In High Places

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 beginning, in government service. He was industrious, undeviatingly honest, and impartial in administering official regulations to the letter. He disliked sentiment, 'inefficiency, and disrespect for rules and order. A colleague had once observed that, 'Edgar would cut off his own mother's pension if there was a comma out of place in the application.' While exaggerated, the charge held a basis of truth, though it could equally well be said that Kramer would help his greatest enemy unstintingly if the regulations of his job required it.

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 annoying and humiliating frequency.

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 planned next. On the whole he had found the district headquarters well run and in good order. A few procedures, though, needed revision, including some tightening of discipline, and there was one other change he had made already.

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 annoyance, the food, though palatable, was neither hot nor of the same quality as served to himself earlier in the staff cafeteria. The fact that some of the deportees were living better than at any other time in their lives, and others might possibly be starving a few weeks hence, mattered not at all. Regulations on the treatment of prisoners were specific, and Edgar Kramer had sent for the senior cook, who proved to be a huge man, towering over the slight, spare superintendent. Kramer – never impressed by other people's size – had administered a sharply severe reprimand and from now on, he was sure, any food for prisoners would be carefully prepared, and hot when they received it.

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 announced. 'A Mr Alan Maitland; he says he's a lawyer.'

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

Alan Maitland had walked the half-mile from his office to the waterfront and his cheeks were flushed and ruddy from the cold wind outside. He wore no hat, only a\ light topcoat which he shrugged off as he entered. In one hand he carried a briefcase. 'Good morning, Mr Kramer,' Alan said. 'It was good of you to see me without an appointment.'

'I'm a public servant, Mr Maitland,' Kramer said in his precise, punctilious voice. With a polite, formal smile he gestured Alan to a chair and sat down at the desk himself. 'My office door is always open – within reason. What can I do for you?'

'Perhaps your secretary told you,' Alan said, 'I'm a lawyer.' Kramer nodded. 'Yes.' A young and inexperienced one, he thought. Edgar Kramer had seen many lawyers in his time and crossed swords with a few. Most had not impressed him.

'I read about your assignment here a couple of days ago and decided to wait until you arrived.' Alan was aware of feeling his way carefully, not wanting to antagonize this small man facing him, whose goodwill could be important. He had intended, at first, to approach the Immigration Department on behalf of Henri Duval as soon as possible following Christmas. But then, after he had spent an entire day reading immigration law and legal precedents, the evening papers of the twenty-sixth had carried a brief announcement that the Department of Immigration had named a new head to its Vancouver district. After talking it over with his partner Tom Lewis, who had also made a few discreet inquiries, they had decided – even at the loss of several precious days – to wait for the new appointee.

'Well, I've arrived. So perhaps you'll tell me why you waited.' Kramer creased his face into a smile, If he could help this novice lawyer, he decided – provided the youngster proved cooperative with the department – he would certainly do so.

'I'm here on behalf of a client,' Alan said carefully. 'His name is Henri Duval and at present he is being detained on a ship, the MV Vastervik. I would like to show you my authority to act on his behalf.' Unzipping the briefcase he produced a single sheet of paper – a typed copy of the retainer which the stowaway had signed at their first interview – and placed it on the desk.

Kramer read the paper carefully, then put it down. At the mention of the name Henri Duval he had frowned slightly. Now, a trifle warily, he inquired, 'If I may ask, Mr Maitland, how long have you known your client?'

It was an unusual question, but Alan decided not to be resentful. In any case, Kramer seemed friendly enough. 'I've known my client three days,' he answered cheerfully. 'As a matter of fact, I first read about him in the newspapers.'

'I see.' Edgar Kramer brought the tips of his fingers together above the desk. It was a favourite gesture whenever he was thinking or mentally marking time. He had, of course, obtained a full report of the Duval incident immediately on arrival. The deputy minister, Claude Hess, had told him of the Minister's concern that the case should be handled with absolute correctness, and Kramer was satisfied that that had already been done. In fact, he had answered questions from the Vancouver's newspapers to that effect the previous day.

'Perhaps you didn't see the newspaper articles.' Alan reopened his briefcase and reached inside.

'Don't bother, please.' Kramer decided he would be friendly but firm. 'I did see one of them. But we don't rely on newspapers here. You see' – he smiled thinly – 'I have access to official files, which we consider somewhat more important.'

