So that was it, Howden thought: much as he had imagined, with an extra ingredient added. Conscience plus dreams of glory thwarted. It made a formidable combination. Warily he asked, 'Aren't you being inconsistent? In one breath you say you loathe the agreement we made, and yet you insist on hewing to its terms.'
'It's the good part that I want to salvage, and if I let you send me out I'm finished. That's why I'm holding on.' Harvey Warrender took out a handkerchief and wiped his head, which was perspiring freely. There was a pause, then he said more softly, 'Sometimes I think it might be better if we were exposed. We're both frauds – you and me. Perhaps that's a way of setting the record straight.'
This was dangerous. 'No,' Howden said quickly, 'there are better methods, believe me.' One thing he was sure of now:
Harvey Warrender was mentally unstable. He must be led;
coaxed, if necessary, like a child.
'Very well,' James Howden said, 'we'll forget the talk of resignation.'
'And the Immigration Act?'
'The act remains the way it is,' Howden said firmly. There was a limit to compromise, even here. 'What's more, I want something done about that situation in Vancouver.'
'I'll act by the law,' Warrender said. 'I'll look at it again; I promise you that. But by the law – exactly.'
Howden sighed. It would have to do. He nodded, signifying the interview was at an end.
When Warrender had gone he sat silently, weighing this new untimely problem thrust upon him. It would be a mistake, he decided, to minimize the threat to his own security. War-render's temperament had always been mercurial; now the instability was magnified.
Briefly he wondered how he could have done the thing he had… committed himself recklessly to paper when legal training and experience should have warned him of the danger. But ambition did strange things to a man, made him take risks, supreme risks sometimes, and others had done it too. Viewed across the years it seemed wild and unreasoning. And yet, at the time, with ambition driving, lacking a foreknowledge of things to come…
The safest thing, he supposed, was to leave Harvey War-render alone, at least for the time being. The wild talk of rewriting legislation posed no immediate problem. In any case it was not likely to find favour with Harvey's own deputy minister, and senior civil servants had a way of delaying measures they disagreed with. Nor could legislation be brought in without cabinet consent, though a direct clash between Harvey Warrender and others in Cabinet must be avoided.
So what it really came down to was doing nothing and hoping for the best – the old political panacea. Brian Richardson would not be pleased, of course; obviously the party director had expected swift, firm action, but it would be impossible to explain to Richardson why nothing could be done. In the same way, the Vancouver situation would have to simmer, with Howden himself obliged to back up Harvey Warrender in whatever ruling the Immigration Department made. Well, that part was unfortunate, but at least it was a small issue entailing the kind of minor-key criticism which the Government had ridden before, and no doubt they could survive it again.
The essential thing to remember, James Howden thought, was that preservation of his own leadership came first. So much depended on it, so much of the present and the future. He owed it to others to retain power. There was no one else at this moment who could replace him adequately.
Milly Freedeman came in softly. 'Lunch?' she queried in her low contralto voice. 'Would you like it here?'
'No,' he answered. 'I feel like a change of scene.'
Ten minutes later, in a well-cut black overcoat and Eden homburg, the Prime Minister strode briskly from the East Block towards the Peace Tower doorway and the Parliamentary Restaurant. It was a clear, cold day, the crisp air invigorating, with roadways and sidewalks – snow heaped at their edges – drying in the sun. He had a sense of well-being, and acknowledged cordially the respectful greetings of those he passed and the snapped salutes of RCMO guards. Already the Warrender incident had receded in his mind; there were so many other things of greater import.
Milly Freedeman, as she did on most days, had coffee and a sandwich sent in. Afterwards she went into the Prime Minister's office taking a sheaf of memoranda from which she had pruned non-urgent matters that could wait. She left the papers in an 'in' tray on the desk. Its surface was untidily paper-strewn but Milly made no attempt to clear it, aware that in the middle of the day James Howden preferred to find things as he had left them. A plain, single sheet of paper, however, caught her eye. Turning it over curiously she saw it was a photostat.
It took two readings for the full meaning to sink in. When it had, Milly found herself trembling at the awful significance of the paper she held. It explained many things which over the years she had never understood: the convention… the Howden victory… her own loss.
The paper could also, she knew, spell the end of two political careers.
Why was it here? Obviously it had been discussed… today… in the meeting between the Prime Minister and Harvey Warrender. But why? What could either gain? And where was the original?… Her thoughts were racing. The questions frightened her. She wished she had left the paper unturned; that she had never known. And yet…
Suddenly, she experienced a fierce surge of anger against James Howden. How could he have done it? When there had been so much between them; when they could have shared happiness, a future together, if only he had lost the leadership… lost at the convention. She asked herself emotionally: Why didn't he play it fair?… at least leave her a chance to win? But she knew there had never been a chance…
Then, almost as suddenly as before, the anger was gone and sorrow and compassion took its place. What Howden had done, Milly knew, had been done because he had to. The need for power, for vanquished rivals, for political success… these had been all-consuming. Beside them, a personal life… even love… had counted for nothing. It had always been true: there had never been a chance…
But there were practical things to think of.
Milly stopped, willing herself to think calmly. Plainly there was a threat to the Prime Minister and perhaps to others. But James Howden was all that mattered to herself… there was a sense of the past returning. And only this morning, she remembered she had resolved to protect and shield him. But how could she… using this knowledge… knowledge she was certain that no one else possessed, probably not even Margaret Howden. Yes, in this she had at last become closer to James Howden even than his wife.
There was no immediate thing to do. But perhaps an opportunity might come. Sometimes blackmail could be turned against blackmail. The thought was vague, ephemeral… like groping in the dark. But if it happened… if an opportunity came… she must be able to substantiate what she knew.
Milly glanced at her watch. She knew Howden's habits well. It would be another half hour before he returned. No one else was in the outer office.
Acting on impulse she took the photostat to the copying machine outside. Working quickly, her heart beating at a footfall which approached, then passed, she put the photostat through. The copy which came out – a reproduction of a reproduction – was of poor quality and blurred, but clear enough to read, and the handwriting unmistakable. Hastily she folded the extra copy and crammed it to the bottom of her bag. She returned the photostat, face down, as she had found it.
Later in the afternoon James Howden turned the single sheet over and blanched. He had forgotten it was there. If he had left it overnight… He glanced at the outside door. Milly? No; it was a long-standing rule that his desk was never disturbed at midday. He took the photostat into the toilet adjoining his office. Shredding the paper into tiny pieces, he flushed them down, watching until all had gone.