In High Places

BERTHA MCLEISH

A third, longer than the rest, drew his attention.

THE TWENTY-EIGHT MEMBERS OF STAPLETON AND DISTRICT MANITOBA KIWANIS CLUB HERE GATHERED SALUTE YOU AND WISH ALL SUCCESS IN FINE HUMANITARIAN EFFORT STOP WE ARE PROUD OF YOU AS FELLOW CANADIAN STOP WE HAVE PASSED AROUND HAT AND CHEQUE FOLLOWS STOP PLEASE USE MONEY ANY WAY YOU SEE FIT

GEORGE EARNDT, SECRETARY

The cheque, Alan remembered, had arrived this morning. It had been passed, with others, to a BC trust company which had offered to administer donations for Henri Duval. As of today, something like eleven hundred dollars had flowed in.

Thank you K. R. Browne, Mrs McLeish, and the Stapleton Kiwanians, Alan thought. And all the others. He thumbed the thick sheaf of telegrams. I haven't managed to do any good, but thank you all the same.

There were two big heaps of newspapers on the floor in a corner, he observed, and another batch piled high upon a chair. A good many, in all three piles, were out-of-town papers -from Toronto, Montreal, Winnipeg, Regina, Ottawa, and other cities. There was one, he noticed, from as far away as Halifax, Nova Scotia. Some of the visiting reporters had dropped off copies which, they said, had stories about himself. And an office neighbour across the hall had added a couple of New York Times, presumably for the same reason. So far Alan had not had time to do more than glance at a few. Sometime soon he would go through them all, and he supposed he should make a scrapbook; he would probably never again be as prominent in the news. He wondered about a title for the scrapbook. Perhaps something like: 'Testament to a Lost Cause.'

'Aw, cut it out, Maitland,' he said aloud. 'You're getting sorrier for yourself than you are for Duval.'

With the last word there was a short knock on the outer door, which opened. A head came around – the ruddy, broad-cheeked face of Dan Orliffe. The reporter followed the head with his burly farmer's body, then looked about him. He asked, 'Are you alone?'

Alan nodded.

'I thought I heard someone talking.'

'You did. It was me talking to myself.' Alan grinned wryly. 'That's the stage I've got to.'

'You need help,' Dan Orliffe said. 'How'd it be if I set up a talk with someone more interesting.'

'Who, for instance?.'

Orliffe answered casually, 'I thought we might start with (he Prime Minister. He's due in Vancouver the day after tomorrow.'

'Howden himself?'

'No less.'

'Oh sure.' Alan dropped into the stenographer's chair, leaning back and raising his feet alongside the battered typewriter. 'Tell you what I'll do: I'll rent a put-you-up and invite him to stay in my apartment.'

'Look,' Dan pleaded. 'I'm not kidding. This is for real. A meeting could be arranged, and it might do some good.' He asked questioningly, 'There's not much more you can do for Duval through the courts, is there?'

Alan shook his head. 'We're at the end of the line.'

'Well then, what i & there to lose?'

'Nothing, I guess. But what's the point?'

'You can plead, can't you?' Dan urged. '"The quality of mercy" and all that stuff. Isn't that what lawyers are for?'

'You're supposed to have a few solid arguments too.' Alan grimaced. 'I can just see the way it would be: me down on my knees and the PM wiping away tears. "Alan, my boy," he'd say, "All these weeks I've been so terribly wrong. Now if you'll just sign here we'll forget the whole thing, and you can have everything-you want."'

'Okay,' Dan Orliffe admitted, 'so it won't be any pushover. But neither was any of the rest you've done. Why give up now?'

'One simple reason,' Alan replied quietly. 'Because there comes a time when it's sensible to admit you're licked.'

'You disappoint me,' Dan said. He extended a foot and scuffed a desk leg disconsolately.

'Sorry. I wish I could do more.' There was a pause, then Alan asked curiously, 'Why's the Prime Minister coming to Vancouver anyway?'

'It's some sort of nation-wide tour he's making. All very sudden; there's a lot of speculation about it.' The reporter shrugged. 'That's somebody else's business. My idea was to get the two of you together.'