'There can't be much of a file on Henri Duval,' Alan said. 'As far as I can make out, no one officially has done much inquiring.'

'You're quite right, Mr Maitland. There's been very little done because the position is perfectly clear. This person on the ship has no status, no documents, and apparently no citizenship of any country. Therefore, as far as the department is concerned, there is no possibility even of considering him as an immigrant.'

'This person, as you call him,' Alan said, 'has some pretty unusual reasons for having no citizenship. If you read the press report, you must know that.'

'I am aware there have been certain statements in print.' Again the thin smile. 'But when you have had as much experience as me, you will learn that newspaper stories and the true facts are sometimes at variance.'

'I don't believe everything I read either.' Alan found the on-and-off smile and the other man's attitude beginning to annoy him. 'All that I'm asking – and that's really the reason I'm here – is that you investigate the matter a little more.'

'And what I'm telling you is that any further investigation is pointless.' This time there was a distinct coolness in Edgar Kramer's tone. He was conscious of an irritability, perhaps from tiredness – he had had to get up several times last night and was far from being rested on waking this morning. Now he continued, 'The individual concerned has no legal rights in this country, nor is he likely to have any.'

'He's a human being,' Alan protested. 'Doesn't that count for anything?'

'There are many human beings in the world, and some are less fortunate than others. My business is to deal with those who come within the provisions of the Immigration Act, and Duval does not.' This young lawyer, Kramer thought, was definitely not cooperative.

'I am asking,' Alan said, 'for a formal hearing into my client's immigration status.'

'And I,' Edgar Kramer said firmly, 'am refusing it.'

The two eyed each other with the beginnings of dislike. Alan Maitland had the impression of facing a wall of impregnable smugness. Edgar Kramer saw a brash youthfulness and disrespect of authority. He was also bothered by a new urge to urinate. It was ridiculous, of course… so soon. But he had noticed that mental excitability sometimes had that effect. He willed himself to ignore it. He must hold out… not give way…

'Couldn't we be reasonable about this?' Alan wondered if perhaps he had been too brusque; it was an occasional fault he tried to guard against. Now he asked – he hoped persuasively

– 'Would you do me the favour of seeing this man yourself, Mr Kramer? I think you might be impressed.'

The other shook his head. 'Whether I was impressed or not would be entirely beside the point. My business is to administer the law as it stands. I do not make the law or approve exceptions to it.'

'But you can make recommendations.'

Yes, Edgar Kramer thought, he could. But he had no intention of doing so, particularly in this case with its sentimental overtones. And as for personally interviewing some would-be immigrant, his own status nowadays put him a long way above that.

There had been a time, of course, when he had done a good deal of that kind of interviewing – overseas, after the war, in the shattered countries of Europe… selecting immigrants for Canada, and rejecting others in much the same way (he had once heard someone say) that one selected the best dogs from a pound. Those had been the days when men and women would sell their souls, and sometimes did, for an immigrant visa, and there had been many temptations for immigration officers, to which a few succumbed. But he himself had never wavered and, although not caring greatly for the work – he preferred administration to people – he had done it well.

He had been known as a tough official, guarding his country's interests carefully, approving only immigrants of the highest standard. He had often been proud to think of the good people… alert, industrious, medically fit… whom he had allowed in.

Rejecting those who were substandard, for whatever reason, had never disturbed him, as it sometimes disturbed others.

His thoughts were interrupted.

'I'm not asking for admittance of my client as an immigrant

– not yet, anyway,' Alan Maitland said. 'All that I'm seeking is the very first stage – an immigration hearing away from the ship.'

Despite his earlier determination to ignore it, Edgar Kramer could feel the pressure on his bladder growing. He was also angered at the assumption he might fall for an old and elementary lawyer's trick. He answered sharply, 'I'm perfectly aware what you're asking for, Mr Maitland. You're asking the department to recognize this man officially, and then reject him officially, so that afterwards.you can begin legal steps. Then, when you're going through all the procedures of appeal – as slowly as possible, no doubt – the ship will sail, with your so-called client left here. Isn't that the sort of thing you have in mind?'

'To tell you the truth,' Alan said, 'it was.' He grinned. The strategy was one which he and Tom Lewis had planned together. But now that it was in the open there seemed no point in denying it.

'Exactly!' Kramer snapped. 'You were prepared to indulge in cheap legal trickery!' He ignored the friendly grin as well as an inner voice which cautioned him he was handling this badly.

