In High Places

, The Immigration Minister said firmly, 'There is no know-, ledge in heaven or earth which would make me alter what I have already said.'

'I think there is,' Brian Richardson contended quietly. 'You see, I know the truth about your son.'

It seemed as if the quiet in the room would never end.

At length, his face pale, Harvey Warrender whispered, 'What do you know?'

'For God's sake,' Richardson urged, 'isn't it enough that I know? Don't make me spell it out.'

Still a whisper. 'Tell me what it is you know.'

There was to be nothing presumed, nothing unsaid, no avoidance of the grim and tragic truth.

'All right,' Richardson said softly. 'But I'm sorry you've insisted.' He looked the other directly in the eye. 'Your son Howard was never a hero. He was court-martialled for cowardice in the face of the enemy, for deserting and imperilling his companions, and for causing the death of his own aircraft navigator. The court martial found him guilty oh all counts. He was awaiting sentence when he committed suicide by hanging.'

Harvey Warrender's face was drained of colour.

With grim reluctance, Richardson went on, 'Yes, there was a raid to France. But your son wasn't in command, except of his own aeroplane with a single navigator. And he didn't volunteer. It was his first mission, the very first.'

The party director's lips were dry. He moistened them with his tongue, then continued: 'The squadron was flying defensive formation. Near the target they came under heavy attack. The other aeroplanes pressed on and bombed; some were lost. Your son – despite the pleas of his own navigator – broke formation and turned back, leaving his companions vulnerable.'

Warrender's hands trembled as he put the whisky glass ''' down.

'On the way back,' Richardson said, 'the aeroplane was ' struck by shellfire. The navigator was badly wounded, but your son was unhurt. Nevertheless your son left the pilot's seat and refused to fly. The navigator, despite his wounds and the fact that he was not a qualified pilot, took over in an attempt to bring the aeroplane home.'… If he closed his eyes, he nought, he could visualize the scene: the tiny, crowded, noisy cockpit, bloody from the navigator's wounds; the motors deafening; the gaping hole where the shell had hit, the wind tearing through, outside the bark of gunfire. And within… fear over all, like a dank and evil-smelling cloud. And, in the corner of the cockpit, the cowering, broken figure…

You poor bastard, Richardson thought. You poor benighted bastard. You broke, that's all. You crossed the hairline a good many of us wavered over. You did what others wanted to do often enough. God knows. Who are we to criticize you now? -

Tears were streaming down Harvey Warrender's face. Rising, he said brokenly, 'I don't want to hear any more.'

Richardson stopped. There was little more to telclass="underline" The crash landing in England – the best the navigator could do. The two of them pulled from the wreckage; Howard War-' render miraculously unhurt, the navigator dying… Afterwards the medics said he would have lived except for loss of blood through the exertion flying back… The court martial; the verdict – guilty… Suicide… And, in the end, reports hushed up; the subject closed.

But Harvey Warrender had known. Known, even as he built the false and foolish legend of a hero's death.

'What do you want?' he-asked brokenly. 'What do you want of me?'

Richardson told him evenly. 'That 'written agreement between you and the chief.'

Briefly a spark of resistance flared. 'And if I won't give it up?'

'I was hoping,' Richardson said, 'you wouldn't ask me that.'

'I am asking you.'

The party director sighed deeply. 'In that case I shall summarize the court martial proceedings and have mimeo copies made. The copies will be mailed, anonymously in plain envelopes, to everyone who counts in Ottawa – MPs, ministers, the press gallery, civil servants, your own department heads…'

'You swine!' Warrender choked on the words. 'You rotten evil swine.'

Richardson shrugged. 'I don't want to do it unless you force me.'

'People would understand,' Harvey Warrender said. The colour was returning to his face. 'I tell you they'd understand and sympathize. Howard was young; just a boy…'

'They'd always have sympathized,' Richardson said. 'And even now, they may feel sorry for your son. But not for you. They might have once, but not any more.' He nodded to the portrait in its illuminated recess, the absurd and useless relics beneath. 'They'll remember this charade, and you'll be the laughing stock of Ottawa.'

In his mind he wondered if it were true. There would be curiosity in plenty, and speculation, but perhaps little laughter. People sometimes were capable of unexpected depths of understanding and compassion. Most, perhaps, would wonder what strange quirk of mind had led Harvey Warrender to the deception he had practised. Had his own dreams of glory been reflected towards his son? Had the bitter disappointment, the tragedy of death, unhinged his mind? Richardson himself felt only an aching kind of pity.

But Warrender believed he would be laughed at. The muscles of his face were working. Suddenly he rushed to the fireplace and seized a poker from the stand beside it. Reaching up, he slashed savagely at the portrait, hacking, tearing, until only the frame and some shreds of canvas remained. With a single stroke he smashed the little aeroplane, then flung the map case and faded cap into the fireplace below. Turning, his breath coming fast, he asked, 'Well, are you satisfied?'

Richardson was standing too. He said quietly, 'I'm sorry you did that. It wasn't necessary.'

The tears were beginning again. The Immigration Minister went, almost docilely, to a chair. As if instinctively, he reached for the whisky glass he had put down earlier. 'All right,' he said softly, 'I'll give you the agreement.'

'And all copies, as well as your assurance that no more exist?'

Warrender nodded.

'When?'

'It will take two or three days. I have to go to Toronto. The paper is in a safety deposit box there.'

'Very well,' Richardson instructed. 'When you get it I want you to give it directly to the chief. And he is not to know about what happened here tonight. That's part of our agreement, you understand?'

Again a nod.

That way he would be taking the arrangement on trust. But there would be no defection now. He was sure of that.

Harvey Warrender lifted his head and there was hatred in his eyes. It was amazing, Richardson thought, how the other man's moods and emotions could ebb and flow so swiftly.

'There was a time,' Warrender said slowly, 'when I could have broken you.' With a touch of petulance, he added, 'I'm still in the Cabinet, you know.'

Richardson shrugged indifferently. 'Maybe. But frankly, I don't think you count for anything any more.' At the doorway he called over his shoulder, 'Don't get up, I'll let myself out.'

Chapter 3

Driving away, the reaction set in: shame, disgust, an abyss of depression.

More than anything else, at this moment, Brian Richardson wanted warm, human companionship. Nearing the city centre, he stopped by a pay phone and, leaving the Jaguar's motor running, dialled Milly's number. He prayed silently: Please be at home; tonight I need you. Please, please. The ringing tone continued unanswered. Eventually he hung up.

There was no other place to go but his own apartment. He even found himself hoping that, just this once, Eloise might be there. She was not.

He walked through the empty, lonely rooms, then took a tumbler, an unopened bottle of rye, and proceeded methodically to get drunk.

Two hours later, shortly after 1 AM, Eloise Richardson, cool, beautiful, and elegantly gowned, let herself in by the apartment front door. Entering the living-room, with its ivory walls and Swedish walnut furniture, she found her husband prostrate and snoring drunkenly on the off-white broadloom. Beside him were an empty bottle and an overturned glass.

Wrinkling her nose in contemptuous disgust, Eloise proceeded to her own bedroom and, as usual, locked the door.