'To tell you the truth,' Alan said, 'it was.' He grinned. The strategy was one which he and Tom Lewis had planned together. But now that it was in the open there seemed no point in denying it.
'Exactly!' Kramer snapped. 'You were prepared to indulge in cheap legal trickery!' He ignored the friendly grin as well as an inner voice which cautioned him he was handling this badly.
'Just for the record,' Alan Maitland said quietly, 'I don't happen to agree that it was either cheap or trickery. However, I've just one question. Why did you refer to my "so-called client"?'
It was too much. The gnawing physical discomfort, the anxiety of weeks, and nights of accumulated tiredness, combined to produce a retort which at any other time Edgar Kramer, tactful and trained in diplomacy, would never have considered making. He was also acutely aware of the youthful, glowing health of the young man who faced him. He observed acidly, 'The answer should be perfectly obvious, just as it is obvious to me that you have accepted this absurd and hopeless case for one purpose only - the publicity and attention you expect to gain from it.'
For the span of several seconds there was silence in the small square room.
Alan Maitland felt a flush of blood suffuse his face angrily. For an insane instant he considered reaching across the desk to strike the older man.
The charge had been utterly false. Far from courting publicity, he had already discussed with Tom Lewis how it could be avoided, since both had been convinced that too much press attention might hamper legal action on Henri Duval's behalf. This was one reason he had come quietly to the Department of Immigration. He had been prepared to suggest that no statement to the Press should be issued for the time being...
His eyes met Edgar Kramer's. The civil servant's had a fierce, oddly pleading intensity.
'Thank you, Mr Kramer,' Alan said slowly. Standing, he picked up his topcoat, tucked the briefcase under his arm. 'Thank you very much for suggesting what I now intend to do.'
Chapter 2
For three days after the Christmas holiday the Vancouver Pos( had kept the story of Henri Duval - the man without a country - alive in its news pages. To a lesser extent, so had the other two papers in the city - the rival afternoon Colonist and the more sedate morning Globe - though with hints of scepticism, since the Post had uncovered the incident first.
But now the story was about to die.
'We've run the gamut, Dan, and all we've got is a lot of interest but no action. So let's forget it until the ship leaves in a few days, then you can do a nostalgic piece about the sad little guy sailing into the sunset.'
It was 7.45 AM in the Post newsroom. The speaker was Charles Woolfendt, day city editor, his listener Dan Orliffe. Arranging the day's assignments, Woolfendt, scholarly and quiet spoken but with a mind which, some said, worked like an IBM machine, had beckoned Dan over to the city desk.
'Whatever you say. Chuck.' Orliffe shrugged. 'All the same, I wish we could give it one more day.'
Woolfendt regarded the other searchingly. He respected Orliffe's judgement as a seasoned hand, but there were other problems to be weighed. Today a new local story was in progress which would lead the afternoon edition and for which he needed several more reporters. A woman hiker had disappeared on Mount Seymour, just outside the city, and an intensive search had failed to locate her. All three newspapers were covering the search closely, and there was growing suspicion of foul play by the woman's husband. The managing editor had already sent Woolfendt a note this morning which read: 'Did Daisy fall or was she pushed? If alive, let's get to her before the old man.' Dan Orliffe, Woolfendt reflected, would be a good man to have on the mountain.
'If we could be sure of something important happening on the stowaway story, I'd go along,' Woolfendt said. 'But I don't mean just another angle.'
'I know,' Dan agreed. 'It needs some fresh human interest with impact. I wish I could guarantee it.'
'K you could, I'd give you the extra day,' Woolfendt said. 'Otherwise I can use you on this search deal.'
'Go ahead,' Dan countered. He knew that Woolfendt, for whom he had worked a long time, was sounding him out. 'You're the boss, but the other could still be a better story.'
Around them, as others of the day shift came in, the newsroom was coming to life. The assistant managing editor moved into his place beside the city desk. Across at the main news desk, copy had begun to flow through the slot to Composing and Makeup three floors below. Already there was a subdued, steady tempo which would rise to a succession of peaks as the day's deadlines came and went.
