In High Places

Chapter 1

In Vancouver on Christmas morning Alan Maitland slept late, and when he awoke there was a furry taste in his mouth from the drinks he had had at his law partner's home the night before. Yawning and scratching the top of his crew-cut head which itched, he remembered they had killed a couple of bottles between the three of them – himself, Tom Lewis, and Tom's wife Lillian. It was an extravagance, really, since neither he nor Tom had money to spare for that kind of thing, especially now that Lillian was pregnant and Tom was having trouble keeping up his mortgage payments on the tiny house he had bought six months ago in North Vancouver. Then Alan thought: Oh, what the hell, and rolling his athlete's six-foot length out of bed, padded barefoot to the bathroom.

Returning, he put on old flannel trousers and a faded college T shirt. Then he mixed instant coffee, made toast, and scraped on some honey from a jar. To eat, he sat on the bed which occupied most of the available space in the cramped bachelor apartment on Gilford Street near English Bay. Later the bed could be made to disappear into the wall like a retracted landing gear, but Alan seldom hurried this, preferring to meet the day gradually, as he always had since discovering long ago he could do most things best by easing into them slowly.

He was wondering if he should bother frying some bacon when his phone rang. It was Tom Lewis.

'Listen, you lunkhead,' Tom said. 'How come you never told me about your high society friends?'

'A guy doesn't like to boast. The Vanderbilts and me…' Alan swallowed a piece of half-chewed toast. 'What high society friends?'

'Senator Deveraux, for one. The Richard Deveraux. He wants you up at his house – today; chop, chop.'

'You're crazy!'

'Crazy, my eye! I just had a call from G. K. Bryant – of Culliner, Bryant, Mortimer, Lane, and Roberts, otherwise known as "we the people". They do most of old Deveraux's legal work, it seems, but this time the Senator has asked for you specifically.'

'How could he?' Alan was sceptical. 'Somebody's made a mistake; got a name wrong obviously.'

'Listen, junior,' Tom said, 'if nature endowed you with above-average stupidity, try not to add to it. The man they want is Alan Maitland of the thriving young law firm – at least, it would be if we had a couple of clients – of Lewis and Maitland. That's you, isn't it?'

'Sure, but…'

'Now why a man like Senator Deveraux should want Maitland when he can get Lewis, who was a year ahead of Maitland in law school, and considerably smarter, as this conversation demonstrates, is beyond me, but…'

'Wait a minute,' Alan interjected. 'You did say Deveraux.'

'Not more than six times which, I admit, is not enough for penetration…'

'There was a Sharon Deveraux in my last year of college. We met a few times, went on a date once, though I haven't seen her since. Maybe she…'

'Maybe she did; maybe she didn't. All I know is that Senator Deveraux, on this clear and sunny Christmas morning, is waiting for one Alan Maitland.'

'I'll go,' Alan said. 'Maybe there's a present for me under his tree.'

'Here's the address,' Tom said, and, when Alan had written it down, 'I shall pray for you. I might even call our office landlord and get him to pray too; after all, his rent depends upon it.'

'Tell him I'll do my best.'

'There was never a doubt,' Tom said. 'Good luck.'

Chapter 2

Senator Deveraux – not surprisingly, Alan Maitland thought – lived on South West Marine Drive.

Alan knew the Drive well, by reputation and through occasional contact during his days in college. High above downtown Vancouver, facing southwest across the North Arm of the widening Fraser River towards pastoral Lulu Island, the area was a social mecca and seat of much accumulated wealth. The view from most points along the Drive was remarkable, on clear days extending as far as the US border and the State of Washington. It was also, Alan knew, a symbolic view, since most who lived there had either attained social eminence or were born to it. A second symbolism was in the great, patterned log booms, moored in the river below or towed majestically by tugs to sawmills. Logging and lumber founded the fortune of the Province of British Columbia and even now sustained it largely.

Alan Maitland caught a glimpse of the Fraser River at the same time that he located Senator Deveraux's house. The Senator, Alan decided, must possess one of the best views along the entire shore line.