'He'd never see me,' Alan declared.

'If he were asked, he couldn't afford not to.' Dan Orliffe pointed to the pile of newspapers on the office chair. 'D'you mind if I move these?'

'Go ahead.'

Dan dumped the papers on to the floor, turned the chair around, and straddled the seat. He faced Alan, his elbows on the chair back. 'Look, chum,' he contended earnestly, 'if you haven't figured it by now, let me lay this out. To ten million people, maybe more – to everyone who reads a newspaper, watches television or listens to a radio – you're Mr Valiant-for-Truth.'

'Mr Valiant-for-Truth,' Alan repeated. He inquired curiously, 'That's from Pilgrim's Progress, isn't it?'

'I guess so.' The tone of voice was indifferent.

'I remember I read it once,' Alan said thoughtfully. 'In Sunday school, I think.'

'We're a long way from Sunday school,' the reporter said. 'But maybe some of yours rubbed off.'

'Get on with it,' Alan told him. 'You were talking about ten million people.'

'They've made you a national image,' Orliffe insisted. 'You're a sort of idol. Frankly I've never seen anything quite like it.'

'It's a lot of sentiment,' Alan said. 'When all this is over I'll be a forgotten man in ten days.'

'Maybe so,' Dan conceded. 'But while you are a public figure, you have to be treated with respect. Even by Prime Ministers.'

Alan grinned, as if the idea amused him. 'If I did ask for an interview with the Prime Minister, how do you think it should be done?'

'Let the Post arrange it,' Dan Orliffe urged. 'Howden doesn't love us, but he can't ignore us either. Besides I'd like to run an exclusive story tomorrow. We'll say that you've asked for a meeting and are waiting for an answer.'

'Now we're getting to it.' Alan swung down his feet from beside the typewriter. 'I figured there was an angle somewhere.'

Dan Orliffe's face had a studied earnestness. 'Everybody has an angle, but you and I would be helping each other, and Duval too. Besides, with that kind of advance publicity, Howden wouldn't dare refuse.'

'I don't know. I just don't know.' Standing up, Alan stretched tiredly. What was the point of it all, he thought. What could be gained by attempting more?

Then, in his mind, he saw the face of Henri Duval, and behind Duval – smugly smiling and triumphant – the features of Edgar Kramer.

Suddenly Alan's face lighted, his voice strengthened. 'What the hell!' be said. 'Let's give it a whirl.'

Part 15

The Party Director

Chapter 1

The young man in the tortoise-shell glasses had said 'a couple of days'.

Actually, with a weekend in between, it had taken four.

Now, in party headquarters on Sparks Street, he faced Brian Richardson from the visitors' side of the party director's desk.

As always, Richardson's sparsely furnished office was stiflingly hot. On two walls, steam radiators, turned fully on, bubbled like simmering kettles. Although only mid-afternoon, the Venetian blinds had been lowered and shabby drapes drawn to circumvent draughts through the leaky windows of the decrepit building. Unfortunately it also had the effect of blocking out fresh air.

Outside, where a bitter blanket of arctic air had gripped

Ottawa and all Ontario since Sunday morning, the temperature was five below zero. Inside, according to a desk thermometer, it was seventy-eight, There were beads of perspiration on the young man's forehead. Richardson rearranged his heavy, broad-shouldered figure in the leather swivel chair. 'Well?' he asked. '

'I have what you wanted,' the young man said quietly. He placed a large manila envelope in the centre of the desk. The envelope was imprinted 'Department of National Defence'.

'Good work.' Brian Richardson had a sense of rising excitement. Had a hunch, a long shot, paid off? Had he remembered accurately a chance remark – a fleeting innuendo, no more -uttered long ago at a cocktail party by a man whose name he had never known? It must have been all of fifteen years ago, perhaps even twenty… long before his own connexion with the party… long before James Howden and Harvey Warrender were anything more to him than names in newspapers. That far back, people, places, meanings – all became distorted. And even if they were not, the original allegation might never have been true. He could, he thought, so easily be wrong.