'Just for the record,' Alan Maitland said quietly, 'I don't happen to agree that it was either cheap or trickery. However, I've just one question. Why did you refer to my "so-called client"?'

It was too much. The gnawing physical discomfort, the anxiety of weeks, and nights of accumulated tiredness, combined to produce a retort which at any other time Edgar Kramer, tactful and trained in diplomacy, would never have considered making. He was also acutely aware of the youthful, glowing health of the young man who faced him. He observed acidly, 'The answer should be perfectly obvious, just as it is obvious to me that you have accepted this absurd and hopeless case for one purpose only – the publicity and attention you expect to gain from it.'

For the span of several seconds there was silence in the small square room.

Alan Maitland felt a flush of blood suffuse his face angrily. For an insane instant he considered reaching across the desk to strike the older man.

The charge had been utterly false. Far from courting publicity, he had already discussed with Tom Lewis how it could be avoided, since both had been convinced that too much press attention might hamper legal action on Henri Duval's behalf. This was one reason he had come quietly to the Department of Immigration. He had been prepared to suggest that no statement to the Press should be issued for the time being…

His eyes met Edgar Kramer's. The civil servant's had a fierce, oddly pleading intensity.

'Thank you, Mr Kramer,' Alan said slowly. Standing, he picked up his topcoat, tucked the briefcase under his arm. 'Thank you very much for suggesting what I now intend to do.'

Chapter 2

For three days after the Christmas holiday the Vancouver Pos(had kept the story of Henri Duval – the man without a country – alive in its news pages. To a lesser extent, so had the other two papers in the city – the rival afternoon Colonist and the more sedate morning Globe – though with hints of scepticism, since the Post had uncovered the incident first.

But now the story was about to die.

'We've run the gamut, Dan, and all we've got is a lot of interest but no action. So let's forget it until the ship leaves in a few days, then you can do a nostalgic piece about the sad little guy sailing into the sunset.'

It was 7.45 AM in the Post newsroom. The speaker was Charles Woolfendt, day city editor, his listener Dan Orliffe. Arranging the day's assignments, Woolfendt, scholarly and quiet spoken but with a mind which, some said, worked like an IBM machine, had beckoned Dan over to the city desk.

'Whatever you say. Chuck.' Orliffe shrugged. 'All the same, I wish we could give it one more day.'

Woolfendt regarded the other searchingly. He respected Orliffe's judgement as a seasoned hand, but there were other problems to be weighed. Today a new local story was in progress which would lead the afternoon edition and for which he needed several more reporters. A woman hiker had disappeared on Mount Seymour, just outside the city, and an intensive search had failed to locate her. All three newspapers were covering the search closely, and there was growing suspicion of foul play by the woman's husband. The managing editor had already sent Woolfendt a note this morning which read: 'Did Daisy fall or was she pushed? If alive, let's get to her before the old man.' Dan Orliffe, Woolfendt reflected, would be a good man to have on the mountain.

'If we could be sure of something important happening on the stowaway story, I'd go along,' Woolfendt said. 'But I don't mean just another angle.'

'I know,' Dan agreed. 'It needs some fresh human interest with impact. I wish I could guarantee it.'

'K you could, I'd give you the extra day,' Woolfendt said. 'Otherwise I can use you on this search deal.'

'Go ahead,' Dan countered. He knew that Woolfendt, for whom he had worked a long time, was sounding him out. 'You're the boss, but the other could still be a better story.'

Around them, as others of the day shift came in, the newsroom was coming to life. The assistant managing editor moved into his place beside the city desk. Across at the main news desk, copy had begun to flow through the slot to Composing and Makeup three floors below. Already there was a subdued, steady tempo which would rise to a succession of peaks as the day's deadlines came and went.

'I'm disappointed too,' the city editor said thoughtfully. 'I really thought there'd be more happen to that stowaway of yours than has.' He ticked off points on his fingers. 'We've covered the man himself, the ship, public reaction, the Immigration people – no dice; we've made overseas checks – no results; we've wired the UN – they'll look into it, but God knows when, and meanwhile I've a paper to get out. What else?'

'I was hoping,' Dan said, 'that somebody who mattered might come forward to help him.'

A hurrying copy boy put ink-wet proofs of early closed pages on the city desk.