It was sunny, clear, and crisp as he drove towards the big Tudor-style mansion. The house was shielded from questing eyes of passers-by by a tall cedar hedge and set well back from the road, with a curving driveway presided over at its entrance by twin gargoyles on double wrought-iron gates. A shining Chrysler Imperial was in the driveway and Alan Maitland parked his elderly paint-faded Chev behind it. He walked to the massive, studded front door set in a baronial portico and rang the bell. Presently a butler opened it.

'Good morning,' Alan said; 'my name is Maitland.' 'Please come in, sir.' The butler was a frail, white-haired man who moved as if his feet hurt. He preceded Alan through a short riled corridor into a large open entrance hall. At the entry to the hallway a slim, slight figure appeared.

It was Sharon Deveraux and she was as he recalled her -not beautiful but petite, elfin almost, her face longish and with deep humorous eyes. Her hair was different, Alan noticed. It was raven black and she used to wear it long; now it was done in a pixie cut and becoming, he thought.

'Hullo,' Alan said. 'I hear you could use a lawyer.'

'At the moment,' Sharon said promptly, 'we'd prefer a plumber. The.toilet in Granddaddy's bathroom won't stop running.'

There was something else he was reminded of – a dimple in her left cheek which came and went when she smiled, as she was doing now.

'This particular lawyer,' Alan said, 'does plumbing on the side. Things haven't been too brisk around the law books lately.'

Sharon laughed. 'Then I'm glad I remembered you.' The butler took his coat and Alan looked curiously around him.

The house, inside and out, bespoke wealth and substance. They had stopped in a large open entrance hall, its walls of polished linen-fold panelling, its ceiling Renaissance, above a gleaming pegged-oak floor. In a massive Tudor fireplace, ranked by fluted pilasters, a log fire burned brightly, and near the fireplace an arrangement of red arid yellow roses graced an Elizabethan refectory table. On a colourful Kerman rug a dignified Yorkshire armchair faced a Knoll sofa, and opposite, on the far side of the hall, crewel embroidery hangings framed oriel windows.

'Granddaddy got back from Ottawa last night,' Sharon said, rejoining him, 'and at breakfast was talking about wanting a young Abe Lincoln. So I said there was someone I used to know called Alan Maitland who was going to be a lawyer and had all sorts of ideals… do you still have them, by the way?'

'I guess so,' Alan said, a shade uncomfortably. He reflected that he must have sounded off to this girl more than he remembered. 'Anyway, thanks for thinking of me.' It was warm in the house and he wriggled his neck inside the starched white shirt he had put on under his one good charcoal-grey suit.

'Let's go in the drawing-room,' Sharon said. 'Granddaddy will be here soon.' He followed her across the hall. She opened a door and sunlight streamed through.

The room they came into was larger than the hallway, but brighter and less formidable, Alan thought. It was furnished in Chippendale and Sheraton, with light Persian rugs, the walls damask-covered and ornamented with gilt and crystal sconces. There were some original oils – Degas, Cezanne, and a more modern Lawren Harris. A large decorated Christmas tree occupied one corner of the room, next to a Steinway piano. Leaded casement windows, closed now, led to a flagstoned terrace.

'Granddaddy, I take it, is Senator Deveraux,' Alan said.

'Oh yes, I forgot you wouldn't know.' Sharon motioned him to a Chippendale settee and sat down opposite. 'My parents are divorced, you see. Nowadays Daddy lives in Europe – Switzerland, most of the time – then Mummy got married again and went to Argentina, so I live here.' She said it unselfconsciously and with no trace of bitterness.

'Well, well, well! So this is the young man.' A voice boomed from the doorway where Senator Deveraux stood, white hair brushed, his cutaway morning suit faultlessly pressed. There was a small red rose in his lapel and as he entered he was rubbing his hands together.

Sharon performed the introductions.

'I do apologize, Mr Maitland,' the Senator said courteously, 'for bringing you here on Christmas Day. I trust it was not inconvenient.'

