In High Places

Mr Justice Willis’ expression had not changed, except for a slight crinkling around the eyes. He said impassively, ‘In that event, Mr Maitland, there will be a time saving and I suggest we bring on the hearing sooner. Shall we say the day after tomorrow?’

Mentally Alan Maitland denounced his own stupidity. Instead of furthering the delay he sought, he had succeeded merely in speeding things up. He wondered if he should request more time, pleading the need for preparation. He caught the eye of the clerk who shook his head imperceptibly.

With inward resignation Alan said, ‘Very well, my lord. The day after tomorrow.’

Mr Justice Willis read the order, then carefully signed it, the clerk blotting and gathering the page. As he watched, Alan remembered the arrangements he had made earlier for service of the document if his plan succeeded. Tom Lewis would go to the Vastervik, tonight, with Captain Jaabeck’s copy and explain its contents. Tom, in any case, had been keen to see the ship and meet both the captain and Henri Duval.

For himself Alan had reserved what he thought of as a particular pleasure: attendance at the Department of Immigration and service of the order personally upon Edgar S. Kramer.

Chapter 2

Darkness, which had spread damply across the harbour and city of Vancouver, still found lights burning in the superintendent’s office of the water-front Immigration Building.

Edgar S. Kramer, though punctilious about beginning each day precisely on time, rarely bothered to end his own working day at prescribed office hours. Whether in Ottawa, Vancouver, or elsewhere, he usually remained for at least an hour after the rest of the staff had gone, partly to disassociate himself from the usual eager exodus, and partly to avoid any accumulation of paper on his desk. A habit of getting things done and prompt handling of paper work were two reasons Edgar Kramer had been a conspicuous success as a career civil servant. Over the years of his progress upward there had been plenty of people who disliked him personally and a few whose antagonisms went deeper. But no one, even in enmity, could reasonably accuse him either of laziness or procrastination,

A good example of Kramer promptitude had been the decision taken today and described in a memorandum with the unlikely subject heading ‘Pigeon Guano’. Edgar Kramer had dictated the memo earlier and now, reading over the typed copies which tomorrow would go to the building supervisor and others concerned, he nodded approvingly at his own resourcefulness.

The problem had come to his attention yesterday. Examining the proposed annual budget of the Immigration Department’s West Coast Headquarters, he had queried a number of expenses for building maintenance, including an item of $750 – apparently recurring each year – for ‘cleaning eavestrough and downpipes’.

Edgar Kramer had summoned the building supervisor – a bull-necked, loud-spoken man, happier behind a broom than a desk – who responded forcefully. ‘Hell, Mr Kramer, sure it’s too much money to spend, but it’s all that pigeon shit.’ Prompted further he had crossed to the office window and gestured. ‘Look at the bastards!’ Outside, as they watched, the air was thick with thousands of pigeons which nested, flew, and scavenged in the water-front area.

‘Shittin’, shittin’ twenty-four hours a day, like they got the permanent runs,’ the supervisor grumbled. ‘And if one of ’em wants the can, they fly up to our roof. That’s why we have to steam out the eavestroughs and downpipes six times a year -they’re full of pigeon shit. Costs money, Mr Kramer.’

‘I understand the problem,’ Kramer said. ‘Has anything been done to reduce the numbers of pigeons – by killing some?’

‘Tried shootin’ the bastards once,’ the building supervisor answered gloomily, ‘and there was all hell to pay. Humane Society people down here an’ all. They say there’s a bylaw in Vancouver says you can’t. Tell you what, though: we could try putting poison on the roof. Then when they go there for a…’

Edgar Kramer said sharply, ‘The word is guano – pigeon guano.’

The supervisor said, ‘In my book it’s all…’

‘And furthermore,’ Kramer interjected firmly, ‘if the pigeons are protected by law, then the law will be observed.’ He mused. ‘We must find some other way.’

He had dismissed the other man and, once alone, considered the problem carefully. One thing was certain: the wasteful $750 expense each year must be eliminated.

Eventually, after several false starts and a number of sketches, he had devised a scheme based on a half-remembered idea. In essence the plan was to string piano wires at six inch intervals across the Immigration Building roof, with each strand supported on several short poles six inches high. The theory was that a pigeon could pass its feet through the strands of wire, but not its wings. Therefore, when a bird alighted, the wire would prevent folding of its wings and it would fly off at once.

This morning Edgar Kramer had had a small experimental section made and installed on the roof. The device worked perfectly. Now the memorandum he had approved was an instruction to put the full scheme into effect. Although the initial cost would be a thousand dollars, it should eliminate permanently the annual $750 expense – a saving to the country’s taxpayers, although few would ever know about it.

The thought pleased Edgar Kramer, as his own conscientiousness always did. There was another satisfaction too: the local bylaw had been observed, with even the pigeons treated justly and according to regulations.

It had been (Edgar Kramer- decided) a most satisfactory day. Not least among the matters pleasing him was that his frequency of urination seemed definitely less. He checked his watch. It had been close to an hour since the last occasion and he was confident he could wait longer, even though a slight warning pressure…

There was a tap on the door and Alan Maitland walked in. ‘Good evening,’ he said coolly, and laid a folded paper on the table.

