In High Places

'Not even one night ashore?' It was Stubby Gates, still trying with Cockney persistence.

'Not even one night.' The answer had a quiet finality. 'I'll make out the detaining order now.'

It was an hour since docking and, outside the ship, dusk was closing in.

Chapter 4

A few minutes after 11.00 PM Vancouver time, some two hours after the Prime Minister had retired to bed in Ottawa, a taxi drew up, in pouring rain, at the dark deserted entry to La Pointe Pier.

Two men got out of the cab. One was a reporter, the other a photographer from the Vancouver Post.

The reporter, Dan Orliffe, a comfortable bulky man in his late thirties, had a ruddy, broad-cheeked face and a relaxed manner which made him seem, sometimes, more like an amiable farmer than a successful and occasionally ruthless newsman. In contrast, the photographer, Wally de Vere, was a lean six-footer who moved with quick nervous movements and affected a veneer of perpetual pessimism.

As the cab backed away, Dan Orliffe looked around him, holding his coat collar tightly closed as token protection from the wind and rain. At first the sudden withdrawal of the taxi's headlights had made it hard to see. Surrounding where they stood were dim, wraithlike shapes and patches of deeper blackness with, ahead, a gleam of water. Silent, deserted buildings loomed vaguely, their outlines blurring into gloom. Then slowly, eyes adjusting to the darkness, nearer shadows crept into focus and he could see they were standing on a wide cement ramp built parallel with the shoreline.

Behind, the way the cab had brought them, were the towering cylinders of a grain elevator and darkened dockside sheds. Nearby, piles of ship's cargo, tarpaulin-covered, dotted the ramp and, from the ramp, two docks extended outward, armlike above the water. On both sides of each dock, ships were moored and a few lights, dimly burning, showed that altogether there were five. But nowhere was there any sign of people or movement.

De Vere had shouldered his camera and equipment. Now he motioned in the direction of the ships. 'Which one is it?' he asked.

Dan Orliffe used a pocket flashlight to consult a note which the night city editor had handed him half an hour earlier following a phoned-in tip. 'We want the Vastervik,' he said. 'Could be any of these, I guess.' He turned to the right and the photographer followed. Already in the minute or two since leaving the cab their raincoats were streaming wet. Dan could feel his trouser legs becoming sodden and a trickle of water flowed uncomfortably beneath his collar.

'What they need here,' De Vere complained, 'is a doll in an information booth.' They picked their way cautiously through a litter of broken packing cases and oil drums. 'Who is this character we're looking for, anyway?'

'Name's Henri Duval,' Dan said. 'According to the desk, he's a man without a country and nobody'll let him off the ship.'

The photographer nodded sagely. 'Sob story, eh? I get it -Christmas Eve and no-room-at-the-inn stuff.'

'It's an angle,' Dan acknowledged. 'Maybe you should write it.'

'Not me,' De Vere said. 'When we get through here I'm getting in the dryer with the prints. Besides, I'll lay you ten against five the guy's a phoney.'

Dan shook his head. 'Nothing doing. You might win.'

They were halfway along the right-hand dock now, stepping carefully beside a line of railway freight cars. Fifty feet below, in blackness, water glistened and the rain splashed audibly on a sullen harbour swell.

At the first ship they craned upward to read the name. It was in Russian.

'Come on,' Dan said. 'Not here.'

'It'll be the last one,' me photographer predicted. 'It always is.'

But it was the next. The name Vastervik stood out on the flared bow high above. And below it, rusted, rotting plates.

'Does this bucket of bolts really float?' De Vere's voice was incredulous. 'Or is somebody kidding?'

They had clambered up a ramshackle gangway and were standing on what appeared to be the vessel's main deck.

Viewed from the dockside, even in darkness, the Vastervik had seemed a haggard ship. Now, at close quarters, the signs of age and accumulated neglect were even more startling. Faded paintwork had great patches of rust extending over superstructure, doors, and bulkheads. Elsewhere the last remnants of painting hung down in peeled strips. From a solitary light bulb above the gangway a layer of grime was visible on the deck under their feet and nearby were several open boxes of what appeared to be garbage. A short distance forward a steel ventilator had corroded and broken from its housing. Probably unrepairable, it had been lashed uselessly to the deck.

Dan sniffed.

'Yeah,' the photographer said. 'I'm receiving too.'

The fertilizer stench was drifting out from the ship's interior.

'Let's try in here,' Dan said. He opened a steel door directly ahead and moved down a narrow passageway.

