In High Places

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.'