In High Places (24 page)

Leaving Dan Orliffe, he had returned to the modest office on the fringe of the downtown business district which he and Tom Lewis shared. Located over a block of stores and an Italian restaurant from which the odour of pizza and spaghetti frequently wafted up, it consisted of two glass-panelled cubicles with a tiny waiting room holding two chairs and a stenographer's desk. Three mornings a week the latter was occupied by a grandmotherly widow who, for a modest sum, did the small amount of typing necessary.

At the moment Tom Lewis was at the outside desk, his short chunky figure hunched over the second-hand Underwood they had bought cheaply a few months earlier. 'I'm drafting my will,' he said cheerfully, looking up. 'I've decided to leave my brain to science.'

Alan slipped off his coat and hung it in his own cubicle. 'Be sure to send yourself a bill and remember I'm entitled to half.'

'Why not sue me, just for practice?' Tom Lewis swung away from the typewriter. 'How'd you make out?'

'Negatively.' Tersely Alan related the substance of his interview at Immigration headquarters.

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'This man Kramer is no lame-brain. Not if he saw through the delay gambit.'

'I guess the idea wasn't all that original,' Alan said ruefully. 'Other people have probably tried it.'

'In law,' Tom said, 'there are no original ideas. Only endless mutations of old ones. Well, what now? Is it Plan Two?'

'Don't dignify it as a plan. It's the longest long shot, and we both know it.'

'But you'll give it a whirl?'

'Yes, I will.' Alan nodded slowly. 'Even if for no other reason than to displease Mr Smugly-Smiling Kramer.' He added softly, 'Oh, how I'd love to beat that bastard in court!'

'That's the attitude!' Tom Lewis grinned. 'Nothing leavens life like a little good-natured hatred.' He wrinkled his nose and sniffed. 'Man alive! - do you dig that spaghetti sauce?'

'I smell it,' Alan said. 'And if you go on eating that stuff at lunchtime just because we work near it, you'll be a fat pig in two years.'

'It's part of my plan to stop just short of that,' Tom announced. 'What I really want is oversize jowls and three chins, like lawyers in the movies. It'll impress clients no end.'

The outer door opened without benefit of knocking and a cigar came in, followed by a sharp-chinned stocky man, wearing a suede windbreaker and battered fedora, tilted back. He carried a camera, with a leather satchel over one shoulder. Speaking around the cigar he asked, 'Whicha you guys is Maitland?'

'I am,' Alan said.

'Wanta pitcher, gotta rushit, needit fora final.' The photographer began putting his equipment together. 'Backup againsta law books, Maitland.'

'Pardon me for asking,' Tom inquired. 'But what the hell is this?'

'Oh yes,' Alan said. 'I was about to tell you. I spilled the beans, and I guess you could call it Plan Three.'

Chapter 5
Captain Jaabeck was sitting down to lunch when Alan Maitland was shown into the master's cabin aboard the Vastervik. As on the previous occasion, the cabin was orderly and comfortable, its mahogany panelling polished and brasswork gleaming. A small square table had been moved out from one wall and on a white linen cloth with gleaming silverware a place was set for one, at which Captain Jaabeck was serving himself from a large open dish of what appeared to be shredded green vegetables. As Alan came in he put down the servers and stood up courteously. Today he was wearing a brown serge suit but still the old-fashioned carpet slippers.

'I beg your pardon,' Alan said. 'I didn't know you were at lunch.'

'Please, I do not mind, Mr Maitland.' Captain Jaabeck gestured Alan to a green leather armchair and resumed his own seat at the table. 'If you have not yourself had lunch...'

'I did, thank you.' Alan had declined Tom Lewis' suggestion of midday spaghetti, settling instead for a hastily consumed sandwich and milk en route to the ship.

'It is perhaps as well.' The captain gestured to the central dish. 'A young man such as you might find a vegetarian meal unsatisfying.'

Surprised, Alan said, 'You're a vegetarian. Captain?'

'For many years. Some think it a...' He stopped. 'What is the English word?'

'A fad,' Alan said, then wished he had spoken less quickly.

Captain Jaabeck smiled. 'That is what is sometimes said. But untruly. You do not mind, if I continue...' 'Oh yes, please do.'

The captain munched several forkfuls of the mixture steadily. Then, pausing, 'The vegetarian belief, I expect you know, Mr Maitland, is older than Christianity.'

