England jailed Duval while his ship was in port. The US had him chained. Canada does neither, pretending instead that he does not exist.
'Let's have another take, Dan!' It was Chuck Woolfendt, urgently from the city desk. Again the copy boy. He snatched the page from the typewriter as another went in.
Is there a chance that young Henri Duval might be admitted here? Can legal measures help him?
Older, cooler heads have said no. The Government and Immigration Minister, they claim, have powers which it is useless to challenge.
Alan Maitland disagrees. 'My client is being denied a basic human right,' he said today, 'and I intend to fight for it.'
He wrote three more paragraphs of Maitland quotes on Henri Duval. They were crisp and to the point.
'Keep it coming, Dan!' It was the city editor again and now, beside Woolfendt, the managing editor had appeared also. The mountain search story had proved disappointing -the missing woman found alive, no foul play, and her husband vindicated. Tragedy made livelier news than happy endings. Dan Orliffe typed steadily, his mind framing sentences, fingers nimbly following.
Whether Alan Maitland succeeds or fails in his objective, there will be a race against time. Duval's ship, the Vastervik – an ocean-going tramp which may never come here again -is due to sail in two weeks or less. The ship would have gone already, but repairs detained it.
More background next. He filled it in, recapping events. Now the assistant city editor at his elbow. 'Dan, did you get a picture of Maitland?'
'No time.' He answered without looking up. 'But he played football for UBC. Try Sports.'
'Right!'
12.23. Ten minutes left.
'The first thing we are seeking is an official hearing into Henri Duval's case,' Maitland told the Post. 'I have asked for such a hearing as a matter of simple justice. But it has been refused flatly and, in my opinion, the Immigration Department is acting as if Canada were a police state.'
Next, some background on Maitland… Then – in fairness – a restatement of the Immigration Department's stand, as expressed by Edgar Kramer the day before… Back to Maitland – a quote in rebuttal, then a description of Maitland himself.
On the keyboard Dan Orliffe could visualize the young lawyer's face, grimly set, as it had been this morning when he strode from Kramer's office.
He is an impressive young man, this Alan Maitland. When he talks his eyes gleam, his chin juts forward with determination. You get the feeling he is the sort of individual you would like to have on your side.
Perhaps, tonight, in his lonely locked cabin aboard ship, Henri Duval has much the same feeling.
12.29. Time was crowding him now; a few more facts, another quote, and it would have to do. He would expand the story for the final edition, but what he had written here was what most people would read.
'All right,' the managing editor instructed the group around him near the city desk. 'We'll still lead with finding the woman, but keep it short and run Orliffe's story top left alongside.'
'Sports had a cut of Maitland,' the assistant city editor reported. 'Head and shoulders, one column. It's three years old, but not bad. I sent it down.'
'Get a better picture for the final,' the managing editor commanded. 'Send a photog to Maitland's office and let's get some law books in the background.'
'I already did,' the assistant responded crisply. He was a lean, brash youth, at times almost offensively alert. 'And I figured you'd want law books, so I said so.'
'Christ!' the managing editor snorted. 'You ambitious bastards wear me down. How'm I gonna give orders around here if you birds think of everything first?' Grumblingly he retreated to his office as the Mainland edition closed.
A few minutes later, before copies of the Post had reached the street, the gist of Dan Orliffe's report was on the national CP wire.
Chapter 4
Alan Maitland, in the late morning, was unaware of the extent to which his name would shortly become known.
Leaving Dan Orliffe, he had returned to the modest office on the fringe of the downtown business district which he and Tom Lewis shared. Located over a block of stores and an Italian restaurant from which the odour of pizza and spaghetti frequently wafted up, it consisted of two glass-panelled cubicles with a tiny waiting room holding two chairs and a stenographer's desk. Three mornings a week the latter was occupied by a grandmotherly widow who, for a modest sum, did the small amount of typing necessary.
At the moment Tom Lewis was at the outside desk, his short chunky figure hunched over the second-hand Underwood they had bought cheaply a few months earlier. 'I'm drafting my will,' he said cheerfully, looking up. 'I've decided to leave my brain to science.'
Alan slipped off his coat and hung it in his own cubicle. 'Be sure to send yourself a bill and remember I'm entitled to half.'
'Why not sue me, just for practice?' Tom Lewis swung away from the typewriter. 'How'd you make out?'
'Negatively.' Tersely Alan related the substance of his interview at Immigration headquarters.
Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'This man Kramer is no lame-brain. Not if he saw through the delay gambit.'
'I guess the idea wasn't all that original,' Alan said ruefully. 'Other people have probably tried it.'
'In law,' Tom said, 'there are no original ideas. Only endless mutations of old ones. Well, what now? Is it Plan Two?'
'Don't dignify it as a plan. It's the longest long shot, and we both know it.'
'But you'll give it a whirl?'
'Yes, I will.' Alan nodded slowly. 'Even if for no other reason than to displease Mr Smugly-Smiling Kramer.' He added softly, 'Oh, how I'd love to beat that bastard in court!'
'That's the attitude!' Tom Lewis grinned. 'Nothing leavens life like a little good-natured hatred.' He wrinkled his nose and sniffed. 'Man alive! – do you dig that spaghetti sauce?'
'I smell it,' Alan said. 'And if you go on eating that stuff at lunchtime just because we work near it, you'll be a fat pig in two years.'
'It's part of my plan to stop just short of that,' Tom announced. 'What I really want is oversize jowls and three chins, like lawyers in the movies. It'll impress clients no end.'
The outer door opened without benefit of knocking and a cigar came in, followed by a sharp-chinned stocky man, wearing a suede windbreaker and battered fedora, tilted back. He carried a camera, with a leather satchel over one shoulder. Speaking around the cigar he asked, 'Whicha you guys is Maitland?'
'I am,' Alan said.
'Wanta pitcher, gotta rushit, needit fora final.' The photographer began putting his equipment together. 'Backup againsta law books, Maitland.'
'Pardon me for asking,' Tom inquired. 'But what the hell is this?'
'Oh yes,' Alan said. 'I was about to tell you. I spilled the beans, and I guess you could call it Plan Three.'
Chapter 5
Captain Jaabeck was sitting down to lunch when Alan Maitland was shown into the master's cabin aboard the Vastervik. As on the previous occasion, the cabin was orderly and comfortable, its mahogany panelling polished and brasswork gleaming. A small square table had been moved out from one wall and on a white linen cloth with gleaming silverware a place was set for one, at which Captain Jaabeck was serving himself from a large open dish of what appeared to be shredded green vegetables. As Alan came in he put down the servers and stood up courteously. Today he was wearing a brown serge suit but still the old-fashioned carpet slippers.