister of External Affairs was first. Arthur Lexington responded cheerfully, 'Sure thing, Milly. I've been at meetings all night, what's another more or less? By the way, did you hear the announcement?'
'Yes,' Milly said. 'It was just on the radio.'
'Fancy a trip to Washington?'
'All I ever get to see on trips,' Milly said, 'is the keyboard of a typewriter.'
'You must come on one of mine,' Lexington said. 'Never need a typewriter. All my speeches are on the backs of cigarette p
ackets.'
Milly said, "They sound better than most that aren't.'
'That's because I never worry.' The External Affairs Minister chuckled. 'I start with the assumption that nothing I say can make the situation worse.'
She laughed.
'I must go now,' Lexington said, 'it's a big occasion in our house - I'm having breakfast with my children. They want to sec how much I've changed since last time I was home.'
She smiled as she wondered just what breakfast would be like this morning in the Lexington household. Bordering on bedlam probably. Susan Lexington, who had been her husband's secretary years before, was a notoriously poor housekeeper, but the family seemed close-knit when doing things together while the Minister was home in Ottawa. Thinking of Susan Lexington, Milly was reminded of something she had once been told: different secretaries go different ways; some get laid and married, others old and harried. So far, she thought, I've half a point each way. I'm not old, or married either.
She might have been married, of course, if her life had been less oriented to the life of James McCallum Howden...
A dozen years or so ago, when Howden had been merely a backbench MP, though a forceful, rising figure in the party, Milly, his young, part-time secretary, had fallen blindly and blissfully in love with him to the point where she longed for each new day and the delight of their physical closeness. She had been in her twenties then, away from her home in Toronto for the first time, and Ottawa had proved a virile and exciting world.
It seemed even more virile on the night that James Howden, having guessed her feelings, had made love to her for the first time. Even now, ten years later, she remembered the way it had been: early evening; the House of Commons adjourned for dinner; herself sorting letters in Howden's parliamentary office when he had come in quietly. Without speaking he had locked the door and, taking Milly by the shoulders, turned her towards him. Both knew that the other MP who shared the office with Howden was away from Ottawa. '
He kissed her and she responded ardently, without pretence or reserve, and later he had taken her to the leather office couch. Her awakening, bursting passion, and a total lack of inhibition surprised even herself.
It was the beginning of a time equalled in joy by no other part of Milly's life, before or since. Day after day, week after week, their clandestine meetings were contrived, excuses minted, minutes snatched ... At times their affair took on the pattern of a game of skill. At other moments it seemed as if life and love were geared for their devouring.
Milly's adoration of James Howden was deep and consuming. She was less certain of his feelings for her, even though he frequently declared them to be identical with her own. But she closed her mind to doubts, choosing to accept gratefully the here-and-now which circumstances had brought. Some day soon, she knew, there would be a point of no return either for the Howdens' marriage or for James Howden and herself. On the eventual outcome she cherished hope, dimly, but with scant illusion.
And yet, at one point - almost a year after their affair began - the hope seemed stronger.
It had been close to the time of the convention at which the party leadership would be decided, and one night James Howden had told her, 'I've been thinking of giving up politics and asking Margaret for a divorce.' After the first excitement, Milly had asked - what of the convention which would decide whether Howden or Harvey Warrender would win the leadership which both men sought.
'Yes,' he said. He had stroked his eagle-beak nose thoughtfully, his heavy face sombre. 'I've thought about that. If Harvey wins I'm getting out.'
She had watched the convention breathlessly, not daring to think' of the thing she wanted most: a Warrender victory. For if Warrender won, her own future would be assured. But if Warrender lost and James Howden won, Milly sensed that her love affair inevitably must end. The personal life of a party leader soon to become Prime Minister must be impeccable and beyond any breath of scandal.
At the end of the first convention day the odds favoured Warrender. But then, for a reason Milly never understood, Harvey Warrender withdrew and Howden won.
A week later, in the parliamentary office where it had begun, the romance between the two of them was ended.
'It has to be this way, Milly darling,' James Howden had said. 'There isn't any other.'
Milly had been tempted to reply that there was another way, but she knew it would be time and effort wasted. James Howden was riding high. There had been intense excitement ever since his election to the party leadership, and even now, though his emotion was genuine, there was a sense of impatience behind it, as if to clear out the past so the future might move in.
'Shall you stay on, Milly?' he had asked.
'No,' she said, 'I don't think I could.'
He had nodded understandingly. 'I can't say I blame you. If you ever change your mind...'
