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 slowl
y, '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.
Part 19
The Act of Union
Chapter 1
It was 3.20. Forty minutes left.
At 4 PM, simultaneously in Ottawa and Washington, the Act of Union would be announced.
In the House of Commons tension was growing. This morning the Prime Minister's office had allowed it to be known that a 'grave and significant announcement of national import' would be made. No details had been given, but on Parliament Hill speculation had been growing hourly.
Within the House, routine business was proceeding but there was an undercurrent of expectation. The public galleries were already filled, a line of luckless latecomers lining the halls outside. In the diplomatic gallery several ambassadors had already arrived. In an adjoining gallery, member's wives, vying for the choicest seats, were filing in.
Immediately outside the House, lobbies, corridors, and press rooms were abuzz with talk. News of a Cabinet split was widely rumoured but, so far as James Howden knew, there had been no leak as to the cause. A moment earlier, conversations in the Government lobby had stilled as the Prime Minister had entered, walking to his own House of Commons seat.
Settling down, he glanced around, then opened the folder he had carried in. Closing his ears to the current speaker - a backbench MP enjoying the unusual attention - Howden read, once more, the agreed joint statement and the opening text of his own speech to follow.
For days he had laboured on the speech, in between commitments, completing it in the early hours of this morning after returning from Montreal. He had had little sleep, but excitement and a sense of destiny sustained him.
The speech which he would make today in the House -unlike others of the past few days - was entirely his own.
Other than Milly Freedeman, who had typed the drafts, no one else had seen or worked on it. He was aware that what he had written, and would say, was from his heart. What he proposed would divert the course of history. For Canada, for a while at least, it would lessen nationhood. But in the end, he was convinced, the gain of union would outweigh a separate peril. There was courage in facing facts; greater, perhaps, than in empty insurrections with which the past abounded.
But would others see it too?
Some would, he knew. Many would trust him, as they had before. Others would be won by argument, a few by tear. A large section of the nation was American in thought already; to them, the Act of Union would seem logical and right.
But there would be opposition, and a bitter fight. It had begun already.
Early this morning he had interviewed separately the eight cabinet dissidents who were supporting Adrian Nesbitson. By strong persuasion and a personal appeal he had won back three, but five were adamant. Together with General Nesbitson they would resign and resist the Act of Union as an independent opposition group. Undoubtedly a few MPs, at least, would follow them, to form a rump within the House.
It was a serious blow, though not entirely unpredictable. He could have been more confident of surviving it, however, if the Government's popularity had not decreased in recent weeks. If only there had been no stowaway incident ... Resolutely, to avoid rekindling his inner, burning anger, Howden switched his thoughts away. He had noticed, though, that Harvey War-render was not yet in the House. Nor was Bonar Deitz, the Leader of the Opposition.
A hand touched his shoulder. Turning, he saw the shock of black curls and bristling moustache of Lucien Perrault. Jauntily, as he managed to do everything, the French Canadian bowed to the Speaker and dropped into the empty seat of Stuart Cawston, who had briefly left the floor.
Perrault leaned over, whispering, 'It is true, I hear, that we have a fight before us.'
'I'm afraid so,' Howden murmured. He added warmly, 'I can't tell you how much your support has meant to me.'
Perrault gave a Gallic shrug, his eyes humorous. 'Well, we shall stand together, and if we fall there will be a thunderous sound.' After a moment, smiling, he moved away to his own
seat.
A page boy laid an envelope upon the Prime Minister's desk. Ripping it open, Howden read in Milly Freedeman's handwriting, 'The President is preparing to leave the White House for the Capitol.' In the Prime Minister's office, a minute or two away, Milly was monitoring an open line to Washington. It was for last minute contingencies. So far there had been none.
On the other side of the House, the Opposition Leader came in. Bonar Deitz looked paler than usual and preoccupied, Howden thought. He went straight to his front row desk and snapped his fingers for a page boy. As the boy waited, Deitz scribbled a note, then folded it. To Howden's surprise the note was delivered to himself. It read: 'Essential we discuss urgent, personal matter re you and Harvey Warrender. Please meet me immediately, Room 16 - B.D.'
Alarmed and startled, Howden looked up. But the Opposition Leader had already gone.
Chapter 2
At the same moment that Bonar Deitz had entered the House of Commons, Brian Richardson strode into the outer office of the Prime Minister's suite where Milly Freedeman waited. The party director's face was set grimly. In his hand was a sheet torn from a teletype. Without preliminary he told Milly, 'Wherever the chief is, I need him - fast.'
Milly gestured to the telephone she was holding. She mouthed silently the one word 'Washington'. Her eyes went up to the clock upon the wall.
'There's time,' Richardson said shortly. 'If he's in the House, get him out.' He laid the teletype on the desk in front of her. 'This is Vancouver. Right now it comes first.'
Milly read quickly, then, putting the telephone down on its side, wrote a hasty note. Folding the note and teletype sheet together she sealed them in an envelope and pressed a buzzer. Almost at once a page boy knocked and entered. Milly instructed, 'Please take this quickly and come straight back.' When the boy had gone, she picked up the telephone again and listened.
After a moment, covering the mouthpiece, Milly asked, 'It's pretty bad, isn't it - the way things came out in court?'
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