Woolfendt paused. Behind the domed forehead his incisive mind clicked pros and cons. Then, decisively, 'All right,' he announced, 'I'll give you another twenty-four hours. That means one clear day to find a guy on a white horse.'

'Thanks, Chuck.' Dan Orliffe grinned, turning away. Over his shoulder he called, 'It would have been cold on that mountain.'

With nothing specific in mind he had gone home then for a late breakfast with his wife Nancy and afterwards driven Patty, their six-year-old daughter, to school. By the time he returned downtown and had parked outside the Immigration Building it was close to ten o'clock.

He had no special reason for coming here, having interviewed Edgar Kramer the day before and gained nothing beyond a colourless official statement. But it seemed a logical place to start.

'I'm looking for a man on a white horse,' he told the young girl who was doing duty as Edgar Kramer's secretary.

'He went that way,' she said pointing. 'Right through to the padded cell.'

'I've often wondered,' Dan observed, 'how it is that girls nowadays can be sexy and yet so intelligent.'

'My hormones have a high IQ,' she told him. 'And my husband taught me a lot of answers.'

Dan sighed.

'If you're through with the comic dialogue,' the girl said, 'you're a newspaper reporter, and you'd like to see Mr Kramer, but right now he's busy.'

'I didn't think you'd remember me.'

'I didn't,' the girl said pertly. 'It's just that you can pick reporters out. They're usually a little gone.'

'This one hasn't yet,' Dan said. 'In fact, if you don't mind, I'll wait.'

The girl smiled. 'It won't be long,-from the sound of it.' She nodded towards the closed door of Edgar Kramer's office.

Dan could hear raised, sharp voices. His acute hearing caught the word 'Duval'. A few minutes later Alan Maitland strode out, his face flushed.

Dan Orliffe caught up with him at the building's main doorway. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I wonder if we have a mutual interest.'

'It's unlikely,' Alan snapped. He made no, attempt to stop. Fierce anger surged through him – a delayed reaction from his earlier calm.

'Take it easy.' Walking alongside, Dan inclined his head towards the building they had left. 'I'm not one of them. Just a newspaperman.' He introduced himself.

Alan Maitland halted on the sidewalk. 'Sorry.' He took a deep breath, then grinned sheepishly. 'I was ready to blow up, and you happened to be handy.'

'Any time,' Dan said. Mentally he had already taken in the briefcase and a UBC tie. 'This is my day for long shots. Could you perhaps be a lawyer?'

'Could and am.'

'Representing one Henri Duval?'

'Yes.'

'Could we talk somewhere?'

Alan Maitland hesitated. Edgar Kramer had accused him of seeking publicity, and Alan's own angry retort had been to the effect that now he would. But a lawyer's instinct for avoiding statements to the Press was hard to shake off.

'Off the record,' Dan Orliffe said quietly, 'things aren't going too well, are they?'

Alan made a wry grimace, 'Equally off the record, they couldn't be worse.'

'In that case,' Orliffe said, 'what have you – or Duval – got to lose?'

'Nothing, I suppose,' Alan said slowly. It was true enough, he thought; there was nothing to lose and maybe something could be gained. 'All right,' he said. 'Let's go for coffee.'

'I had a feeling this was going to be a good day,' Dan Orliffe said contentedly. 'By the way, where did you tether your horse?'

'Horse?' Alan looked puzzled. 'I walked here.'

'Take no notice,' Dan said. 'Sometimes I get whimsical. Let's use my car.'

An hour later, over a fourth cup of coffee, Alan Maitland commented, 'You're asked a lot of questions about me, but surely Duval is more important.'

Dan Orliffe shook his head emphatically. 'Not today. Today you're the story.' He glanced at his watch. 'Just one more question, then I must get writing.'

'Go ahead.'

'Don't get me wrong,' Dan said. 'But why is it that with all the big names and legal talent in a city like Vancouver, you're the only one who's come forward to help this little guy?'

'To tell you the truth,' Alan answered, 'I was wondering that myself.'

Chapter 3

The Vancouver Post building was a drab brick pile with offices in front, printing plant at the rear, and the editorial tower rising stubbily above both like a brief, disjointed thumb. Ten minutes after leaving Maitland, Dan Orliffe parked his Ford station wagon in the employees' lot across the street and headed inside. He took the tower elevator and, in the now-bustling newsroom, settled down at an empty desk to write.

The lead came easily.

An angry young Vancouver lawyer is preparing, like David, to assault Goliath.

