In High Places (Page 27)
‘Well, I’ve arrived. So perhaps you’ll tell me why you waited.’ Kramer creased his face into a smile, If he could help this novice lawyer, he decided – provided the youngster proved cooperative with the department – he would certainly do so.
‘I’m here on behalf of a client,’ Alan said carefully. ‘His name is Henri Duval and at present he is being detained on a ship, the MV Vastervik. I would like to show you my authority to act on his behalf.’ Unzipping the briefcase he produced a single sheet of paper – a typed copy of the retainer which the stowaway had signed at their first interview – and placed it on the desk.
Kramer read the paper carefully, then put it down. At the mention of the name Henri Duval he had frowned slightly. Now, a trifle warily, he inquired, ‘If I may ask, Mr Maitland, how long have you known your client?’
It was an unusual question, but Alan decided not to be resentful. In any case, Kramer seemed friendly enough. ‘I’ve known my client three days,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘As a matter of fact, I first read about him in the newspapers.’
‘I see.’ Edgar Kramer brought the tips of his fingers together above the desk. It was a favourite gesture whenever he was thinking or mentally marking time. He had, of course, obtained a full report of the Duval incident immediately on arrival. The deputy minister, Claude Hess, had told him of the Minister’s concern that the case should be handled with absolute correctness, and Kramer was satisfied that that had already been done. In fact, he had answered questions from the Vancouver’s newspapers to that effect the previous day.
‘Perhaps you didn’t see the newspaper articles.’ Alan reopened his briefcase and reached inside.
‘Don’t bother, please.’ Kramer decided he would be friendly but firm. ‘I did see one of them. But we don’t rely on newspapers here. You see’ – he smiled thinly – ‘I have access to official files, which we consider somewhat more important.’
‘There can’t be much of a file on Henri Duval,’ Alan said. ‘As far as I can make out, no one officially has done much inquiring.’
‘You’re quite right, Mr Maitland. There’s been very little done because the position is perfectly clear. This person on the ship has no status, no documents, and apparently no citizenship of any country. Therefore, as far as the department is concerned, there is no possibility even of considering him as an immigrant.’
‘This person, as you call him,’ Alan said, ‘has some pretty unusual reasons for having no citizenship. If you read the press report, you must know that.’
‘I am aware there have been certain statements in print.’ Again the thin smile. ‘But when you have had as much experience as me, you will learn that newspaper stories and the true facts are sometimes at variance.’
‘I don’t believe everything I read either.’ Alan found the on-and-off smile and the other man’s attitude beginning to annoy him. ‘All that I’m asking – and that’s really the reason I’m here – is that you investigate the matter a little more.’
‘And what I’m telling you is that any further investigation is pointless.’ This time there was a distinct coolness in Edgar Kramer’s tone. He was conscious of an irritability, perhaps from tiredness – he had had to get up several times last night and was far from being rested on waking this morning. Now he continued, ‘The individual concerned has no legal rights in this country, nor is he likely to have any.’
‘He’s a human being,’ Alan protested. ‘Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘There are many human beings in the world, and some are less fortunate than others. My business is to deal with those who come within the provisions of the Immigration Act, and Duval does not.’ This young lawyer, Kramer thought, was definitely not cooperative.
‘I am asking,’ Alan said, ‘for a formal hearing into my client’s immigration status.’
‘And I,’ Edgar Kramer said firmly, ‘am refusing it.’
The two eyed each other with the beginnings of dislike. Alan Maitland had the impression of facing a wall of impregnable smugness. Edgar Kramer saw a brash youthfulness and disrespect of authority. He was also bothered by a new urge to urinate. It was ridiculous, of course… so soon. But he had noticed that mental excitability sometimes had that effect. He willed himself to ignore it. He must hold out… not give way…
‘Couldn’t we be reasonable about this?’ Alan wondered if perhaps he had been too brusque; it was an occasional fault he tried to guard against. Now he asked – he hoped persuasively
– ‘Would you do me the favour of seeing this man yourself, Mr Kramer? I think you might be impressed.’
The other shook his head. ‘Whether I was impressed or not would be entirely beside the point. My business is to administer the law as it stands. I do not make the law or approve exceptions to it.’
‘But you can make recommendations.’
Yes, Edgar Kramer thought, he could. But he had no intention of doing so, particularly in this case with its sentimental overtones. And as for personally interviewing some would-be immigrant, his own status nowadays put him a long way above that.
There had been a time, of course, when he had done a good deal of that kind of interviewing – overseas, after the war, in the shattered countries of Europe… selecting immigrants for Canada, and rejecting others in much the same way (he had once heard someone say) that one selected the best dogs from a pound. Those had been the days when men and women would sell their souls, and sometimes did, for an immigrant visa, and there had been many temptations for immigration officers, to which a few succumbed. But he himself had never wavered and, although not caring greatly for the work – he preferred administration to people – he had done it well.
He had been known as a tough official, guarding his country’s interests carefully, approving only immigrants of the highest standard. He had often been proud to think of the good people… alert, industrious, medically fit… whom he had allowed in.
Rejecting those who were substandard, for whatever reason, had never disturbed him, as it sometimes disturbed others.
His thoughts were interrupted.
‘I’m not asking for admittance of my client as an immigrant
– not yet, anyway,’ Alan Maitland said. ‘All that I’m seeking is the very first stage – an immigration hearing away from the ship.’
Despite his earlier determination to ignore it, Edgar Kramer could feel the pressure on his bladder growing. He was also angered at the assumption he might fall for an old and elementary lawyer’s trick. He answered sharply, ‘I’m perfectly aware what you’re asking for, Mr Maitland. You’re asking the department to recognize this man officially, and then reject him officially, so that afterwards.you can begin legal steps. Then, when you’re going through all the procedures of appeal – as slowly as possible, no doubt – the ship will sail, with your so-called client left here. Isn’t that the sort of thing you have in mind?’
‘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?’