There was a pause, then the voice continued slowly. 'I guess I love you, Milly. I guess I really do.'
She lifted her face, her eyes full with tears, and kissed him. 'Brian, darling, I know you do; and I think I love you too. But I have to be sure. Please give me a little time.'
His face twisted to a rugged grin. 'Well,' he said, 'I rehearsed all the way over. I guess I loused it up.'
Maybe, he thought, I left it all too late. Or handled everything the wrong way. Or maybe it's a retribution for the way we started: with me not caring, cagey against involvements.
Now I'm the one who wants to get involved and I'm left, like a joker, on the outside looking in. But at least, he consoled himself, the indecision had come to an end: the restless soul searching of the past few days; the knowledge that Milly was what counted most. Now, without her, there seemed only emptiness…
'Please, Brian.' Milly was calmer now, her poise and self-control returning. She said earnestly, 'I'm flattered and honoured, darling, and I think the answer v/ill be yes. But I want to be sure – for both our sakes. Please, dear, give me a little time.'
He asked brusquely, 'How long?'
They sat down together on the long settee, their heads close and hands held tightly. 'Honestly, darling, I don't know, and I hope you won't insist on a definite time. I couldn't bear to have a sort of deadline hanging over. But I promise I'll tell you as soon as I know.'
She thought: What's wrong with me? Am I afraid of living? Why hesitate; why not settle now? But still the cautionary voice urged: Wait!
Brian put out his arms and she went into them. Their Ups met and he kissed her fiercely again and again. She felt herself responding, her heart pounding wildly. After a while his hands moved gently.
Towards the end of the evening Brian Richardson came into the living-room carrying coffee for both of them. Behind him in the kitchenette Milly was cutting salami sandwiches. She noticed her breakfast dishes still piled in the sink, unwashed. Really, she thought, perhaps I should bring some of my office habits home.
Richardson crossed to Milly's portable television, on a low table facing one of the big armchairs. Switching the set on, he called over, 'I don't know if I can stand it, but I guess we'd better know the worst.' As Milly brought the plate of sandwiches and set it down, the CBC national news was beginning.
As happened most days now, the first report concerned the worsening international scene. Soviet-inspired revolts had flared again in Laos, and the Kremlin had replied belligerently to an American note in protest. In the Soviet satellites of Europe, troops were reported massing. An exchange of cordialities had taken place between the now-repaired Moscow-Peking axis.
'It's getting closer,' Richardson muttered. 'Closer every day.'
The Henri Duval story was next.
The well-groomed news announcer read, 'In Ottawa today the House of Commons was in uproar over Henri Duval, the man-without-a-country, now awaiting deportation in Vancouver. At the height of a clash between Government and Opposition, Arnold Geaney, member from Montreal East, was suspended from the House for the remainder of today's sitting…'
Behind the announcer a screen flashed a picture of Henri Duval, followed by a large, still shot of the crippled MP. As Richardson – as well as James Howden – had feared, the expulsion incident and Harvey Warrender's 'human garbage' phrase which had provoked it were the news story's highlight. And no matter how fairly the report was handled, inevitably the stowaway and the cripple would appear victims of a harsh, relentless Government.
'CBC correspondent Norman Deeping,' the announcer said, 'describes the scene in the House…'
Richardson reached to switch off the set. 'I don't think I can take any more. Do you mind?'
'No,' Milly shook her head. Tonight, though knowing the significance of what she had seen, she found it hard to maintain interest. The most important question was still undecided…
Brian Richardson pointed to the darkened TV screen. 'Goddam, do you know what audience that has? It's network -coast to coast. Add to that all the others – radio, local TV, tomorrow's newspapers…' He gave a shrug of helplessness.
'I know,' Milly said. She tried to bring her mind back to impersonal concerns. 'I wish there were something I could do.'
Richardson had risen and was pacing the room. 'You have done something, Milly dear. At least you found…' He left the sentence unfinished.
Both of them, Milly knew, were remembering the photostat; the fateful, secret agreement between James Howden and Harvey Warrender. She asked tentatively, 'Have you done…'
He shook his head. 'Damn all! There's nothing… nothing…'
'You know,' Milly said slowly, 'I've always thought there was something strange about Mr Warrender. The way he talks and acts; as if he were nervous all the time. And then that business of idolizing that son of his – the one killed in the war…'
She stopped, startled by Brian Richardson's expression. His eyes were riveted on her face, his mouth agape.
'Brian-'
He whispered, 'Milly, doll, say that again.'
She repeated uncomfortably, 'Mr Warrender – I said he's strange about his son. I understand there's a sort of shrine in his home. People used to talk a lot.'
'Yeah.' Richardson nodded. He tried to conceal his excitement. 'Yeah. Well, I guess there's nothing in that.'
He wondered how fast he could get away. He wanted to use a telephone – but not Milly's telephone. There were certain things… things he might have to do… he would never want Milly to know.
Twenty minutes later he was phoning from an all-night drugstore. 'I don't give a goddam how late it is,' the party director told the object of his call. 'I'm telling you to get downtown now and I'll be waiting for you in the Jasper Lounge.'
Chapter 4
The pale young man with tortoise-shell glasses who had been summoned from bed turned the stem of his glass nervously in his hand. He said, with a touch of plaintiveness, 'I really don't know if I could do it.'
'Why not?' Brian Richardson demanded. 'You're right there in the Defence Department. All you have to do is ask.'
'It isn't as simple as that,' the young roan said. 'Besides, it's classified information.'
'Hell!' Richardson argued. 'Something that old – who cares about that any more?'
'Obviously you do,' the young man said with a show of spirit. "That's half of what I'm worried about.'
'I give you my word,' Richardson said, 'that whatever use I make of what you give me, it will never be traced back to you.'
'But it would be hard even to find. Those old files are buried away at the back of buildings, in basements… It might take days or weeks.'
'That's your problem,' Richardson said bluntly. 'Except, I can't wait weeks.' He beckoned a waiter. 'Let's have the same again.'
'No thank you,' the young man said. 'This is enough for me.'
'Have it your way.' Richardson nodded to the waiter, 'Make it one; that's all.'
When the waiter had gone, 'I'm sorry,' the young man said, 'but I'm afraid the answer is no.'
'I'm sorry too,' Richardson said, 'because your name was getting near the top of the list.' There was a pause. 'You know what list I'm talking about, don't you?'
'Yes,' the young man said. 'I know.'
'In my job,' Richardson said, 'I have a lot to do with selecting Parliamentary candidates. In fact, there are people who say that I pretty well pick all the new men in our party who finally get elected.'
'Yes,' the young man said, 'I've heard that too.'
'Of course, the local association has the final word. But they mostly do what the Prime Minister recommends. Or what I tell the Prime Minister to recommend.'
The young man said nothing. The tip of his tongue touched his lips and ran along them.
Brian Richardson said softly, 'I'll make a deal. Do this thing for me, and I'll put your name right at the top. And not just for any old seat, but one where you're sure to win.'
There was a flush of colour in the young man's cheeks as he asked, 'And if I don't do what you want?'
'In that case,' Richardson said softly, 'I positively guarantee that so long as I am with the party you will never sit in the House of Commons, and never be a candidate for any seat you can hope to win. You'll stay an executive assistant until you rot, and all your father's money will never change it.'
The young man said bitterly, 'You're asking me to start my political career with something rotten.'
'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…