He is Alan Maitland, 25, Vancouver-born graduate of UBC law school.

His Goliath is the Government of Canada – specifically the Immigration Department.

Department officials refuse to heed the 'let me in' pleas of Henri Duval, the youthful 'man without a country', now a shipboard prisoner in Vancouver harbour.

Alan Maitland now is legal counsel for Henri Duval. The friendless wanderer had almost abandoned hope of getting legal help, but Maitland volunteered his services. The offer was gratefully accepted.

Dan typed the word 'more' and shouted, 'Copy!' He ripped out the sheet which a copy boy yanked from his hand and delivered to the city desk.

Automatically he checked the time. It was 12.17, sixteen minutes to the Mainland edition closing. The Mainland was the day's principal deadline – the home-delivery edition with the longest press run. What he wrote would be read tonight in thousands of homes… warm, comfortable homes, their occupants secure…

Post readers will recall that this newspaper was the first to reveal the tragic plight of Henri Duval who – through a quirk of fate – has no nationality. Almost two years ago, in desperation, he stowed aboard ship. Since then, country after country has refused to let him in.

England jailed Duval while his ship was in port. The US had him chained. Canada does neither, pretending instead that he does not exist.

'Let's have another take, Dan!' It was Chuck Woolfendt, urgently from the city desk. Again the copy boy. He snatched the page from the typewriter as another went in.

Is there a chance that young Henri Duval might be admitted here? Can legal measures help him?

Older, cooler heads have said no. The Government and Immigration Minister, they claim, have powers which it is useless to challenge.

Alan Maitland disagrees. 'My client is being denied a basic human right,' he said today, 'and I intend to fight for it.'

He wrote three more paragraphs of Maitland quotes on Henri Duval. They were crisp and to the point.

'Keep it coming, Dan!' It was the city editor again and now, beside Woolfendt, the managing editor had appeared also. The mountain search story had proved disappointing -the missing woman found alive, no foul play, and her husband vindicated. Tragedy made livelier news than happy endings. Dan Orliffe typed steadily, his mind framing sentences, fingers nimbly following.

Whether Alan Maitland succeeds or fails in his objective, there will be a race against time. Duval's ship, the Vastervik – an ocean-going tramp which may never come here again -is due to sail in two weeks or less. The ship would have gone already, but repairs detained it.

More background next. He filled it in, recapping events. Now the assistant city editor at his elbow. 'Dan, did you get a picture of Maitland?'

'No time.' He answered without looking up. 'But he played football for UBC. Try Sports.'

'Right!'

12.23. Ten minutes left.

'The first thing we are seeking is an official hearing into Henri Duval's case,' Maitland told the Post. 'I have asked for such a hearing as a matter of simple justice. But it has been refused flatly and, in my opinion, the Immigration Department is acting as if Canada were a police state.'

Next, some background on Maitland… Then – in fairness – a restatement of the Immigration Department's stand, as expressed by Edgar Kramer the day before… Back to Maitland – a quote in rebuttal, then a description of Maitland himself.

On the keyboard Dan Orliffe could visualize the young lawyer's face, grimly set, as it had been this morning when he strode from Kramer's office.

He is an impressive young man, this Alan Maitland. When he talks his eyes gleam, his chin juts forward with determination. You get the feeling he is the sort of individual you would like to have on your side.

Perhaps, tonight, in his lonely locked cabin aboard ship, Henri Duval has much the same feeling.

12.29. Time was crowding him now; a few more facts, another quote, and it would have to do. He would expand the story for the final edition, but what he had written here was what most people would read.

'All right,' the managing editor instructed the group around him near the city desk. 'We'll still lead with finding the woman, but keep it short and run Orliffe's story top left alongside.'

'Sports had a cut of Maitland,' the assistant city editor reported. 'Head and shoulders, one column. It's three years old, but not bad. I sent it down.'

'Get a better picture for the final,' the managing editor commanded. 'Send a photog to Maitland's office and let's get some law books in the background.'

'I already did,' the assistant responded crisply. He was a lean, brash youth, at times almost offensively alert. 'And I figured you'd want law books, so I said so.'

'Christ!' the managing editor snorted. 'You ambitious bastards wear me down. How'm I gonna give orders around here if you birds think of everything first?' Grumblingly he retreated to his office as the Mainland edition closed.

A few minutes later, before copies of the Post had reached the street, the gist of Dan Orliffe's report was on the national CP wire.

