Of course, there must be a court hearing, and it was set for the day after tomorrow. But the outcome was a virtual certainty: The Vastervik would sail, but Henri Duval would not be aboard.
Sometime tomorrow, Alan reminded himself, he must telephone the lawyer who had tipped them off to the case of Ahmed Singh. Tom Lewis had his name. It had been a deliverance…
He came to the captain's door and knocked. A voice inside commanded, 'Come!'
Captain Jaabeck, in shirt sleeves, wreathed in thick tobacco smoke, was making entries in a ledger under a shaded desk lamp. Putting down the pen, he stood up, courteous as ever, motioning his visitor to one of the green leather armchairs.
Coughing slightly as the smoke reached his lungs, Alan began, 'I'm interrupting…'
'It is nothing. There is enough writing for one time.' The captain reached over and closed the ledger. He added tiredly, 'Future archaeologists digging up our world will never understand it. We have left too many words for them to read.'
'Talking of words,' Alan said, 'I've brought some with me.' Smiling, he produced the habeas corpus writ and handed it to Captain Jaabeck.
The captain read slowly, his lips moving, pausing over the legal jargon. Eventually, looking up, he asked incredulously,
'You have succeeded – after all?'
'Yes,' Alan said happily. 'What the writ means is that Henri is freed from the ship. He will not be sailing with you.'
'And now – at this moment…' 'At this moment, Captain,' Alan replied decisively, 'I'd like him to pack his belongings and come with me. The writ releases him to my custody.' He added, 'If you've any doubt, we can call the Mounties…'
'No, no! It will not be needed.' Captain Jaabeck put down the writ, his face creasing in a warm engaging smile. 'I do not understand how you have done this, Mr Maitland, but you are to be congratulated. It is so sudden, that is all.' 'I know,' Alan said. 'I'm a little breathless myself.' Ten minutes later, eyes sparkling and with a wide happy grin, Henri Duval appeared in the captain's cabin. He was wearing a seaman's duffel coat several sizes too large for him and carrying a battered cardboard suitcase tied with string. One of the first things to be done tomorrow, Alan decided, must be to use some of the accumulated money to buy new clothes for the appearance in court.
'Mr Maitland is taking you away, Henri,' the captain announced.
The young stowaway nodded, his face lighting with excitement and anticipation. 'I ready now.'
'You will not be returning to the ship,' the captain said quietly. 'Now I will say goodbye.'
For a moment, excitement left the youthful face. It was as if the captain's words had revealed a reality which Henri Duval had not foreseen. He said uncertainly, 'This good ship.'
'Many things are as we make them for ourselves.' The captain held out his hand. 'It is my wish that you will be happy, Henri, and that God will bless you. Work hard, say your prayers, and do as Mr Maitland tells you.'
The stowaway nodded with dumb unhappiness. It was a strange scene, Alan thought; almost as if father and son were taking leave. He sensed a reluctance of the other two to end it.
'We'd better go.' Alan retrieved the original writ, leaving a copy for the captain's use. Shaking hands, he said, 'It's been a pleasure. Captain Jaabeck. I hope we shall meet again.'
'If I have more stowaways, Mr Maitland' – the captain smiled – 'I shall seek you as their friend.'
Word had gone swiftly around the ship. As Alan and Henri Duval appeared, the crew had quit their loading and were assembled along the rail. There was a jabber of excited voices. Stubby Gates shambled forward. 'So long matey,' he said, 'and lotsa luck. Here's something from me an' the boys.' Alan saw a small roll of bills change hands. As they went down the gangway the crew gave a ragged cheer.
'Stay where you are!' It was a commanding voice from the darkness of the dock. As Alan paused, a barrage of flashbulbs went off.
'Hey!' he called. 'What's this?'
'Press coverage,' Dan Orliffe said. 'What else?' Orliffe and other reporters crowded around.
'You got sneaky, Maitland,' someone said cheerfully, 'but we tracked you down.'
Another voice called, 'Nice work!'
'Look,' Alan protested, 'there's nothing I can say tonight. Maybe we'll have a statement in the morning.'
'How about a word from Henri?'
'Will you let Duval talk?'
'No,' Alan said firmly. 'Not now, anyway.'
Dan Orliffe asked quietly, 'How did you get down here?'
'I had a taxi,' Alan said.
'My car's right here on the dock. I'll take you wherever you want.'
'All right,' Alan agreed. 'Let's go.'
Amid cries of protest from the other reporters they climbed into Dan Orliffe's station wagon. Flashbulbs continued to go off. Henri Duval was grinning broadly.
When they were clear of the dockyard, Dan asked, 'Where are you taking him?'
There had been so much else; so many things to think of… 'Now you mention it,' Alan said, 'I hadn't thought about that.' His own apartment, he reasoned, was too small. But Tom and Lillian Lewis might be able to fix a temporary bed…
'That's what I figured,' Dan said. 'So the paper's taken a suite at the Hotel Vancouver. We'll pick up the tab.'
Alan said doubtfully, 'I guess it's all right. Though I imagined something a little simpler…'
'What the hell!' Dan accelerated to beat an amber light. 'Let Henri live a little.'
A few minutes later he added, 'About that hotel suite. I forgot to tell you – the Prime Minister's suite is just down the halt' He gave a deep chuckle. 'Won't Howden love that!'
Part 17 Margaret Howden
Chapter 1
'My goodness!' Margaret Howden exclaimed. 'I've never seen such a great big headline.'
The issue of the Vancouver Post was spread out on a table in the Howdens' living-room. The page one banner line read:
HENRI STEPS ASHORE!
The remainder of the page was devoted entirely to large pictures of Henri Duval and Alan Maitland, and a bold-face news story concerning them.
'They call it "Second-Coming-of-Christ type",' the party director informed Margaret. 'It's used only on special occasions.' He added dourly, 'Like, for instance, the fall of a government.'
Pacing the room, James Howden snapped, 'We'll postpone the humour if you don't mind.'
'We need something to brighten the outlook,' Richardson said.
It was late afternoon, snowing outside and growing dark. During the night, following his Vancouver speech, the Prime Minister had returned to eastern Canada by air. At midday he had spoken in Quebec City; in less than an hour he would be leaving Ottawa for an evening rally in Montreal. Tomorrow at 4 PM in the House of Commons he would announce the Act of Union. The strain of the past few days was beginning to show.
The Vancouver newspaper, only a few hours old, had been brought by air through a special arrangement Richardson had made. He had collected it personally at Ottawa airport and driven directly to the Prime Minister's house at 24 Sussex Drive. The news story treatment, he already knew, was typical of others throughout the country.
James Howden interrupted his pacing to ask sarcastically, 'I. suppose they did mention my speech somewhere.' It had been his finest of the entire tour; in other circumstances it would have been the focus of attention in today's news.
'Here it is,' Margaret announced, turning pages. 'It's on page three.' She appeared to stifle some amusement. 'Oh dear, it is rather small.'