'No,' Alan said, 'I didn't.'

The captain nodded. 'By many centuries. The true follower holds that life is sacred. Therefore all living creatures should have the right to enjoy it without fear.'

'Do you believe that yourself?'

'Yes, Mr Maitland, I do.' The captain helped himself once more. He appeared to consider. 'The entire matter, you see, is very simple. Mankind will never live in peace until we overcome the savagery existing within us all. It is this savagery which causes us to kill other creatures, which we eat, and the same savage instinct propels us into quarrels, wars, and perhaps, in the end, our own destruction.'

'It is an interesting theory,' Alan said. He found himself being constantly surprised by this Norwegian shipmaster. He began to see why Henri Duval had received more kindness aboard the Vastervik than anywhere else.

'As you say, a theory.' The captain selected a date from several on a side plate. 'But, alas, it holds a flaw like all theories.'

Alan asked curiously, 'What kind of a flaw?' 'It is a fact, scientists now inform us, that plant life, too, has a form of understanding and feeling.' Captain Jaabeck chewed on the date, then wiped his fingers and mouth fastidiously with a linen napkin. 'A machine exists, I am told, Mr Maitland, so sensitive it can hear the death screams of a peach when plucked and skinned. Thus, in the end, perhaps, the vegetarian achieves nothing, being as cruel to the defenceless cabbage as the meat eater to the cow and pig.' The captain smiled, and Alan wondered if his leg were being gently pulled.

More briskly the captain said, 'Now, Mr Maitland, what can we do?'

'There are one or two more points I'd like to talk over,' Alan told him. 'But I wonder if my client could be present.'

'Certainly.' Captain Jaabeck crossed the cabin to a wall telephone, depressed a button, and spoke briskly. Returning, he said dryly, 'I am told that your client is helping to scour our bilges. But he will come.'

A few minutes later there was a hesitant knock and Henri Duval entered. He was in grease-stained coveralls and a strong odour of fuel oil clung to him. There were black grease marks on his face, extending into his hair which was matted and disordered. He stood diffidently, youthful, both hands clasped around a knitted woollen cap.

'Good day, Henri,' Alan said.

The young stowaway smiled uncertainly. He glanced self-consciously at his filthy clothing.

'Do not be nervous,' the captain instructed him, 'nor ashamed of the signs of honest work.' He added, for Alan's benefit, 'Sometimes, I fear, advantage is taken of Henri's good nature by giving him tasks which others do not choose. But he does them willingly and well.'

At the words, the subject of them grinned broadly. 'First I clean ship,' he announced. 'Then Henri Duval. Both most dirty.'

Alan laughed.

The captain smiled sombrely. 'What is said of my ship is,' alas, true. There is so little money spent, so small a crew. But as for our young friend, I would not wish his lifetime to be used in cleaning it. Perhaps you have some news, Mr Maitland.'

'Not news exactly,' Alan replied. 'Except that the Immigration Department has refused to grant an official hearing of Henri's case.'

'Ach!' Captain Jaabeck raised his hands impatiently. 'Then, once more, there is nothing can be done.' Henri Duval's eyes, which had brightened, dimmed.

'I wouldn't say that entirely,' Alan said. 'In fact there's one point I want to discuss with you. Captain, and it's why I wished my client to be present.'

'Yes?'

Alan was aware of the eyes of the other two intently upon him. He considered carefully the words he must use next. There was a question to be put and a specific answer he hoped to get. The right answer from Captain Jaabeck would open the way to what Tom Lewis had called Plan Two. But the words and response must be the captain's own.

'When I was here previously,' Alan said carefully, 'I asked if, as master of this ship, you would take Henri Duval to Immigration headquarters and demand a hearing into his application to land. Your answer at that time was no, and the reasons given' - Alan consulted a note he had made - 'were that you were too busy and you thought it would do no good.'

'It is true,' the captain said. 'I remember talking of that.'

As each spoke, Duval's eyes turned inquiringly from one to the other.

'I'm going to ask you again. Captain,' Alan said quietly, 'if you will take my client Henri Duval from this ship to the Immigration Department and there demand a formal hearing.'