'No, sir,' Alan said.

'Good. Then before our business, perhaps you'll join us in a glass of sherry.'

"Thank you.'

There were glasses and a crystal decanter on a mahogany table. As Sharon poured sherry, Alan ventured, 'You have a beautiful home. Senator.'

'I'm delighted you think so, my boy.' The old man seemed genuinely pleased. 'All my life I've taken a pleasure in surrounding myself with exquisite things.'

'Granddaddy has quite a reputation as a collector,' Sharon said. She had brought the glasses to them. 'The only trouble is, sometimes it's like living in a museum.'

'The young scoff at antiquity, or pretend to.' Senator Deveraux smiled indulgently at his granddaughter. 'But I have hopes for Sharon. She and I arranged this room together.'

'It's an impressive result,' Alan said.

'I will admit to believing that is true.' The Senator's eyes roved around him fondly. 'We have a few rather special things here. This, for instance – a splendid example from the T'ang Dynasty.' His fingers reached out, gently caressing a superb pottery horse and rider, delicately coloured. The piece stood alone on a marble-topped tabouret. 'Twenty-six hundred years ago this was designed by a master craftsman in a civilization more enlightened, perhaps, than our own today.'

'It is beautiful,' Alan said. He thought: there must be a fortune in this single room. He reflected on the contrast between these surroundings and Tom Lewis's boxlike two-bed-roomed bungalow in which he had spent the evening before.

'But now to business.' The Senator's tone had become brisk and businesslike. The three of them sat down. _ 'I apologize, my boy, as I said, for the suddenness of this call. There is, however, a matter which excites my concern and sympathy and, I think, brooks no delay.' His interest. Senator Deveraux explained, was in the ship's stowaway, Henri Duval – 'that unfortunate young man, homeless and without a country, who stands outside our gates pleading, in the name of humanity, to enter.'

'Yes,' Alan said. 'I read about it last night. I remember thinking there wasn't much could be done.'

Sharon, who had been listening carefully, asked, 'Why not?'

'Mostly,' Alan answered, 'because the Canadian Immigration Act is quite definite about who can come in and who can't.'

'But according to the newspaper,' Sharon protested, 'he won't even be given a public hearing.'

'Yes, my boy, what about that, eh?' The Senator cocked an inquiring eyebrow. 'Where is our vaunted freedom when a man – any man – cannot have his day in court?'

'Don't misunderstand me,' Alan said. 'I'm not defending the way things are. As a matter of fact, we studied the Immigration Act in law school and I think there's a lot wrong. But I'm talking about the law the way it stands. If it's a question of changing it, that's more in your line. Senator.'

Senator Deveraux sighed. 'It's hard, hard, with a government as inflexible as the one in office. But tell me, do you really believe there is nothing that can be done for this unfortunate young man – in a legal sense, I mean?'

Alan hesitated. 'It's an off-the-cuff opinion, of course.'

'Naturally.'

'Well, assuming the facts to be reasonably true as the newspaper had them, this man Duval has no rights at all. Before he could get a hearing in court – even if it would do any good, which I doubt – he would have to be officially landed in the country and, the way7 things are, that seems unlikely.' Alan glanced at Sharon. 'What I expect will happen is that the ship will sail and Duval with it – the way he came.'

'Perhaps, perhaps.' The Senator mused, his eyes on a Cezanne landscape on the wall facing him. 'And yet occasionally there are loopholes in the law.'

'Very often.' Alan nodded agreement. 'I said it was just an off-the-cuff opinion.'

'So you did, my boy.' The Senator had withdrawn his eyes from the painting and was businesslike again. 'That's why I want you to probe into this whole affair more deeply to see what loophole, if any, exists. In short, it is my wish that you act as counsel for this unfortunate young man.'

'But supposing he…'

Senator Deveraux raised an admonitory hand. 'I entreat you: hear me out. It is my intention to pay legal fees and any expenses you may incur. In return I shall ask only that my own part in the affair be kept confidential.'

