It took a long, full minute for the implication to sink in.
Incredulously, his voice strained, Alan protested. 'Have you any idea what you are asking?'
'Yes, my boy,' the Senator replied carefully, 'I believe I have. I'm aware of asking a great deal because I know how much this case has meant to you. But I'm also appealing to you to believe that there are good and valid reasons for my request.'
'Tell me,' Alan demanded. 'Tell me what they are.'
'You understand,' the Senator intoned slowly, 'that what we are saying now is between the two of us, within the confines of this room. If you agree, as I hope you will, no one, not even Sharon, need ever know what has taken place.'
'The reasons,' Alan insisted softly. 'Give me the reasons.'
'There are two,' the Senator answered, 'and I will name the least important first. Your stowaway will better serve our cause – and the cause of others like him – if he is expelled, despite the efforts made on his behalf. Some men among us achieve their greatest heights in martyrdom. He is one.'
Alan said quietly, 'What you really mean is that politically it would make Howden's party look worse – because they threw Duval out – and your own party better because you tried to save him, or at least appeared to.'
The Senator gave the slightest of shrugs. 'You have your words, my boy. I choose mine.'
'And the second reason?'
'I have an old and reliable nose,' Senator Deveraux said, 'for political trouble. I smell it now.'
'Trouble?'
'It is possible that sometime soon the reins of government will be transferred. The star of James Howden is dimming, our own ascending.'
'Your own,' Alan reminded him. 'Not mine.'
'Frankly, I had hoped it might soon become yours also. But for the time being let us say that the fortunes of the party of which I have the honour to be chairman are on the mend.'
'You said trouble,' Alan insisted. 'What kind of trouble?'
The Senator met Alan's eyes directly. 'Your stowaway – if he is allowed to remain here – could become a source of acute embarrassment to his sponsors. His kind never fits. I speak from long experience; there have been other incidents like this before. If that happened, if he went wrong, the matter could become an harassment to our own party – a perpetual thorn -just as we have made it one to the Government now.'
'What makes you so sure,' Alan asked, 'that – as you put it -he'll go wrong?'
Senator Deveraux said firmly, 'Because it is inevitable he should. With his background… in our North American society…'
'I disagree,' Alan said heatedly. 'I disagree just about as much as anyone could.'
'Your law partner, Mr Lewis, doesn't.' The Senator said softly, 'I understand his words were to the effect that there is a flaw in the man – "a crack down the middle" – and that if you got him ashore he would, to quote your partner, "come apart in pieces".'
Alan thought bitterly: so Sharon had reported their conversation the day of the chambers hearing. He wondered if she had any idea it would be used against him in this way. Perhaps so; he found himself beginning to doubt the motives of everyone around him.
'It's a pity,' he said bleakly, 'that you didn't think of this before the case was started.'
'I give you my word, my boy, that if I had known it would lead to this moment I would never have begun.' There was genuineness in the older man's voice. He went on, 'I confess I underrated you. I never dreamed you would succeed as remarkably as you have.'
He had to move, Alan thought; change position, pace… Perhaps moving the muscles of his body could help to quell the turmoil of his mind. Pushing back his chair from the breakfast table, he rose and crossed to the window where he had stood earlier.
Looking down he could see the river again. The sun had cleared the mist. On a slight swell the logs, in tethered booms, were rising and falling gently.
'There are choices we are obliged to make,' the Senator was saying, 'which give us pain, but afterwards we know they were best and wisest…'
Swinging around, Alan said, 'I'd like to be clear about something, if you don't mind.'
Senator Deveraux, too, had moved back from the table but remained in his chair. He nodded. 'Certainly.'
'If I refuse to do what you ask, what of the things we were discussing – the legal work, Deveraux Forestry…?'
The Senator looked pained. 'I'd rather not put it on that basis, my boy.'
'But I would,' Alan said bluntly. He waited for an answer. 'I suppose… in certain circumstances… I might be obliged to reconsider.'
'Thank you,' Alan said. 'I just wanted to be clear.'
With bitterness, he thought: he had been shown the promised land, and now…
For an instant he weakened; temptation beckoned him. The Senator had said: no one… not even Sharon… need ever know. It could be done so easily: an omission, a laxity in argument, a concession to opposing counsel… Professionally, he might be criticized, but he was young; inexperience could be a cloak. Such things were quickly forgotten.
Then he dismissed the thought, as if it had never been.
His words were clear and strong.
'Senator Deveraux,' he declared, 'I already intended to go into court this morning and win. I would like you to know that I shall still win, except that now I am ten times more determined.'
There was no answer. Only the eyes uplifted, the face weary as if drained by effort.
'Just one more thing.' Alan's voice took on a cutting edge. 'I wish to make it clear that you are no longer retaining me in any capacity. My client is Henri Duval, and no one else.'
The door to the dining-room opened. Sharon appeared, a slip of paper in her hand. She inquired uncertainly, 'Is something wrong?'
Alan gestured to the cheque. 'You won't be needing that. I suggest you put it back in the Consolidated Fund.'
'Why, Alan? Why?' Sharon's lips were parted, her face pale.
Suddenly, unreasonably, he wanted to hurt and wound.
'Your precious grandfather made me a proposition,' he answered savagely. 'I suggest you ask him about it. After all, you were included in the deal.'