Alan held his breath. What he wanted was the same answer once more. If the captain again said no, even casually and for whatever reason, then technically it would mean Duval was being kept a prisoner aboard ship ... a ship in Canadian waters, subject to Canadian law. And just conceivably - based on Alan's own affidavit to that effect - a judge might grant a writ of habeas corpus ... a direction to bring the prisoner to court. It was a hairsbreadth point of law ... the long shot he and Tom had talked of. But its launching depended on obtaining the right answer now, so that the affidavit could be truly sworn.

The captain appeared puzzled. 'But surely you have just told me that Immigration has said no.'

Alan made no response. Instead he eyed the captain steadily. He was tempted to explain, to ask for the words he wanted. But to do so would be a breach of legal ethics. True, it was a fine distinction, but it was there and Alan was acutely aware of it. He could only hope that the others' astute mind...

'Well...' Captain Jaabeck hesitated. 'Perhaps you are right, and everything should be attempted once. Perhaps, after all, I must find time...'

It was going wrong. This was not what he wanted. The captain's reasonableness was effectively sealing off the only legal opening ... a door, slightly ajar, was closing. Alan tightened his lips, revealing disappointment in his face.

'It is not what you wished? And yet you asked.' Again puzzlement in the captain's voice.

Alan faced him squarely. He said, with deliberate formality, 'Captain Jaabeck, my request remains. But I must advise you that if you disregard it I reserve the right, in my client's interest, to continue with whatever legal steps may be necessary.'

A slow smile spread over the captain's face. 'Yes,' he said. 'Now I understand. You must do things by certain means because that is the law's way.'

'And my request. Captain?'

Captain Jaabeck shook his head. He said solemnly, 'I regret I cannot comply. There is much business for the ship to be done in port, and I have no time to waste on worthless stowaways.'

Until now Henri Duval's brow had been furrowed in concentration, although obviously he had understood very little of what was being said. But with the captain's last remark his expression became suddenly surprised and hurt. It was almost, Alan thought, as if a child, abruptly and inexplicably, had been disowned by a parent. Once more he was tempted to explain but decided he had already gone far enough. Holding out his hand, he told Henri Duval, 'I'm doing everything I can. I'll come to see you again soon.'

'You may go.' The captain addressed the young stowaway sternly. 'Back in the bilges! - and do your work well.'

Unhappily, eyes downcast, Duval went out.

'You see,' Captain Jaabeck said quietly, 'I am a cruel man too.' He took out his pipe and began to fill it. 'I do not understand exactly what it is you require, Mr Maitland. But I trust there is nothing I have missed.'

'No, Captain.' Alan was smiling. 'To tell you the truth, I don't think there's much you miss at all.'

Chapter 6
Near the end of the dock a white MG convertible was parked, its top raised. As Alan Maitland approached from the Vastervik, his collar turned up against the cold damp wind coming off the water, Sharon Deveraux opened the driver's door.

'Hullo,' she said. 'I called at your office and Mr Lewis said to come here and wait.'

'Sometimes,' Alan responded cheerfully, 'old Tom shows real horse sense.'

Sharon smiled, the dimple appearing. She was hatless, with a pale beige coat and gloves to match. 'Get in,' she instructed, 'and I'll drive you wherever.'

He went around the other side and eased his length gingerly into the tiny two-seater. On the second attempt he made it. 'Not bad,' Sharon said approvingly. 'Granddaddy tried it once, but we never got his second leg in.'

'I,' Alan said, 'am not only younger, but also more flexible than Granddaddy.'

In three swift movements Sharon turned the car around and they moved off, jolting rapidly over the dockside road. The MG's interior was small and snug. Their shoulders touched and he was conscious of the same perfume he had noticed last time they met.

'About being flexible,' Sharon said, 'the other day I was beginning to wonder. Where to?'

'Back to the office, I guess. There's some swearing I have to do.'

'Why not here? I know most of the words.'

He grinned. 'Let's not go through the dumb-brunette routine. I know better.'

She turned her head. Her lips were red, full, and slightly parted in a humorous bow. He was conscious again of the petite elfin quality.

'All right, so it's some sort of legal thing.' She returned her eyes to the road. They took a corner sharply and he was jolted against her. The contact was pleasant.

'It's an affidavit,' he told her.

'If it doesn't offend your stuffy old rules to tell me,' Sharon said, 'how is it all going? The man on the ship, I mean.'

'I'm not sure yet,' Alan said seriously. 'The Immigration people turned us down, but we expected that.'