Alan shifted uncertainly on the settee. This moment, he knew, could be important, to himself as well as others. The case itself might come to nothing, but if handled properly it could mean connections for the future, leading to other cases later on. When he had come here this morning he had not known what to expect; now that he did, he supposed he should be pleased. And yet, uneasily, there was a stirring of doubt. He suspected there was more below the surface than the older man had revealed. He was aware of Sharon's eyes upon him.

Abruptly Alan asked, 'Why, Senator?'

'Why what, my boy?'

'Why do you want your part in this kept secret?'

Momentarily the Senator seemed nonplussed, then brightened. 'There is a text in the good book. I believe it reads:

"When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth".'

It was dramatically done. But something had clicked in Alan Maitland's brain. He asked quietly, 'Alms, sir, or politics?'

The Senator's brows came down. 'I'm afraid I don't follow you.'

Well, Alan thought, here we go; here's where you blow the deal and lose the first big client you almost had. He said deliberately, 'Immigration right now is a top political issue. This particular case has already been in the papers and could stir up a lot of trouble for the Government. Isn't that what you had in mind. Senator – just using this man on the ship as a kind of pawn? Isn't that why you wanted me – someone young and green instead of your regular law firm, who'd be identified with you? I'm sorry, sir, but that's not the way I plan to practise law.'

He had spoken more strongly than he intended at first, but indignation had got the better of him. He wondered how he would explain to his partner Tom Lewis and whether Tom would have done the same thing. He suspected not; Tom had more sense than to throw away a fee quixotically.

He was conscious of a rumbling sound. Surprised, he became aware that Senator Deveraux was chuckling.

'Young and green, I think you said, my boy.' The Senator paused, chuckling again, his waistline heaving quietly. 'Well, you may be young, but certainly not green. What's your opinion, Sharon?'

'I'd say you got caught out, Granddaddy.' Alan was aware that Sharon was looking at him with respect.

'And so I did, my dear; indeed I did. This is a smart young man you have found.'

Somehow, Alan realized, the situation had changed, though he was not sure in which way. The only thing he was certain of was that Senator Deveraux was a man of many facets.

'Very well; so all our cards are face up on the table.' The Senator's tone had changed softly; it was less ponderous, more as if directed to an equal. 'Let us suppose that everything you allege is true. Is this young man on the ship still not entitled to legal help? Is he to be denied an aiding hand because the motives of an individual, to wit, myself, happen to be mixed? If you were drowning, my boy, would you care if the one who swam to save you did so because he considered you might be of use to him alive?'

'No,' Alan said. 'I don't suppose I would.'

'What, then, is the difference? – if there is a difference.' Senator Deveraux leaned forward in his chair. 'Allow me to ask you something. You believe, I assume, in the correction of injustice.'

'Of course.'

'Of course.' The Senator nodded sagely. 'Let us consider, then, this young man on the ship. He has no legal rights, we are told. He is not a Canadian, or a bona fide immigrant, nor even a transient who has landed and will leave soon. In the law's eyes he is not even present. Therefore, even though he may wish to appeal to the law – to plead in court for admittance to this or any other country – he cannot do so. Is that correct?'

'I wouldn't put it quite in those terms,' Alan said, 'but in substance that's correct.'

'In other words, yes.'

Alan smiled wryly. 'Yes.'

'And yet supposing tonight, on the ship in Vancouver Harbour, this same man committed murder or arson. What would happen to him?'

Alan nodded. He could see the question's point. 'He'd be taken ashore and tried.'

'Exactly, my boy. And if guilty he would be punished, and never mind his status or the lack of it. So that way, you see, the law can reach Henri Duval, even though he cannot reach the law.'

It was a neatly packaged argument. Not surprisingly, Alan reflected, the old man had a smooth debater's skill.

But skilful or not, the point he made was sound. Why should the law work only one way – against a man and not for him? And even though Senator Deveraux's motives were political, nothing changed the essential fact he had pointed out: that an individual, present in the community, was being denied a basic human right.

