The urologist to whom his private physician had sent him a few weeks earlier had summed up the situation. 'You are suffering from prostatism, Mr Kramer, and before it gets better it will have to get worse.' The specialist had described the distressing symptoms: frequent daytime urination, a weakened stream, and, at night, nocturia – the need to relieve himself, interrupting sleep and leaving him tired and irritable next day.
He had asked how long it must go on, and the urologist had said sympathetically, 'I'm afraid you must expect another two or three years until you reach the point where surgery is practical. When that happens we'll do a resection which should make things more comfortable.'
It had been small consolation. Even more depressing was the thought that his superiors should leam he had contracted, prematurely, an old man's disease. After all his efforts – the years of work and application, with reward finally in sight – he dreaded what such knowledge might do.
Trying to forget for a while, he returned to several ruled sheets of paper spread over the desk before him. On them, in a neat, precise hand, he had tabulated actions taken so far since his arrival in Vancouver, and those planned next. On the whole he had found the district headquarters well run and in good order. A few procedures, though, needed revision, including some tightening of discipline, and there was one other change he had made already.
It had occurred yesterday at lunchtime when he had sampled the meal distributed to prisoners in detention cells -the captured illegal entrants, dejectedly awaiting deportation overseas. To his annoyance, the food, though palatable, was neither hot nor of the same quality as served to himself earlier in the staff cafeteria. The fact that some of the deportees were living better than at any other time in their lives, and others might possibly be starving a few weeks hence, mattered not at all. Regulations on the treatment of prisoners were specific, and Edgar Kramer had sent for the senior cook, who proved to be a huge man, towering over the slight, spare superintendent. Kramer – never impressed by other people's size – had administered a sharply severe reprimand and from now on, he was sure, any food for prisoners would be carefully prepared, and hot when they received it.
Now he began considering discipline. There had been some unpunctuality this morning in the general offices and he had noticed, too, a certain slackness in appearance of the uniformed officers. A careful dresser himself – his dark pinstriped suits were always well-pressed, with a folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket – he expected subordinates to maintain a similar standard. He began a notation, then uncomfortably became aware of the need, once again, to relieve himself. A glance at his watch revealed that it was barely fifteen minutes since the last time. He decided he would not… he would force himself to wait… He tried concentrating. Then, after a moment, sighing dispiritedly, he rose and left the office.
When he returned, the young stenographer who was serving as his secretary for the time being, was waiting in his office. Kramer wondered if the girl had noticed how many times he had been in and out, even though he had used a direct door to the corridor. Of course, he could always make excuses that he was going somewhere in the building… It might be necessary to do that soon… He must devise ways of escaping notice.
'There's a gentleman to see you, Mr Kramer,' the girl announced. 'A Mr Alan Maitland; he says he's a lawyer.'
'All right,' Kramer said. He took off his rimless glasses to wipe them. 'Bring him in, please.'
Alan Maitland had walked the half-mile from his office to the waterfront and his cheeks were flushed and ruddy from the cold wind outside. He wore no hat, only a\ light topcoat which he shrugged off as he entered. In one hand he carried a briefcase. 'Good morning, Mr Kramer,' Alan said. 'It was good of you to see me without an appointment.'
'I'm a public servant, Mr Maitland,' Kramer said in his precise, punctilious voice. With a polite, formal smile he gestured Alan to a chair and sat down at the desk himself. 'My office door is always open – within reason. What can I do for you?'
'Perhaps your secretary told you,' Alan said, 'I'm a lawyer.' Kramer nodded. 'Yes.' A young and inexperienced one, he thought. Edgar Kramer had seen many lawyers in his time and crossed swords with a few. Most had not impressed him.
'I read about your assignment here a couple of days ago and decided to wait until you arrived.' Alan was aware of feeling his way carefully, not wanting to antagonize this small man facing him, whose goodwill could be important. He had intended, at first, to approach the Immigration Department on behalf of Henri Duval as soon as possible following Christmas. But then, after he had spent an entire day reading immigration law and legal precedents, the evening papers of the twenty-sixth had carried a brief announcement that the Department of Immigration had named a new head to its Vancouver district. After talking it over with his partner Tom Lewis, who had also made a few discreet inquiries, they had decided – even at the loss of several precious days – to wait for the new appointee.
'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.'