'I'm disappointed too,' the city editor said thoughtfully. 'I really thought there'd be more happen to that stowaway of yours than has.' He ticked off points on his fingers. 'We've covered the man himself, the ship, public reaction, the Immigration people - no dice; we've made overseas checks - no results; we've wired the UN - they'll look into it, but God knows when, and meanwhile I've a paper to get out. What else?'
'I was hoping,' Dan said, 'that somebody who mattered might come forward to help him.'
A hurrying copy boy put ink-wet proofs of early closed pages on the city desk.
Woolfendt paused. Behind the domed forehead his incisive mind clicked pros and cons. Then, decisively, 'All right,' he announced, 'I'll give you another twenty-four hours. That means one clear day to find a guy on a white horse.'
'Thanks, Chuck.' Dan Orliffe grinned, turning away. Over his shoulder he called, 'It would have been cold on that mountain.'
With nothing specific in mind he had gone home then for a late breakfast with his wife Nancy and afterwards driven Patty, their six-year-old daughter, to school. By the time he returned downtown and had parked outside the Immigration Building it was close to ten o'clock.
He had no special reason for coming here, having interviewed Edgar Kramer the day before and gained nothing beyond a colourless official statement. But it seemed a logical place to start.
'I'm looking for a man on a white horse,' he told the young girl who was doing duty as Edgar Kramer's secretary.
'He went that way,' she said pointing. 'Right through to the padded cell.'
'I've often wondered,' Dan observed, 'how it is that girls nowadays can be sexy and yet so intelligent.'
'My hormones have a high IQ,' she told him. 'And my husband taught me a lot of answers.'
Dan sighed.
'If you're through with the comic dialogue,' the girl said, 'you're a newspaper reporter, and you'd like to see Mr Kramer, but right now he's busy.'
'I didn't think you'd remember me.'
'I didn't,' the girl said pertly. 'It's just that you can pick reporters out. They're usually a little gone.'
'This one hasn't yet,' Dan said. 'In fact, if you don't mind, I'll wait.'
The girl smiled. 'It won't be long,-from the sound of it.' She nodded towards the closed door of Edgar Kramer's office.
Dan could hear raised, sharp voices. His acute hearing caught the word 'Duval'. A few minutes later Alan Maitland strode out, his face flushed.
Dan Orliffe caught up with him at the building's main doorway. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I wonder if we have a mutual interest.'
'It's unlikely,' Alan snapped. He made no, attempt to stop. Fierce anger surged through him - a delayed reaction from his earlier calm.
'Take it easy.' Walking alongside, Dan inclined his head towards the building they had left. 'I'm not one of them. Just a newspaperman.' He introduced himself.
Alan Maitland halted on the sidewalk. 'Sorry.' He took a deep breath, then grinned sheepishly. 'I was ready to blow up, and you happened to be handy.'
'Any time,' Dan said. Mentally he had already taken in the briefcase and a UBC tie. 'This is my day for long shots. Could you perhaps be a lawyer?'
'Could and am.'
'Representing one Henri Duval?'
'Yes.'
'Could we talk somewhere?'
Alan Maitland hesitated. Edgar Kramer had accused him of seeking publicity, and Alan's own angry retort had been to
the effect that now he would. But a lawyer's instinct for avoiding statements to the Press was hard to shake off.
'Off the record,' Dan Orliffe said quietly, 'things aren't going too well, are they?'
Alan made a wry grimace, 'Equally off the record, they couldn't be worse.'
'In that case,' Orliffe said, 'what have you - or Duval - got to lose?'
'Nothing, I suppose,' Alan said slowly. It was true enough, he thought; there was nothing to lose and maybe something could be gained. 'All right,' he said. 'Let's go for coffee.'
'I had a feeling this was going to be a good day,' Dan Orliffe said contentedly. 'By the way, where did you tether your horse?'
'Horse?' Alan looked puzzled. 'I walked here.'
