In High Places

'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?'

'I was hoping,' Dan said, 'that somebody who mattered might come forward to help him.'

A hurrying copy boy put ink-wet proofs of early closed pages on the city desk.

Woolfendt paused. Behind the domed forehead his incisive mind clicked pros and cons. Then, decisively, 'All right,' he announced, 'I'll give you another twenty-four hours. That means one clear day to find a guy on a white horse.'

'Thanks, Chuck.' Dan Orliffe grinned, turning away. Over his shoulder he called, 'It would have been cold on that mountain.'

With nothing specific in mind he had gone home then for a late breakfast with his wife Nancy and afterwards driven Patty, their six-year-old daughter, to school. By the time he returned downtown and had parked outside the Immigration Building it was close to ten o'clock.

He had no special reason for coming here, having interviewed Edgar Kramer the day before and gained nothing beyond a colourless official statement. But it seemed a logical place to start.

'I'm looking for a man on a white horse,' he told the young girl who was doing duty as Edgar Kramer's secretary.

'He went that way,' she said pointing. 'Right through to the padded cell.'

'I've often wondered,' Dan observed, 'how it is that girls nowadays can be sexy and yet so intelligent.'

'My hormones have a high IQ,' she told him. 'And my husband taught me a lot of answers.'

Dan sighed.

'If you're through with the comic dialogue,' the girl said, 'you're a newspaper reporter, and you'd like to see Mr Kramer, but right now he's busy.'

'I didn't think you'd remember me.'

'I didn't,' the girl said pertly. 'It's just that you can pick reporters out. They're usually a little gone.'

'This one hasn't yet,' Dan said. 'In fact, if you don't mind, I'll wait.'

The girl smiled. 'It won't be long,-from the sound of it.' She nodded towards the closed door of Edgar Kramer's office.

Dan could hear raised, sharp voices. His acute hearing caught the word 'Duval'. A few minutes later Alan Maitland strode out, his face flushed.

Dan Orliffe caught up with him at the building's main doorway. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I wonder if we have a mutual interest.'

'It's unlikely,' Alan snapped. He made no, attempt to stop. Fierce anger surged through him – a delayed reaction from his earlier calm.

'Take it easy.' Walking alongside, Dan inclined his head towards the building they had left. 'I'm not one of them. Just a newspaperman.' He introduced himself.

Alan Maitland halted on the sidewalk. 'Sorry.' He took a deep breath, then grinned sheepishly. 'I was ready to blow up, and you happened to be handy.'

'Any time,' Dan said. Mentally he had already taken in the briefcase and a UBC tie. 'This is my day for long shots. Could you perhaps be a lawyer?'

'Could and am.'

'Representing one Henri Duval?'

'Yes.'

'Could we talk somewhere?'

Alan Maitland hesitated. Edgar Kramer had accused him of seeking publicity, and Alan's own angry retort had been to the effect that now he would. But a lawyer's instinct for avoiding statements to the Press was hard to shake off.

'Off the record,' Dan Orliffe said quietly, 'things aren't going too well, are they?'

Alan made a wry grimace, 'Equally off the record, they couldn't be worse.'

'In that case,' Orliffe said, 'what have you – or Duval – got to lose?'

'Nothing, I suppose,' Alan said slowly. It was true enough, he thought; there was nothing to lose and maybe something could be gained. 'All right,' he said. 'Let's go for coffee.'

'I had a feeling this was going to be a good day,' Dan Orliffe said contentedly. 'By the way, where did you tether your horse?'

'Horse?' Alan looked puzzled. 'I walked here.'

'Take no notice,' Dan said. 'Sometimes I get whimsical. Let's use my car.'

An hour later, over a fourth cup of coffee, Alan Maitland commented, 'You're asked a lot of questions about me, but surely Duval is more important.'

Dan Orliffe shook his head emphatically. 'Not today. Today you're the story.' He glanced at his watch. 'Just one more question, then I must get writing.'

'Go ahead.'

'Don't get me wrong,' Dan said. 'But why is it that with all the big names and legal talent in a city like Vancouver, you're the only one who's come forward to help this little guy?'

'To tell you the truth,' Alan answered, 'I was wondering that myself.'

Chapter 3

The Vancouver Post building was a drab brick pile with offices in front, printing plant at the rear, and the editorial tower rising stubbily above both like a brief, disjointed thumb. Ten minutes after leaving Maitland, Dan Orliffe parked his Ford station wagon in the employees' lot across the street and headed inside. He took the tower elevator and, in the now-bustling newsroom, settled down at an empty desk to write.

The lead came easily.

An angry young Vancouver lawyer is preparing, like David, to assault Goliath.

He is Alan Maitland, 25, Vancouver-born graduate of UBC law school.

His Goliath is the Government of Canada – specifically the Immigration Department.

Department officials refuse to heed the 'let me in' pleas of Henri Duval, the youthful 'man without a country', now a shipboard prisoner in Vancouver harbour.

Alan Maitland now is legal counsel for Henri Duval. The friendless wanderer had almost abandoned hope of getting legal help, but Maitland volunteered his services. The offer was gratefully accepted.

Dan typed the word 'more' and shouted, 'Copy!' He ripped out the sheet which a copy boy yanked from his hand and delivered to the city desk.

Automatically he checked the time. It was 12.17, sixteen minutes to the Mainland edition closing. The Mainland was the day's principal deadline – the home-delivery edition with the longest press run. What he wrote would be read tonight in thousands of homes… warm, comfortable homes, their occupants secure…

Post readers will recall that this newspaper was the first to reveal the tragic plight of Henri Duval who – through a quirk of fate – has no nationality. Almost two years ago, in desperation, he stowed aboard ship. Since then, country after country has refused to let him in.