Alan pondered. What could the law do for the man on the ship? Anything or nothing? And if nothing – why?

Alan Maitland had no callow illusions about the law. New as he was in its service, he was aware that justice was neither automatic nor impartial, and that sometimes injustice triumphed over right. He knew that social status had a good deal to do with crime and punishment, and that the well-heeled who could afford to make use of all the law's processes were less likely to suffer direly for sinning than those, less wealthy, who could not. The law's slowness, he was sure, at times denied the innocent their rights, and some who deserved redress failed to seek it because of the high cost of a day in court. And at the other end of the scale were the case-loaded magistrates' courts, dispensing pressure-cooker justice, often without proper care for the rights of an accused.

He had come to know these things in much the same way that all students and young lawyers gradually and inevitably become informed of them. At times they pained him deeply, as they pained many of his elder colleagues whose idealism had not rubbed off through their years at the bar.

But with all the law's faults it had one great virtue. It was there.

It existed. Its greatest merit was its availability.

Existence of the law was an acknowledgement that equality of human rights was a worth-while goal. As to its defects, in time reform would come; it always has, though it lagged behind the need. Meanwhile, to the humblest and greatest – if they chose – the courtroom door was always open as, beyond it, were the chambers of appeal.

Except, it seemed, to a man named Henri Duval.

Alan was aware of the Senator watching him expectantly. Sharon's face had the slightest of frowns.

'Senator Deveraux,' Alan said, 'if I were to take this case -assuming the man on the ship is willing to be represented – he himself would be my client. Is that true?'

'I suppose you could put it that way.'

Alan smiled. 'In other words – yes.'

The Senator threw back his head, guffawing. 'I'm beginning to like you, my boy. Please proceed.'

'Even though you are in the background. Senator,' Alan said carefully, 'any action taken on my client's behalf would be decided solely by my client and myself without consultation with any third party.'

The older man regarded Alan shrewdly. 'Don't you consider that he who pays the piper…'

'No, sir; not in this instance. If I have a client, I want to do what's best for him, not what's the cagiest thing politically.'

The Senator's smile had gone and now his voice held a distinct coolness. 'I might remind you that this is an opportunity which many young lawyers would be glad to accept.'

Alan stood up. 'Then I suggest you look in the yellow pages, sir.' He turned to Sharon. 'I'm sorry if I've let you down.'

'Just a moment!' It was the Senator. He had risen also and faced Alan directly. Now he boomed, 'I want to tell you, my boy, that I consider you impatient, impertinent, ungrateful -and I accept your terms.'

They shook hands on the agreement then, and afterwards Alan declined an invitation from the Senator to remain for lunch. 'I'd better get down to the ship today,' he said. 'There may not be too much time because of sailing.'

Sharon showed him to the door. Pulling on his coat, he was aware of her closeness and a faint perfume.

A little awkwardly he said, 'It was good seeing you, Sharon.'

She smiled. 'I thought so too.' Once more the dimple came and went. 'And even though you won't report to Granddaddy, do come to see us again.'

'The thing that puzzles me,' Alan said cheerfully, 'is how I stayed away so long.'

Chapter 3

The previous night's rain had left pools of water on the dock-side, and Alan Maitland skirted them warily, occasionally glancing upward and ahead at the line of ships silhouetted drearily against a grey low-stratus sky. A one-armed watchman with a mongrel dog – the only person he had encountered in the silent, deserted dock-yard – had directed him here and now, reading the names on the moored vessels, he could see the Vastervik, second down the line.

A thin column of smoke, dissipated by the wind as quickly as it climbed, was the sole sign of life aboard. Around the ship the sounds were faint: a lapping of water and the creak of wood somewhere below; and above, the melancholy cry of herring gulls in flight. Harbour sounds are lonely sounds, Alan thought, and wondered in how many other harbours the man he had come to see had heard them also.

