But Harvey Warrender had known. Known, even as he built the false and foolish legend of a hero's death.
'What do you want?' he-asked brokenly. 'What do you want of me?'
Richardson told him evenly. 'That 'written agreement between you and the chief.'
Briefly a spark of resistance flared. 'And if I won't give it up?'
'I was hoping,' Richardson said, 'you wouldn't ask me that.'
'I am asking you.'
The party director sighed deeply. 'In that case I shall summarize the court martial proceedings and have mimeo copies made. The copies will be mailed, anonymously in plain envelopes, to everyone who counts in Ottawa – MPs, ministers, the press gallery, civil servants, your own department heads…'
'You swine!' Warrender choked on the words. 'You rotten evil swine.'
Richardson shrugged. 'I don't want to do it unless you force me.'
'People would understand,' Harvey Warrender said. The colour was returning to his face. 'I tell you they'd understand and sympathize. Howard was young; just a boy…'
'They'd always have sympathized,' Richardson said. 'And even now, they may feel sorry for your son. But not for you. They might have once, but not any more.' He nodded to the portrait in its illuminated recess, the absurd and useless relics beneath. 'They'll remember this charade, and you'll be the laughing stock of Ottawa.'
In his mind he wondered if it were true. There would be curiosity in plenty, and speculation, but perhaps little laughter. People sometimes were capable of unexpected depths of understanding and compassion. Most, perhaps, would wonder what strange quirk of mind had led Harvey Warrender to the deception he had practised. Had his own dreams of glory been reflected towards his son? Had the bitter disappointment, the tragedy of death, unhinged his mind? Richardson himself felt only an aching kind of pity.
But Warrender believed he would be laughed at. The muscles of his face were working. Suddenly he rushed to the fireplace and seized a poker from the stand beside it. Reaching up, he slashed savagely at the portrait, hacking, tearing, until only the frame and some shreds of canvas remained. With a single stroke he smashed the little aeroplane, then flung the map case and faded cap into the fireplace below. Turning, his breath coming fast, he asked, 'Well, are you satisfied?'
Richardson was standing too. He said quietly, 'I'm sorry you did that. It wasn't necessary.'
The tears were beginning again. The Immigration Minister went, almost docilely, to a chair. As if instinctively, he reached for the whisky glass he had put down earlier. 'All right,' he said softly, 'I'll give you the agreement.'
'And all copies, as well as your assurance that no more exist?'
Warrender nodded.
'When?'
'It will take two or three days. I have to go to Toronto. The paper is in a safety deposit box there.'
'Very well,' Richardson instructed. 'When you get it I want you to give it directly to the chief. And he is not to know about what happened here tonight. That's part of our agreement, you understand?'
Again a nod.
That way he would be taking the arrangement on trust. But there would be no defection now. He was sure of that.
Harvey Warrender lifted his head and there was hatred in his eyes. It was amazing, Richardson thought, how the other man's moods and emotions could ebb and flow so swiftly.
'There was a time,' Warrender said slowly, 'when I could have broken you.' With a touch of petulance, he added, 'I'm still in the Cabinet, you know.'
Richardson shrugged indifferently. 'Maybe. But frankly, I don't think you count for anything any more.' At the doorway he called over his shoulder, 'Don't get up, I'll let myself out.'
Chapter 3
Driving away, the reaction set in: shame, disgust, an abyss of depression.
More than anything else, at this moment, Brian Richardson wanted warm, human companionship. Nearing the city centre, he stopped by a pay phone and, leaving the Jaguar's motor running, dialled Milly's number. He prayed silently: Please be at home; tonight I need you. Please, please. The ringing tone continued unanswered. Eventually he hung up.
There was no other place to go but his own apartment. He even found himself hoping that, just this once, Eloise might be there. She was not.
He walked through the empty, lonely rooms, then took a tumbler, an unopened bottle of rye, and proceeded methodically to get drunk.
Two hours later, shortly after 1 AM, Eloise Richardson, cool, beautiful, and elegantly gowned, let herself in by the apartment front door. Entering the living-room, with its ivory walls and Swedish walnut furniture, she found her husband prostrate and snoring drunkenly on the off-white broadloom. Beside him were an empty bottle and an overturned glass.
Wrinkling her nose in contemptuous disgust, Eloise proceeded to her own bedroom and, as usual, locked the door.
Part 16 Mr Justice Willis
Chapter 1
In the drawing-room of his Hotel Vancouver suite, James Howden handed his executive assistant, Elliot Prowse, a one-dollar bill. 'Go down to the lobby,' he instructed, 'and get me six chocolate bars.'
If he ever wrote his memoirs, he decided, he would point out that one of the advantages of being Prime Minister was that you could send someone else to buy your sweets. Surely that should prove a spur to any ambitious child!
When the young man – serious-faced, as always – had gone, James Howden closed the door to the room outside, shutting off the noise of telephones and clattering typewriters, manned by the temporary staff of party volunteers. Settling into an easy chair, he considered the progress of his whirlwind speaking tour so far.
Without any question it was proving a brilliant, -personal success.
In all his political life James Howden had never risen to greater heights of oratory or wooed audiences with more effect. The speech writers who had been recruited by Brian Richardson – one from Montreal, the other a Time-and-Lifer from New York – had done their work well. But even better, at times, were Howden's own improvisations, when he discarded prepared scripts and spoke with conviction and a genuine emotion which conveyed itself to most who listened.
Principally he talked – prepared and unprepared – of the North American heritage and the pressures of rival ideologies which threatened its survival. It was a time for unity, he declared; a time to make an end of smallness and bickering; a time to rise above petty issues, putting the greater cause of human freedom first.
People reacted as if the words were what they had wanted to hear; a leadership they sought…
As planned, the Prime Minister had made no mention of the Act of Union. Constitutionally, that must be revealed to Parliament first.
But there was a sense of timeliness; as if the nation was ready for closer union with the United States. James Howden sensed it, and his political instinct for the winds of change had seldom been wrong.
In Toronto his audience had stood, cheering, for minutes on end. In Fort William, Winnipeg, Regina, Calgary, Edmonton, his reception had been the same or similar. Now, as the final stop before returning East, he had come to Vancouver where tonight, in the Queen Elizabeth Civic Theatre, he would address an audience of three thousand.
Press coverage of his tour, as well as press reaction, had been remarkably good. In newspapers, as on TV and radio, his own speeches were first-feature items. It was outstanding good luck, Howden thought, that over the past several days there had been a remarkable absence of competing news, and that, so far, neither a major disaster, some lurid sex killing nor a localized outbreak of war had intervened to snatch the spotlight away.