'Take no notice,' Dan said. 'Sometimes I get whimsical. Let's use my car.'
An hour later, over a fourth cup of coffee, Alan Maitland commented, 'You're asked a lot of questions about me, but surely Duval is more important.'
Dan Orliffe shook his head emphatically. 'Not today. Today you're the story.' He glanced at his watch. 'Just one more question, then I must get writing.'
'Go ahead.'
'Don't get me wrong,' Dan said. 'But why is it that with all the big names and legal talent in a city like Vancouver, you're the only one who's come forward to help this little guy?'
'To tell you the truth,' Alan answered, 'I was wondering that myself.'
Chapter 3
The Vancouver Post building was a drab brick pile with offices in front, printing plant at the rear, and the editorial tower rising stubbily above both like a brief, disjointed thumb. Ten minutes after leaving Maitland, Dan Orliffe parked his Ford station wagon in the employees' lot across the street and headed inside. He took the tower elevator and, in the now-bustling newsroom, settled down at an empty desk to write.
The lead came easily.
An angry young Vancouver lawyer is preparing, like David, to assault Goliath.
He is Alan Maitland, 25, Vancouver-born graduate of UBC law school.
His Goliath is the Government of Canada - specifically the Immigration Department.
Department officials refuse to heed the 'let me in' pleas of Henri Duval, the youthful 'man without a country', now a shipboard prisoner in Vancouver harbour.
Alan Maitland now is legal counsel for Henri Duval. The friendless wanderer had almost abandoned hope of getting legal help, but Maitland volunteered his services. The offer was gratefully accepted.
Dan typed the word 'more' and shouted, 'Copy!' He ripped out the sheet which a copy boy yanked from his hand and delivered to the city desk.
Automatically he checked the time. It was 12.17, sixteen minutes to the Mainland edition closing. The Mainland was the day's principal deadline - the home-delivery edition with the longest press run. What he wrote would be read tonight in thousands of homes ... warm, comfortable homes, their occupants secure...
Post readers will recall that this newspaper was the first to reveal the tragic plight of Henri Duval who - through a quirk of fate - has no nationality. Almost two years ago, in desperation, he stowed aboard ship. Since then, country after country has refused to let him in.
England jailed Duval while his ship was in port. The US had him chained. Canada does neither, pretending instead that he does not exist.
'Let's have another take, Dan!' It was Chuck Woolfendt, urgently from the city desk. Again the copy boy. He snatched the page from the typewriter as another went in.
Is there a chance that young Henri Duval might be admitted here? Can legal measures help him?
Older, cooler heads have said no. The Government and Immigration Minister, they claim, have powers which it is useless to challenge.
Alan Maitland disagrees. 'My client is being denied a basic human right,' he said today, 'and I intend to fight for it.'
He wrote three more paragraphs of Maitland quotes on Henri Duval. They were crisp and to the point.
'Keep it coming, Dan!' It was the city editor again and now, beside Woolfendt, the managing editor had appeared also. The mountain search story had proved disappointing -the missing woman found alive, no foul play, and her husband vindicated. Tragedy made livelier news than happy endings. Dan Orliffe typed steadily, his mind framing sentences, fingers nimbly following.
Whether Alan Maitland succeeds or fails in his objective, there will be a race against time. Duval's ship, the Vastervik - an ocean-going tramp which may never come here again -is due to sail in two weeks or less. The ship would have gone already, but repairs detained it.
More background next. He filled it in, recapping events. Now the assistant city editor at his elbow. 'Dan, did you get a picture of Maitland?'
'No time.' He answered without looking up. 'But he played football for UBC. Try Sports.'
'Right!'
12.23. Ten minutes left.
'The first thing we are seeking is an official hearing into Henri Duval's case,' Maitland told the Post. 'I have asked for such a hearing as a matter of simple justice. But it has been refused flatly and, in my opinion, the Immigration Department is acting as if Canada were a police state.'
Next, some background on Maitland ... Then - in fairness - a restatement of the Immigration Department's stand, as expressed by Edgar Kramer the day before ... Back to Maitland - a quote in rebuttal, then a description of Maitland himself.