The young lawyer’s appearance had been sudden and startling. Edgar Kramer asked abruptly, ‘What’s all this about?’

‘It’s an order nisi, Mr Kramer,’ Alan announced calmly. ‘I believe you’ll find it self-explanatory.’

Opening the folded page Kramer read quickly. His face flushed angrily. He spluttered, ‘What the devil do you mean by this?’ At the same time he was aware that the mild pressure on his bladder of a moment before had suddenly become intense.

Alan was tempted to reply caustically, then decided not. After all, he had merely gained a partial victory and the next round might easily go the other way. Therefore, politely enough, he answered, ‘You did turn me down, you know, when I asked for a special inquiry into the case of Henri Duval.’

Momentarily Edgar Kramer wondered at his own fierce resentment of this callow youthful lawyer. ‘Of course I turned you down,’ he snapped. ‘There was no earthly reason one should be held.’

‘It just happens that I don’t share your opinion,’ Alan observed mildly. He pointed to the order nisi. ‘This is to see which view – yours or mine – a court of law will take.’

The pressure was becoming agonizing. Holding himself in, Kramer fumed, ‘This is solely a matter for department ruling. No court has any business interfering.’

Alan Maitland’s face was serious. ‘If you care for some advice,’ he said quietly, ‘if I were you I wouldn’t tell that to the judge.’

Part 11 The White House

Chapter 1

From the window of Blair House library James Howden examined the view across Pennsylvania Avenue. It was 10 AM on the second day in Washington, and the meeting between himself, the President, Arthur Lexington, and the President’s chief of staff was scheduled to begin in an hour’s time.

A fresh soft breeze stirred the filmy curtains beside him at the open window. Outside, the weather was Washington at its best: balmy and springlike with warm bright sunshine. Across the avenue the Prime Minister could see the trim White House lawns and glimpse the Executive Mansion, sun streaked, beyond.

Turning towards Arthur Lexington, Howden asked, ‘What’s your feeling about everything so far?’

The External Affairs Minister, wearing a comfortable Harris tweed jacket instead of the suit coat he would put on later, straightened up from the colour TV with which he had been experimenting. Turning the set off, he paused, considering.

‘Put in its crudest terms,’ Lexington said, ‘I’d say we’re in a seller’s market. The concessions we have to offer, the United States needs, and needs desperately. What’s more, they’re very much aware of it here.’

The two had breakfasted separately, the Prime Minister with Margaret in their private suite, Arthur Lexington with others of the delegation downstairs. The Canadians were the only guests in the President’s spacious guest house, to which they had returned last night after the White House state dinner.

Now Howden nodded slowly. ‘That’s been my impression too.’

The Prime Minister surveyed the long, gracious library. With its overstuffed sofas and chairs, big Chippendale table, and the book-lined walls, it seemed a gentle backwater of coolness and quiet. It was here in this room, he thought, that Lincoln had once rested and talked; that in later years the Trumans spent their leisure during the White House remodelling; here, in the library, that King Saud of Arabia slept guarded by his own soldiers, scimitar-armed; here that de Gaulle had prepared to huff, Adenauer to charm, and Khrushchev to bluster… and so many others. He wondered if he himself would be remembered in that long procession. And if so, with what verdict.

‘Small things add up,’ Lexington mused. ‘The kind of reception you were given yesterday, for instance. I’ve never known the President to come out to the airport for Canadians. We’re usually met by smaller fry and treated like country cousins – even Prime Ministers. Once, when John Diefenbaker was down for a White House dinner, they put him in line with a bunch of Presbyterian ministers.’

Howden chuckled reminiscently. ‘Yes, I remember. He hated it and I can’t say I blame him. Wasn’t that the time Eisenhower made a speech and kept talking about the "Republic" of Canada?’

Lexington nodded, smiling.

James Howden dropped into an upholstered wing chair. ‘They certainly did us brown last night,’ he remarked. ‘You’d think if they are making a switch, being considerate and so on, they’d be a bit more subtle.’

Arthur Lexington’s eyes twinkled in the round, ruddy face above the inevitable neatly knotted bow de. At times, Howden thought, the External Affairs Minister resembled a benevolent schoolmaster accustomed to dealing firmly but patiently with small, obstreperous boys. Perhaps it was that which made him seem young, and always would, even though the years were advancing upon him like all the rest of them.

‘Subtlety and the State Department keep separate houses,’ Lexington said. ‘I’ve always considered, you know, that American diplomacy comes two ways – either contemplating rape or ready to receive it. There’s seldom any in between.’

The Prime Minister laughed. ‘How about now?’ He invariably enjoyed the moments which the two of them had ^lone. They had long been staunch friends who trusted each other firmly. One reason, possibly, was that there was no sense of competition between them. While others in the Cabinet openly or covertly aspired to the Prime Ministership, Arthur Lexington, as Howden knew full well, had no ambitions in that direction.

Lexington, in fact, would probably still have been an ambassador, happy in his spare time with the twin hobbies of stamp collecting and ornithology, had not Howden persuaded him years earlier to resign from the diplomatic corps and enter the party and later the Cabinet. Loyalty and a strong sense of duty had kept him there since, but he made no secret of looking forward with pleasure to the day when he would return from public to private life.