He wondered too what kind of a person the stowaway Henri Duval would prove to be. It was true the newspaper story had portrayed him sympathetically, but newspapers so often were off base in what they published. More than likely, Alan thought, the man was the worst kind of ocean drifter whom no one wanted, and with good reason.

He reached the ship's iron gangway and swung on to it from the dock. By the time he had climbed to the top his hands were stained with rust.

Across the entry to the deck a chain barred the way. Hanging from the chain was a piece of plywood, crudely lettered.

NO ADMISSION

WITHOUT SHIP'S BUSINESS

By order S. Jaabeck, Master.

Alan unhooked the chain and stepped beyond it. He had gone a few feet towards a steel doorway when a voice hailed him.

'You see the notice! No more reporters!'

Alan turned. The man approaching along the deck was in his mid-thirties, tall and wiry. He wore a rumpled brown suit and had a stubble of beard. His accent, by its slurred r's, was Scandinavian.

'I'm not a reporter,' Alan said. 'I'd like to see the captain.' 'The captain is busy. I am third officer.' The tall man gave a catarrhal cough, cleared his throat, and spat neatly over the side.

'That's a nasty cold you have,' Alan said.

'Ach! It is this country of yours – damp and chill. In my home, Sweden, it is cold too, but the air is sharp like a knife. Why do you wish the captain?'

'I'm a lawyer,' Alan said. 'I came to see if I could help this stowaway of yours, Henri Duval.'

'Duval! Duval! Suddenly it is all Duval; he becomes the most important thing here. Well, you will not help him. We are – how is it said? – stuck? He will be with us until the ship sinks.' The tall man grinned sardonically. 'Look around you; it will not be long.'

Alan surveyed the rust and peeling paintwork. He sniffed; the decaying cabbage smell was strong, 'Yes,' he said, 'I see what you mean.'

'Well,' the tall man said. 'Perhaps, since you are not a reporter, the captain will see you.' He beckoned. 'Come! As a Christmas gift I shall take you to him.'

The captain's cabin was suffocatingly hot. Its owner evidently liked it that way because both portholes on to the outside deck, Alan noticed, were clamped tightly shut. The air was also thick with the smoke from strong tobacco.

Captain Jaabeck, in shirt sleeves and old-fashioned carpet slippers, rose from a leather chair as Alan came in. He had been reading a book – a heavy volume – which he put down.

'It was good of you to see me,' Alan said. 'My name is

Maitland.'

'And I am Sigurd Jaabeck.' The captain extended a gnarled, hairy hand. 'My third officer says you are a lawyer.'

'That's right,' Alan acknowledged. 'I read about your stowaway and came to see if I could help.'

'Sit down, please.' The captain indicated a chair and resumed his own. In contrast to the rest of the ship, Alan noticed, the cabin was comfortable and clean, its woodwork and brass gleaming. There was mahogany panelling on three sides, with green leather chairs, a small dining-table, and a polished roll-top desk. A curtained doorway led to what was presumably a bedroom. Alan's eyes moved round, then settled curiously on the book the captain had put down.

'It is Dostoevsky,' Captain Jaabeck said. 'Crime and Punishment.'

'You're reading it in the original Russian,' Alan said, surprised.

'Very slowly, I fear,' the captain said. 'Russian is a language

I do not read well.' He picked up a pipe from an ashtray, knocked out the bowl, and began to refill it. 'Dostoevsky believes there is always justice in the end.'

'Don't you?' 'Sometimes one cannot wait so long. Especially when young.'

'Like Henri Duval?'

The captain pondered, sucking at his pipe. 'What can you hope to do? He is a nobody. He does not exist.'

'Perhaps nothing,' Alan said. 'All the same, I'd like to talk with him. People have become interested, and some would like to help him if they could.'

Captain Jaabeck regarded Alan quizzically. 'Will this interest last? Or is my young stowaway what you call a nine days' wonder?'

'H he is,' Alan said, 'there are seven days left.' Again the captain paused before responding. Then he said carefully, 'You understand it is my duty to be rid of this man. Stowaways cost money to feed and there is little enough money nowadays in running a ship. Profits are low, the owners say, and therefore we must use economy. You have already seen the condition of the ship.'

