Arthur Hailey - In High Places

Tom Lewis went on, 'According to Butler, Kramer already had one reprimand over this business – from the Prime Minister, no less. I should think what happened would be good for another, so you can probably figure that you managed to break him.'

Alan said slowly, 'I feel ashamed about the whole thing!'

Tom nodded. 'At least that's two of us.'

Dan Orliffe had left the group around Henri Duval and came towards them. He had a folded newspaper under his arm. 'We're going back to Henri's room,' he announced. 'Somebody has a bottle and there seems to be an urge to start a party. Coming?'

'No, thanks,' Alan said. Tom shook his head.

'Okay.' About to turn away, the reporter handed Alan the paper. 'It's the noon edition. There's a little about you, there'll be more in the final.'

As Tom and Alan watched, the group with Henri Duval moved away. The energetic centre of it was the man in the camel-hair coat. One of the women had her arm through Henri's. The former stowaway was beaming happily, enjoying the attention. He did not look back.

'I'll give him his head for now,' Alan said. 'Later on today I'll sort him out. I can't just leave him, turn him loose.'

Tom grinned sardonically. 'Good luck.'

'He may be all right,' Alan argued. 'He may turn out fine. You can never tell, and you can't prejudge – ever.'

'No,' Tom said. 'You shouldn't prejudge.'

'Even if he doesn't do well,' Alan persisted, 'the principle is more important than the man.'

'Yeah.' Tom followed Alan down the courthouse steps. 'I guess there's always that.'

Over steaming spaghetti, at the Italian restaurant near their office, Alan broke the news about their fee. Surprisingly, Tom seemed almost unconcerned.

'I'd probably have done the same,' he said. 'Don't worry; we'll get by.'

Alan felt a surge of warmth and gratitude. To hide his own emotion, he opened the newspaper Dan Orliffe had given him.

On page one there was a story of the Duval hearing, but written before the verdict and the Edgar Kramer debacle. An Ottawa CP dispatch disclosed that the Prime Minister would make 'a grave and significant announcement in the House of Commons this afternoon'; the nature of the announcement was not given, but speculation tied it to worsening international affairs. The late news box contained race results and another single item:

Senator Richard Deveraux died suddenly this morning, reportedly of a heart attack, at his Vancouver home. He was seventy-four.

The door to the house was open. Alan walked through.

He found Sharon in the drawing-room, alone.

'Oh, Alan!' She came to him. Her eyes were red from crying.

He said softly, 'I hurried as soon as I heard.' He took her hands gently, steering her to a settee. They sat down side by side.

'Don't talk,' he told her. 'Unless you want to.'

After a while Sharon said, 'It happened… about an hour after you left.'

He started guiltily. It wasn't because…'

'No.' Her voice was low but firm. 'He had two heart attacks before. We'd known for a year that one more…'

'It seems inadequate,' he said. 'But I'd like to say I'm sorry.'

'I loved him, Alan. He took care of me from the time I was a baby. He was land, and generous.' Sharon's voice faltered, then went on, 'Oh, I know all about politics – there were mean things, as well as good. Sometimes it seemed as if he couldn't help himself.'

Alan said softly, 'We're all like that. I guess it's the way we're made.' He was thinking of himself and Edgar Kramer.

Sharon raised her eyes. She said steadily, 'I hadn't heard… with everything else. Did you win your case?'

He nodded slowly. 'Yes, we won.' But he wondered what he had won and what he had lost.

'After you'd gone this morning,' Sharon said carefully, 'Granddaddy told me what had happened. He knew he shouldn't have asked you what he did. He was going to tell you so.'

He said consolingly, 'It doesn't matter now.' He wished, though, that this morning he had been more gentle.

'He would have wanted you to know.' Her eyes were brimming, her voice unsure. 'He told me… that you were the finest young man… he had ever known… and if I didn't grab and marry you…'

The voice broke. Then she was in his arms.

It was 3.20. Forty minutes left.

At 4 PM, simultaneously in Ottawa and Washington, the Act of Union would be announced.

In the House of Commons tension was growing. This morning the Prime Minister's office had allowed it to be known that a 'grave and significant announcement of national import' would be made. No details had been given, but on Parliament Hill speculation had been growing hourly.

Within the House, routine business was proceeding but there was an undercurrent of expectation. The public galleries were already filled, a line of luckless latecomers lining the halls outside. In the diplomatic gallery several ambassadors had already arrived. In an adjoining gallery, member's wives, vying for the choicest seats, were filing in.

Immediately outside the House, lobbies, corridors, and press rooms were abuzz with talk. News of a Cabinet split was widely rumoured but, so far as James Howden knew, there had been no leak as to the cause. A moment earlier, conversations in the Government lobby had stilled as the Prime Minister had entered, walking to his own House of Commons seat.

Settling down, he glanced around, then opened the folder he had carried in. Closing his ears to the current speaker – a backbench MP enjoying the unusual attention – Howden read, once more, the agreed joint statement and the opening text of his own speech to follow.

For days he had laboured on the speech, in between commitments, completing it in the early hours of this morning after returning from Montreal. He had had little sleep, but excitement and a sense of destiny sustained him.

The speech which he would make today in the House -unlike others of the past few days – was entirely his own.

Other than Milly Freedeman, who had typed the drafts, no one else had seen or worked on it. He was aware that what he had written, and would say, was from his heart. What he proposed would divert the course of history. For Canada, for a while at least, it would lessen nationhood. But in the end, he was convinced, the gain of union would outweigh a separate peril. There was courage in facing facts; greater, perhaps, than in empty insurrections with which the past abounded.

But would others see it too?

Some would, he knew. Many would trust him, as they had before. Others would be won by argument, a few by tear. A large section of the nation was American in thought already; to them, the Act of Union would seem logical and right.

But there would be opposition, and a bitter fight. It had begun already.

Early this morning he had interviewed separately the eight cabinet dissidents who were supporting Adrian Nesbitson. By strong persuasion and a personal appeal he had won back three, but five were adamant. Together with General Nesbitson they would resign and resist the Act of Union as an independent opposition group. Undoubtedly a few MPs, at least, would follow them, to form a rump within the House.

It was a serious blow, though not entirely unpredictable. He could have been more confident of surviving it, however, if the Government's popularity had not decreased in recent weeks. If only there had been no stowaway incident… Resolutely, to avoid rekindling his inner, burning anger, Howden switched his thoughts away. He had noticed, though, that Harvey War-render was not yet in the House. Nor was Bonar Deitz, the Leader of the Opposition.

A hand touched his shoulder. Turning, he saw the shock of black curls and bristling moustache of Lucien Perrault. Jauntily, as he managed to do everything, the French Canadian bowed to the Speaker and dropped into the empty seat of Stuart Cawston, who had briefly left the floor.