On the keyboard Dan Orliffe could visualize the young lawyer's face, grimly set, as it had been this morning when he strode from Kramer's office.
He is an impressive young man, this Alan Maitland. When he talks his eyes gleam, his chin juts forward with determination. You get the feeling he is the sort of individual you would like to have on your side.
Perhaps, tonight, in his lonely locked cabin aboard ship, Henri Duval has much the same feeling.
12.29. Time was crowding him now; a few more facts, another quote, and it would have to do. He would expand the story for the final edition, but what he had written here was what most people would read.
'All right,' the managing editor instructed the group around him near the city desk. 'We'll still lead with finding the woman, but keep it short and run Orliffe's story top left alongside.'
'Sports had a cut of Maitland,' the assistant city editor reported. 'Head and shoulders, one column. It's three years old, but not bad. I sent it down.'
'Get a better picture for the final,' the managing editor commanded. 'Send a photog to Maitland's office and let's get some law books in the background.'
'I already did,' the assistant responded crisply. He was a lean, brash youth, at times almost offensively alert. 'And I figured you'd want law books, so I said so.'
'Christ!' the managing editor snorted. 'You ambitious bastards wear me down. How'm I gonna give orders around here if you birds think of everything first?' Grumblingly he retreated to his office as the Mainland edition closed.
A few minutes later, before copies of the Post had reached the street, the gist of Dan Orliffe's report was on the national CP wire.
Chapter 4
Alan Maitland, in the late morning, was unaware of the extent to which his name would shortly become known.
Leaving Dan Orliffe, he had returned to the modest office on the fringe of the downtown business district which he and Tom Lewis shared. Located over a block of stores and an Italian restaurant from which the odour of pizza and spaghetti frequently wafted up, it consisted of two glass-panelled cubicles with a tiny waiting room holding two chairs and a stenographer's desk. Three mornings a week the latter was occupied by a grandmotherly widow who, for a modest sum, did the small amount of typing necessary.
At the moment Tom Lewis was at the outside desk, his short chunky figure hunched over the second-hand Underwood they had bought cheaply a few months earlier. 'I'm drafting my will,' he said cheerfully, looking up. 'I've decided to leave my brain to science.'
Alan slipped off his coat and hung it in his own cubicle. 'Be sure to send yourself a bill and remember I'm entitled to half.'
r /> 'Why not sue me, just for practice?' Tom Lewis swung away from the typewriter. 'How'd you make out?'
'Negatively.' Tersely Alan related the substance of his interview at Immigration headquarters.
Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'This man Kramer is no lame-brain. Not if he saw through the delay gambit.'
'I guess the idea wasn't all that original,' Alan said ruefully. 'Other people have probably tried it.'
'In law,' Tom said, 'there are no original ideas. Only endless mutations of old ones. Well, what now? Is it Plan Two?'
'Don't dignify it as a plan. It's the longest long shot, and we both know it.'
'But you'll give it a whirl?'
'Yes, I will.' Alan nodded slowly. 'Even if for no other reason than to displease Mr Smugly-Smiling Kramer.' He added softly, 'Oh, how I'd love to beat that bastard in court!'
'That's the attitude!' Tom Lewis grinned. 'Nothing leavens life like a little good-natured hatred.' He wrinkled his nose and sniffed. 'Man alive! - do you dig that spaghetti sauce?'
'I smell it,' Alan said. 'And if you go on eating that stuff at lunchtime just because we work near it, you'll be a fat pig in two years.'
'It's part of my plan to stop just short of that,' Tom announced. 'What I really want is oversize jowls and three chins, like lawyers in the movies. It'll impress clients no end.'
The outer door opened without benefit of knocking and a cigar came in, followed by a sharp-chinned stocky man, wearing a suede windbreaker and battered fedora, tilted back. He carried a camera, with a leather satchel over one shoulder. Speaking around the cigar he asked, 'Whicha you guys is Maitland?'