Chapter 4

Alan Maitland, in the late morning, was unaware of the extent to which his name would shortly become known.

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.'

'And then?'

'Something happened today… just now. It might turn out that there's a chance – just a remote one – we can get the case into court.'

'Would that help?'

'It might not, of course.' Sharon's question was one he had already asked himself. But with this kind of problem you could take only one step at a time and hope for the best after that.

'Why do you want to go into court if it might not help?' They swung through traffic, accelerating to beat a light already changed to amber. In the intersecting street, brakes squealed. 'Did you see that bus?' Sharon said. 'I thought it was going to hit us.' They made a sharp turn, left then right, around a halted milk truck, barely missing its driver. 'You were talking about getting into court.'

'There are different ways,' Alan said, swallowing, 'and different kinds of courts. Could we go a little slower?'

Obligingly Sharon slowed from forty to thirty-five. 'Tell me about the court.'

'You can never know in advance just what's going to come out in evidence,' Alan said. 'Sometimes there are things you'd never get to hear of otherwise. Points of law, too. And in this case there's another reason.'

'Go on,' Sharon urged. 'It's exciting.' Their speed, Alan noticed, had crept up again to forty.

'Well,' he explained, 'whatever we do, we've nothing to lose. And the longer we keep things stirred up, the better chance there is that the Government will change its mind and give Henri the chance to be an immigrant.'

'I don't know if Granddaddy would like that,' Sharon said thoughtfully. 'He hopes to make it a big political issue, and if the Government gave in there wouldn't be anything left to argue about.'

'Frankly,' Alan said, 'I don't give a damn what Granddaddy wants. I'm more interested in what I can do for Henri.'

There was a silence. Then Sharon said, 'You called him by his first name – twice. Do you like him?'

'Yes, I do,' Alan said. He found he was speaking with conviction. 'He's a nice little guy who's had it rough all his life. I don't think he'll ever be president of anything, or amount, to very much, but I'd like to see him get a decent break. If he does, it'll be the first he's ever had.'

Sharon glanced sideways at Alan's profile then returned her eyes to the road. After a moment she asked, 'Do you know something?'

'No. Tell me.'

'If I were ever in trouble,' she said, 'you're the one, Alan, I'd like to have help me.'

'We're in trouble now,' he said. 'Will you let me drive?'

Their tyres squealed. The MG slid to a halt. 'Why?' Sharon asked innocently. 'We're here.'

The mixed odour of pizza and spaghetti sauce was unmistakable.

Within the office Tom Lewis was reading the Mainland edition of the Vancouver Post. He put down the paper as they came in. 'The Law Society will disbar you, of course,' he announced. 'After a public unfrocking, no doubt, in Stanley Park. You did know the rules about advertising?'

'Let me see,' Alan said. He took the paper. 'I just said what I thought. At the time I was a bit peeved.'

'That,' Tom said, 'comes through with remarkable clarity.'

'My God!' Alan had the front page spread out, Sharon beside him. 'I didn't think it would be like this.'

'It's been on the radio, too,' Tom informed him.

'But I thought it would be mostly Duval…'

'To be perfectly honest,' Tom said, 'I am bright chartreuse with envy. Somehow, without even trying, you seem to have corralled the outstanding case, a hero's publicity, and now, it seems…'

'Oh, I forgot,' Alan interjected. 'This is Sharon Deveraux.'

'I know,' Tom said. 'I was just getting to her.'

Sharon's eyes sparkled with amusement. 'After all, Mr Lewis, you are mentioned in the newspaper. It says quite distinctly Lewis and Maitland.'

'For that crumb, I shall be eternally grateful.' Tom put on his coat. 'Oh, by the way, I'm off to see a new client. He has a fish store and, I gather, a problem about his lease. Unfortunately he has no one to mind the store so I must go to the fish. You wouldn't like a nice cod cutlet for supper?'

'Not tonight, thanks.' Alan shook his head. 'I'm planning to take Sharon out.'

'Yes,' Tom said. 'I somehow thought you would.'

When they were alone, 'I'll have to work on the affidavit,' Alan observed. 'It "has to be ready, so I can appear before a judge tomorrow.'

'Could I help?' Sharon asked. She smiled at him, the dimple coming and going. 'I can type too.'

'Come with me,' Alan said. He took her by the hand into his glass-panelled cubicle.