Alan interjected, 'If Your Lordship pleases: in the matter of the ship…' He was about to explain the Vastervik's delay in Vancouver for repairs but stopped abruptly. At the interruption the judge's face had clouded angrily, his eyes beneath the bushy eyebrows bleak. Across the room Alan could sense the clerk's reproach. He swallowed. 'I beg Your Lordship's pardon.'
Briefly Mr Justice Willis stared coldly at the young lawyer. Then he continued, 'As I was about to observe, although there is a time limit involved, namely the question of the ship's departure, this must not interfere in any way with a matter of individual justice.'
Alan's heart leaped. Did this mean that the writ of habeas corpus was to be granted?… that afterwards he could take his time about procedure, moving slowly through successive legal steps while the Vastervik sailed, leaving Henri Duval behind?
'On the other hand,' the judge's voice proceeded evenly, 'as a matter of public policy, and in fairness to the shipping company concerned, which is somewhat an innocent bystander in this affair, it is equally pertinent that everything possible should be done to expedite procedure so as to render a final decision before the ship's normal sailing.'
So the optimism had been premature. Gloomily Alan reflected that not only Edgar Kramer, but now this judge, had seen through his ruse of a delaying action.
'I consider the matter of illegal detention not proven.' His lordship drew the submissions towards him and made a pencilled notation. 'But neither is it disproven and I am prepared to hear further argument. I shall therefore allow an order nisi.'
It was not defeat then, but partial victory, and a wave of relief swept over Alan. True he had achieved less than hoped for, but at least he had not made a fool of himself. The order nisi – the old English legal procedure – meant 'unless'. The nisi writ alone would not free Henri Duval from his shipboard prison and bring him before the Court. But it did mean that Edgar Kramer and Captain Jaabeck were to be summoned here to explain their stand. And unless their arguments -'or those of legal counsel – prevailed, the habeas corpus writ, releasing Duval, would follow.
'In the course of events, Mr Maitland, when will the ship sail?'
The eyes of Mr Justice Willis were upon him. Alan paused, wary before speaking, then realized the question was addressed directly.
'As far as I can learn, my lord, the ship will be here another two weeks.'
The judge nodded. 'It should be sufficient.'
'And the hearing on the writ, my lord?'
Mr Justice Willis pulled a desk calendar towards him. 'We should set the date, I think, for three days' time. If that is convenient.' It was the traditional courteous exchange between judge and lawyer, no matter how junior the latter might be.
Alan inclined his head. 'Yes, my lord.'
'You will have the papers drawn, of course.'
'If Your Lordship pleases, I have them ready.' Alan opened the briefcase.
'An order nisi'?''
'Yes, my lord. I foresaw that possibility.'
The moment the words were out Alan regretted them, as youthful and brash. In the ordinary way the writ would have been typed and submitted for the judge's signature next day. It had been Alan's idea to prepare a final order for signing promptly, and Tom Lewis had suggested the addition of an order nisi. Now, with slightly less assurance, Alan laid the typed pages, clipped together on the judge's desk.
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.'