'I understand that. Captain.'

'But this young man has been with me for twenty months. In that time one forms, shall we say, opinions, even attachments.' The voice was slow and ponderous. 'The boy has not had a good life, perhaps he will never have one, and I suppose it is no affair of mine. And yet I would not like to see his hopes raised, then destroyed cruelly.'

'I can only tell you again,' Alan said, 'that there are people who would like to see him given a chance here. It may not be possible, but if no one tries we shall never know.'

'That is true.' The captain nodded. 'Very well, Mr Maitland, I will send for Duval and you may talk here. Would you like to be alone?'

'No,' Alan said. 'I'd prefer it if you stayed.'

Henri Duval stood in the doorway nervously. His eyes took in Alan Maitland, then darted to Captain Jaabeck.

The captain motioned Duval inside. 'You need not be afraid. This gentleman, Mr Maitland, is a lawyer. He has come to help you.'

'I read about you yesterday,' Alan said, smiling. He offered his hand and the stowaway took it uncertainly. Alan noticed that he was younger even than the newspaper picture had made him seem, and that his deep-set eyes held an uneasy wariness. He was wearing denims and a darned seaman's jersey.

'It was good, what was written. Yes?' The stowaway asked the question anxiously.

'It was very good,' Alan said. 'I came to find out how much of it was true.'

'It all true! I tell truth!' The expression was injured, as if an accusation had been hurled. Alan thought: I must choose my words more carefully.

'I'm sure you do,' he said placatingly. 'What I meant was whether the newspaper had got everything right.'

'I not understand.' Duval shook his head, his expression still hurt.

'Let's forget it for the moment,' Alan said. He had made a bad start, it seemed. Now he went on, 'The captain told you I am a lawyer. If you would like me to, I will represent you and try to bring your case before the courts of our country.'

Henri Duval glanced from Alan to the captain. 'I have not money. I cannot pay lawyer.'

'There would be nothing to pay,' Alan said.

'Then who pay?' Again the wariness.

'Someone else will pay.'

The captain interjected, 'Is there any reason you cannot tell him who, Mr Maitland?'

'Yes,' Alan said. 'My instructions are not to reveal the person's name. I can only tell you it is someone who is sympa-thetic and would like to help.'

'There are sometimes good people,' the captain said. Apparently satisfied, he nodded reassuringly to Duval.

Remembering Senator Deveraux and the Senator's motives, Alan had a momentary qualm of conscience. He stilled it, reminding himself of the terms he had insisted on.

'If I stay, I work,' Henri Duval insisted, 'I earn money. I pay back all.'

'Well,' Alan said, 'I expect you could do that if you wanted.'

'I pay back.' The young man's face mirrored eagerness. For the moment mistrust had gone.

'I have to tell you, of course,' Alan said, 'there may be nothing I can do. You understand that?'

Duval appeared puzzled. The captain explained, 'Mr Maitland will do his best. But perhaps the Immigration will say no… as before.'

Duval nodded slowly. 'I understand.'

'One thing occurs to me. Captain Jaabeck,' Alan said. 'Have you, since coming here, taken Henri to the Immigration Department and asked for an official hearing of his application to land?'

'An immigration officer was aboard my ship…'

'No,' Alan insisted, 'I mean apart from that. Have you taken him to the Immigration Building and demanded an official inquiry?'

'What is the good?' The captain shrugged. 'It is always one answer. Besides, in port there is so little time and I have many attentions for the ship. Today is the Christmas holiday. That is why I read Dostoevsky.'

'In other words,' Alan said mildly, 'you haven't taken him and asked for a full inquiry because you've been too busy. Is that it?' He was careful to keep his voice casual, even though a half-formed idea was taking shape in his mind.

