'Actually, I'm doing you a favour,' Richardson said. 'I'm introducing you to some facts of life which other people take years to discover.'
The waiter had returned and Richardson inquired, 'You're sure you won't change your mind and have another drink.'
The young man drained his glass. 'All right,' he said. 'I will.'
When the waiter had gone, Richardson asked, 'Assuming I'm right, how long will it take you to get what I need?'
'Well…' The young man hesitated. 'I should think a couple of days.'
'Cheer up!' Brian Richardson reached over, clapping a hand on the other's knee. 'In two years from now you'll have forgotten this whole thing ever happened.'
'Yes,' the young man said unhappily. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'
Part 14 'Detained and Deported'
Chapter 1
From the surface of his office desk, the deportation order against Henri Duval stared up at Alan Maitland.
… hereby order you to be detained and deported to the place whence you came to Canada, or to the country of which you are a national or citizen, or to the country of your birth, or to such country as may be approved…
Since the edict at the special inquiry five days earlier, the order had etched itself into Alan's mind until, eyes closed, he could repeat the words from memory. And he had repeated them often, searching in the official phraseology for a minute loophole, some tiny weakness, a cavity into which the probing antennae of the law might go.
But there had been none.
He had read statutes and old law cases, first by the dozen and later by the hundred, labouring at their involved and stilted language far into each night until his eyes were red rimmed, his body aching for lack of sleep. Through most of the daytime hours Tom Lewis had joined him in the Supreme Court law library, where together they had explored indexes, reviewed abridgements, and scrutinized case reports in ancient, seldom-opened tomes. 'I don't need lunch,' Tom said on the second day. 'My stomach's full of dust.'
What they sought was a legal precedent which would demonstrate that the Immigration Department's handling of the Duval case was in error and therefore illegal. As Tom put it:
'We need something we can slap in front of a judge and say, "Jack, the bums can't screw us, and here's why."' And later, perched wearily atop a library ladder, Tom declared, 'It isn't what you know that makes a lawyer, it's knowing where to look, and we haven't found the right place.'
Nor had they found the right place in the remaining days of the search, which was now ended. 'There's just so much anyone can do,' Alan had admitted finally. 'I guess we might as well give up.'
Now it was two in the afternoon, Tuesday, January 9th. They had quit an hour ago.
There had been one brief interruption in their law library vigil – yesterday morning when a departmental board had considered Henri Duval's appeal against the outcome of the special inquiry. But it was a hollow, formal proceeding, the outcome predictable with Edgar Kramer as chairman of the board and two immigration officers the supporting members.
This was a part of the procedure which originally Alan had hoped to delay. After his own gaffe in court it had all been too swift…
Though knowing the effort wasted, Alan had presented argument as forcefully and thoroughly as if before a judge and jury. The board – including Edgar Kramer, punctiliously polite throughout – had listened attentively, then solemnly announced its decision in favour of the earlier verdict. Afterwards Alan had told Tom Lewis, 'It was like arguing with the Queen in Alice in Wonderland, only.a lot more dull.'
Tilting his chair back in the tiny, cluttered office, stifling a yawn from tiredness, Alan found himself regretting that the case was almost over. It seemed that there was nothing more he could do. The Vastervik – its repairs completed and now loading fresh cargo – was due to sail in four days' time. Sometime before then, perhaps tomorrow, he must go down to the ship to break the final news to Henri Duval. But he knew that it would not be unexpected news; the young stowaway had learned too much about human indifference for one more disavowal to surprise him greatly.
Alan eased his six-foot length upright, scratched his crew-cut head, then wandered from his glass-panelled cubicle to the modest outer office. It was deserted. Tom Lewis was downtown, involved in some real estate work they had been fortunate in getting a day or two ago; and their grandmotherly widow typist, exhausted from the unwonted pressure of the past few days, had gone home at lunchtime, as she put it, 'to sleep the clock round, Mr Maitland, and if you take my advice you'll do the same'. Maybe it'd be smart at that, Alan thought. He was tempted to go home to the cramped Gilford Street apartment, let down the landing-gear bed and forget everything, including stowaways, immigration, and the general disagreeableness of mankind. Except Sharon. That was it: he would concentrate his thoughts on Sharon exclusively. He wondered where she was at this moment; what she had been doing since their last meeting two days ago – a snatched few minutes over coffee in between sessions in the law library; what she was thinking about; how she looked; if she were smiling, or frowning in that quizzical way she did sometimes…"
He decided to telephone her. There was time on his hands; nothing further he could do for Henri Duval. Using the outer office phone, he dialled the Deveraux number. The butler answered. Yes, Miss Deveraux was in; would Mr Maitland kindly wait?
A minute or two later he heard light footsteps coming to the phone.
'Alan!' Sharon's voice was excited. 'You've found something!'
'I wish we had,' he said. 'I'm afraid we've quit.'
'Oh, no!' The tone of regret was genuine.
He explained the fruitless search; the futility of going on.
'All the same,' Sharon said, 'I can't believe it's the end. You'll keep thinking and thinking, and come up with something the way you did before.'
He was touched by her confidence but did not share it.
'I did have one idea,' he said. 'I thought I'd make a model of Edgar Kramer and stick pins in. It's the only bit we haven't tried.'
Sharon laughed. 'I used to model in clay.'
'Let's do it tonight,' he suggested, brightening. 'We'll start with dinner and maybe get to the clay later.'
'Oh, Alan; I'm sorry, but I can't.'
Impulsively he asked, 'Why not?'
There was a moment's hesitation, then Sharon said, 'I already have a date.'
Well, he thought; you ask questions, you get answers. He wondered who the date was with; if it was someone Sharon had known long; where they would go. He had a pang of jealousy, then told himself it was irrational. After all, Sharon must have had a social life, and a full one, long before he himself had appeared upon the scene. And a kiss in the hotel was no firm claim…
'I'm sorry, Alan; really I am. But it's something I couldn't break.'
'I wouldn't want you to.' With determined cheerfulness he told her, 'Have fun; I'll call you if there's any news.'
Sharon said uncertainly, 'Goodbye.'
When he had replaced the phone, the office seemed smaller and more depressing than before. Aimlessly, wishing he had not made the telephone call, he walked its length.
On the stenographer's desk a pile of opened telegrams caught his eye. He had never received as many telegrams in his life as in the past few days. Picking one from the top of the pile, he read:
CONGRATULATIONS ON SPLENDID FIGHT EVERY WARMHEARTED CITIZEN MUST BE CHEERING FOR YOU
K. R. BROWNE
Who was K. R. Browne, he wondered. Man or Woman? Rich or poor? And what kind of a person? Did he or she really care about all injustice and oppression… or merely get caught up in sentimental fervour? He put the message down and selected another.
JESUS SAID INASMUCH AS YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE MY BRETHREN YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME AS MOTHER OF FOUR SONS AM PRAYING FOR YOU AND THAT POOR BOY