In High Places

Chapter 4

In her apartment, restlessly, Milly Freedeman reviewed once more the events of the day. Why had she copied the photostat? What could she do with it, if anything? Where did her loyalty really lie?

She wished there could be an end to the co

The telephone's ringing was an interruption. 'Milly,' Brian Richardson's voice said briskly, 'Raoul Lemieux – he's a deputy in Trade and Commerce and a friend of mine – is starting a party. We're both invited. How about it?' '

Milly's heart leapt. She asked impulsively, 'Will it be gay?' The party director chuckled. 'Raoul's parties usually get that way.' 'Noisy?'

'Last time,' Richardson said, 'the neighbours called the police.'

'Does he have music? Can we dance?'

'There's a stack of records; at Raoul's, anything goes.'

'I'll come,' Milly said. 'Oh, please; I'll come.' 'I'll pick you up in half an hour.' His voice sounded amused. She said impetuously, 'Thank you, Brian; thank you.' 'You can thank me later.' There was a click as the line went dead.

She knew just the dress that she would wear; it was crimson chiffon, a low-cut neck. Excitedly, with a feeling of release, she kicked her shoes across the living-room.

Part 8 Edgar Kramer

Chapter 1

In the thirty-six hours during which Edgar S. Kramer had been in Vancouver, he had come to two conclusions. First, he had decided there was no problem in the West Coast Headquarters of the Department of Citizenship and Immigration which he could not handle with ease. Second, he was dismally aware that a personal and embarrassing physical disability was steadily becoming worse.

In a square, functionally furnished office on the second storey of the department's water-front Immigration Building, Edgar Kramer mentally debated both matters.

Kramer was a grey-eyed, spare man in his late forties, with wavy brown hair parted in the middle, rimless glasses, and an agile logician's mind which had already taken him a long way, from a modest begi

He was married, without children, to a plain woman who ordered their home with a kind of colourless efficiency. She was already apartment hunting in sections of the city which she had decided were respectable and therefore suited to her husband's government position.

In the higher civil service Edgar S. Kramer had become one of a few marked men, picked out – largely through ability, and partly by a knack of getting noticed – for advancement to higher things. In the Department of Immigration he was looked on as a dependable troubleshooter and it was a safe prediction that within a few years, allowing for promotions and retirements, he would be eligible for appointment as deputy minister.

Fully aware of this favoured position, and also exceedingly ambitious, Edgar Kramer sought constantly to safeguard and improve it. He had been delighted by the assignment to take charge temporarily in Vancouver, especially since learning that the Minister himself had approved his selection and would be watching results. For this reason alone, the personal problem which currently plagued him could not have been more untimely.

Stated simply, the problem was this: Edgar Kramer was obliged to urinate with a

The urologist to whom his private physician had sent him a few weeks earlier had summed up the situation. 'You are suffering from prostatism, Mr Kramer, and before it gets better it will have to get worse.' The specialist had described the distressing symptoms: frequent daytime urination, a weakened stream, and, at night, nocturia – the need to relieve himself, interrupting sleep and leaving him tired and irritable next day.

He had asked how long it must go on, and the urologist had said sympathetically, 'I'm afraid you must expect another two or three years until you reach the point where surgery is practical. When that happens we'll do a resection which should make things more comfortable.'

It had been small consolation. Even more depressing was the thought that his superiors should leam he had contracted, prematurely, an old man's disease. After all his efforts – the years of work and application, with reward finally in sight – he dreaded what such knowledge might do.

Trying to forget for a while, he returned to several ruled sheets of paper spread over the desk before him. On them, in a neat, precise hand, he had tabulated actions taken so far since his arrival in Vancouver, and those pla

It had occurred yesterday at lunchtime when he had sampled the meal distributed to prisoners in detention cells -the captured illegal entrants, dejectedly awaiting deportation overseas. To his a

Now he began considering discipline. There had been some unpunctuality this morning in the general offices and he had noticed, too, a certain slackness in appearance of the uniformed officers. A careful dresser himself – his dark pinstriped suits were always well-pressed, with a folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket – he expected subordinates to maintain a similar standard. He began a notation, then uncomfortably became aware of the need, once again, to relieve himself. A glance at his watch revealed that it was barely fifteen minutes since the last time. He decided he would not… he would force himself to wait… He tried concentrating. Then, after a moment, sighing dispiritedly, he rose and left the office.

When he returned, the young stenographer who was serving as his secretary for the time being, was waiting in his office. Kramer wondered if the girl had noticed how many times he had been in and out, even though he had used a direct door to the corridor. Of course, he could always make excuses that he was going somewhere in the building… It might be necessary to do that soon… He must devise ways of escaping notice.

'There's a gentleman to see you, Mr Kramer,' the girl a

'All right,' Kramer said. He took off his rimless glasses to wipe them. 'Bring him in, please.'