'That is so,' Captain Jaabeck said. 'Of course, if any good might come…'

'Let's leave that now,' Alan said. His thought had been vague and fleeting and might come to nothing. In any case he needed time to read the immigration statutes thoroughly. Abruptly he switched the subject.

'Henri,' he told Duval, 'what I'd like to do now is go over all the things that have happened to you as far back as you can recall. I know that some of it was in the newspaper but there may have been things which were left out, and others you've thought of since. Why don't you begin at the beginning?^ What's the first thing you remember?'

'My mother,' Duval said.

'What do you remember most about her?'

'She kind to me,' Duval said simply. 'After she die, no one kind again – until this ship.'

Captain Jaabeck had risen and turned away, his back to Alan and Duval. He was slowly filling his pipe.

'Tell me about your mother, Henri,' Alan said; 'what she was like, what she used to talk about, what you did together.'

'My mother beautiful, I think. When I a little boy she hold me; I listen and she sing.' The young stowaway spoke slowly, carefully, as if the past were something fragile, to be handled gently lest it disappear. 'Other time she say: someday we go on ship and find new home. We two go together…' Haltingly at some moments, with more confidence at others, he talked on.

His mother, he believed, had been the daughter of a French family which had returned to France before his own birth. Why she had no connexion with her parents could only be guessed at. Perhaps it had something to do with his father who (so his mother said) had lived with her briefly in Djibouti then, leaving her, had returned to sea.

Essentially it was the same story which had been told to Dan Orliffe two days before. Throughout Alan listened carefully, prompting where necessary and interjecting a question or retracing where there seemed confusion. But most of the time he watched the face of Henri Duval. It was a convincing face which lighted or mirrored distress as incidents were relived in its owner's mind. There were moments of anguish too, and a point where tears glistened as the young stowaway described his mother's death. If this were a witness in court, Alan told himself, I would believe what he says.

As a final question he asked, 'Why do you want to come here? Why Canada?' This time it's sure to be a phoney answer, Alan thought; he'll probably say it's a wonderful country and he always wanted to live here.

Henri Duval considered carefully. Then he said, 'All others say no. Canada last place I try. If not here, I think no home for Henri Duval, ever.'

'Well,' Alan said, 'I guess I got an honest answer.' He found himself strangely moved and it was an emotion he had not expected. He had come with scepticism, prepared if necessary to go through legal motions, though not expecting to succeed. But now he wanted more. He wanted to do something for Henri Duval in a positive sense; to remove him from the ship and offer him the chance to build a life for himself in a way which fate had denied him until now.

But could it be done? Was there a loophole somewhere, somehow, in immigration law through which this man could be brought in? Perhaps there was, but if so there was no time to lose in finding it.

During the last part of the interview Captain Jaabeck had come and gone several times. Now he was back in the cabin and Alan asked, 'How long will your ship remain in Vancouver?'

'It was to have been five days. Unfortunately there are engine repairs and now it will be two weeks, perhaps three.'

Alan nodded. Two or three weeks was little enough, but better than five days. 'If I'm to represent Duval,' he said, 'I must have written instructions from him.'

'Then you will have to put down what is needed,' Captain Jaabeck said. 'He can write his name, but that is all.'

Alan took out a notebook from his pocket. He thought for a moment, then wrote:

I, Henri Duval, am at present being detained on the Motor Vessel Vastervik at La Pointe Pier, Vancouver, BC. I hereby make application for permission to be landed at the above port of entry and I have retained Alan Maitland of the firm of Lewis and Maitland to act as counsel for me in all matters pertaining to this application.

The captain listened carefully as Alan read the words aloud, then nodded. 'That is good,' he told Duval. 'If Mr Maitland is to help, you must put your name to what he has written.'

Using a pen which the captain supplied, Henri Duval slowly and awkwardly signed the notebook page in a childish, sprawling hand. Alan watched impatiently. His one thought now was to get away from the ship and examine more thoroughly the fleeting idea which had occurred to him earlier. He had a sense of mounting excitement. Of course, what he had in mind would be a long shot. But it was the kind of long shot which might, just might, succeed.