'I won't,' she said, but six months later she had. After a Bermuda holiday and another job which bored her, she had gone back and had remained. The return, at first, had been difficult and a sense of what-might-have-been was never far away. But sadness and private tears had never soured into embitterment and, in the end, love had turned to generous loyalty.
Sometimes Milly wondered, if Margaret Howden had ever known of that almost-year and the intensity of feeling of her husband's secretary; women had an intuition for that kind of thing which men lacked. But if so, Margaret had wisely said nothing, either then or since.
Now, her mind pivoting to the present, Milly made her next call.
It was Stuart Cawston, whose wife answered drowsily with the information that the Finance Minister was in the shower. Milly passed on a message, which was relayed, and she heard Smiling Stu acknowledge with a shouted, 'Tell Milly I'll be there.'
Adrian Nesbitson, Minister of Defence, was next on her list and she had to wait several minutes before the old man's shuffling footsteps reached the phone. When she told him about the meeting he said resignedly, 'H that's what the chief wants. Miss Freedeman, I'll have to be there, I suppose. Too bad, I'd say, it couldn't have waited until after the holiday.'
Milly made sympathetic noises, despite her awareness that the presence or absence of Adrian Nesbitson would make little difference to anything decided at this morning's meeting. Something else she knew, which Nesbitson did not, was that James Howden planned several cabinet changes in the new year and among the people to go would be the present Minister of Defence.
Nowadays, Milly thought, it seemed strange to remember that General Nesbitson had once been an heroic figure in the nation - a legendary, much-decorated veteran of World War II, with a reputation for daring, if not imagination. It was Adrian Nesbitson who had once led an armoured attack against panzers, standing in an open jeep, his personal bagpiper perched, playing, on the seat behind. And as much as generals are ever loved, Nesbitson had been loved by the men who had served him.
But after the war, Nesbitson the civilian would have amounted to nothing had it not been that James Howden wanted someone well known but administratively weak in the Defence slot. Howden's objective had been to have the appearance of possessing a stalwart Defence Minister but actually to control the portfolio closely himself.
That part of the plan had worked out well enough - too well, at times. Adrian Nesbitson, the gallant soldier, had proved entirely out of his depth in an era of missiles and nuclear power and only too willing to do exactly as told without the nuisance of argument. Unfortunately he had not always grasped the briefings of his own officials, and, lately, before press and public, had assumed the appearance of a tired and harassed Colonel Blimp.
Talking with the old man depressed Milly and she replenished her coffee and went to the bathroom to freshen up before making the remaining two calls. Pausing, before going back, she looked at herself in the long bathroom mirror under the bright fluorescent light. She saw a tall, attractive woman, still young if you used the word tolerantly, full-bosomed; also a bit hippy, she thought critically. But she had good bones, a stro
ng, well-shaped face with high classic cheekbones, and thickish eyebrows which she tweezed spasmodically when she thought of it. Eyes were big, sparkling, grey-green and wide in her face. A straight nose, broad at the end, was set over full, sensuous lips. Dark brown hair cut very short: Milly looked at it critically, wondering if it was time for cutting again. She 'disliked beauty salons and preferred to wash, set, and brush her own hair into shape. To do this, though, it had to be cut well and, it seemed, much too frequently.
Short hair had one big advantage, though - you could run your hands through it, and Milly often did. James Howden had liked doing that too, just as he had liked the old yellow robe she still wore. For the twentieth time she decided she must get rid of it soon.
Returned to the apartment living-room, she made her two remaining calls. One was to Lucien Perrault, Minister of Defence Production, who was openly annoyed at being called so early, and Milly was as snippy in return as she reasoned she could get away with. Afterwards she was a little sorry about that, remembering that someone or other had once described the right to be disagreeable in the early morning as the sixth human freedom, and most times Perrault - who wore the mantle of French Canadian leadership in Canada - treated her courteously enough.
The final call was to Douglas Martening, Clerk of the Privy Council, and procedural Solon at all cabinet meetings. With Martening, Milly was more respectful than with the others. Ministers might come and go, but the Clerk of the Privy Council, while in office, was the senior civil servant in Ottawa. He also had a reputation for aloofness and most times when Milly spoke to him gave the impression of scarcely being aware of her. But today, unusually, he was gloomily chatty.
'It will be a long meeting, I suppose. Probably go right on over into Christmas Day.'
'It wouldn't surprise me, sir,' Milly said. Then tentatively,
'But if it does I could always send out for turkey sandwiches.'
Martening grunted, then again surprisingly came back, 'It isn't sandwiches I need. Miss Freedeman. Just some other kind of work where a fellow gets a little more home life now and then.'
In High Places Page 7