He brushed rudely by, not stopping until he had reached his battered Chevrolet in the driveway. Turning it, he drove swiftly towards town.
Chapter 2
Alan Maitland knocked sharply at the outer entrance of the Hotel Vancouver suite reserved for Henri Duval. After a moment, the door opened partially, behind it the broad, bulky figure of Dan Orliffe. Opening the door fully, the reporter asked, 'What kept you?'
'I had another engagement,' Alan answered shortly. Entering, he glanced about him at the comfortably appointed living-room, unoccupied except for Orliffe. 'It's time we were moving. Is Henri ready?'
'Just about,' the reporter acknowledged. 'He's in there dressing.' He nodded towards a closed bedroom door.
'I'd like him to wear the dark suit,' Alan said. 'It'll look better in court.' They had purchased two new suits for Duval the previous day, as well as shoes and other accessories, utilizing money from the small accumulated trust fund. The suits were ready-mades, hastily adjusted but well-fitting. They had been delivered late yesterday.
Dan Orliffe shook his head. 'He can't wear the dark one. He gave it away.'
Alan said irritably, 'What do you mean – gave it away?'
'Exactly what I say. There was a room-service waiter about Henri's size. So Henri gave the suit to him. Just like that. Oh yes, and he threw in a couple of the new shirts and a pair of shoes.'
'If this is a joke,' Alan snapped, 'I don't think it's very funny.'
'Listen, chum,' Orliffe cautioned, 'whatever's biting you, don't take it out on me. And for the record, I don't think it's funny either.'
Alan grimaced. 'Sorry. I guess I've a sort of emotional hangover.'
'It happened before I got here,' Orliffe explained. 'Apparently Henri took a shine to this guy, and that was it. I phoned downstairs to try and get the suit back, but the waiter's gone off duty.'
'What did Henri say?'
'When I asked him about it, he sort of shrugged and told me there will be many more suits and he wants to give away a lot of things.'
'We'll soon straighten him out on that,' Alan said grimly. He crossed to the bedroom door and opened it. Inside, Henri Duval, in a light brown suit, white shirt, neatly knotted tie, and polished shoes, was studying himself in a long mirror. He turned to Alan, beaming.
'I look pretty, no?'
It was impossible to ignore the infectious, boyish pleasure. Alan smiled. Henri's hair had been trimmed too; now it was neatly combed and parted. Yesterday had been a busy time: a medical exam; press and TV interviews; shopping; a fitting for the suits.
'Sure you look pretty.' Alan tried to make his voice sound stern. 'But that doesn't mean you can give away new suits, bought for you specially.'
Henri's face took on an injured look. He said, 'The man I give, my friend.'
'As far as I can make out,' Dan Orliffe put in from behind, 'it was the first time they'd met. Henri makes friends pretty fast.'
Alan instructed, 'You don't give your own new clothes away, even to friends.'
The young stowaway pouted like a child. Alan sighed. There were going to be problems, he could see, in adapting Henri Duval to his new environment. Aloud he announced, 'We'd better go. We mustn't be late in court.'
On the way out Alan stopped. Looking around the suite, he told Duval, 'If we are successful in court, this afternoon we will find a room for you to live in.'
The young stowaway looked puzzled. 'Why not here? This place good.'
Alan said sharply, 'I don't doubt it. But we don't happen to have this kind of money.'
Henri Duval asserted brightly, 'The newspaper pay.'
'Not after today,' Dan Orliffe shook his head. 'My editor's already beefing about the cost. Oh yes, and there's another thing.' He told Alan: 'Henri has decided that from now on we must pay him if we take his picture. He informed me this morning.'
Alan felt a return of his earlier irritability. 'He doesn't understand these things. And I hope you won't print that in the paper.'
'I won't,' Dan said quietly. 'But others will if they hear it. Sometime soon, I suggest you have an earnest talk with our young friend.'
Henri Duval beamed at them both.
Chapter 3
There was a milling crowd of people outside the courtroom in which this morning's hearing would be held. The public sears were already full; politely but firmly, ushers were turning newcomers away. Pressing through the throng, ignoring questions from reporters close behind him, Alan steered Henri Duval through the centre courtroom door.
Alan had already stopped to put on a counsel's gown with starched white tabs. Today's would be a full dress hearing with all protocol observed. Entering, he was aware of the spaciously impressive courtroom with its carved oak furnishings, rich red carpet, and matching crimson and gold drapes at the high arched windows. Through Venetian blinds sunlight streamed in.
At one of the long counsel's tables, Edgar Kramer. A. R.
Butler, QC, and the shipping-company lawyer, Tolland, were already seared in straight-backed leather chairs, facing the canopied Judge's bench with its royal coat of arms above.
With Henri Duval, Alan moved to the second table. To his right the Press table was crowded, Dan Orliffe, the latest arrival, squeezing in among the others. The clerk of the court and court reporter were seated below the judge's bench. From the packed spectators' seats, behind counsel, came a low-pitched buzz of conversation.
Glancing sideways, Alan observed that the other two lawyers had turned towards him. They smiled and nodded, and he returned their greeting. As on the earlier occasion, Edgar Kramer's eyes were studiedly averted. A moment later Tom Lewis, also gowned, dropped into the seat beside Alan. Looking around, he remarked irreverently, 'Reminds me of our office, only bigger.' He nodded to Duval. 'Good morning,