After a few yards there was a fork two ways. To the right was a series of cabin doors – obviously officers' quarters. Dan turned left, heading for a doorway a short distance along, from which light was streaming. It turned out to be a galley.

Stubby Gates, wearing greasy coveralls, was seated at a table reading a girlie magazine.

'Ullo, matey,' he said,' 'Oo are you?'

'I'm from the Vancouver Pos(,' Dan told him. 'I'm looking for a man called Henri Duval.'

Opening his mouth in a wide grin, the seaman exposed a row of darkly stained teeth. 'Young Henri was 'ere earlier on, but 'e retired to 'is private cabin.'

'Do you think we could wake him?' Dan said. 'Or maybe we should see the captain.'

Gates shook his head. 'Best leave the skipper alone. 'E's touchy about bein' woke up in port. But I reckon I can roust out Henri for you.' He glanced towards De Vere. ' 'Oo's this bloke?'

'He's going to take pictures.'

The seaman stood up, stuffing the girlie magazine into his coveralls. 'All right, gents,' he said. 'Follow me.'

They went down two companionways and forward in the ship. In a gloomy passageway, lighted by a solitary low-power bulb. Stubby Gates banged on a door, turned a key, and opened it. Reaching inside he switched on a light.

'Show a leg, Henri,' he announced.' 'Ere's a couple of gents to see yer.' He stood back, beckoning Dan.

Moving to the doorway Dan saw a small figure sitting up sleepily in a metal bunk. Then he looked at the scene behind.

My God! he thought. Does a man live here?

It was a metal box – a cube approximately six feet square. Long ago the walls had been painted a drab ochre but now much of the paint had gone, with rust replacing it. Both paint and rust were covered with a film of moisture, disturbed only where heavier water droplets coursed downward. Occupying the length of one wall and most of the width inside was the single metal bunk. Above it was a small shelf about a foot long and six inches wide. Below the bunk was an iron pail. And that was all.

There was no window or porthole, only a vent of sorts near the top of one wall.

And the air was foul.

Henri Duval rubbed his eyes and peered at the group outside. Dan Orliffe was surprised how young the stowaway seemed. He had a round, not unpleasing, face, well-proportioned features, and dark deep-set eyes. He was wearing a singlet, a flannel shirt, unbuttoned, and rough denim pants. Beneath the clothing his body seemed sturdy.

'Bon soir. Monsieur Duval,' Dan said. 'Excusez-nous de troubler votre sommeil, mais nous venons de la presse et nous savons que vous avez une histoire interessante a nous raconter

The stowaway shook his head slowly.

'It won't do no good talking French,' Stubby Gates interjected. 'Henri don't understand it. Seems like 'e got 'is languages mixed up when 'e was a nipper. Best try 'im in English, but take it slow.'

'All right.' Turning back to the stowaway, Dan said carefully, 'I am from the Vancouver Post. A newspaper. We would like to know about you. Do you understand?'

There was a pause. Dan tried again. 'I want to talk with you. Then I will write about you.'

'Why you write?' The words – the first Duval had spoken -held a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

Dan said patiently, 'Perhaps I can help you. You want to get off this ship?'

'You help me leave ship? Get job? Live Canada?' The words were mouthed awkwardly, but with unmistakable eagerness.

Dan shook his head. 'No, I can't do that. But many people will read what I write. Perhaps someone who will read can help you.'

Stubby Gates put in: 'Wotcher got ter lose, Henri? It can't do no 'arm; might even do yer a bit o' good.'

Henri Duval appeared to be considering.

Watching him closely, it occurred to Dan that whatever his background, the young stowaway possessed an instinctive, unobtrusive dignity.

Now he nodded. 'Hokay,' he said simply.

'Tell you what, Henri,' Stubby Gates said. 'YOU go an' wash up, an' me an' these people'!! go up an' wait for you in the galley.'

The young man nodded and eased himself from the bunk.

As they moved away, De Vere said softly, 'Poor little bastard.'

'Is he always locked in?' Dan asked.

'Just at night when we're in port,' Stubby Gates said. 'Captain's orders.'

'Why?'

'It's to make sure 'e don't take orf. The captain's responsible for 'im, see?' The seaman paused at the top of a companionway. 'It ain't as bad for 'im, 'ere, though, as in the States. When we was in Frisco they 'ad 'im 'andcuffed to 'is bunk.'

They reached the galley and went inside.

'How about a cuppa tea?' Stubby Gates asked.

'All right,' Dan said. 'Thanks.'

The seaman produced three mugs and crossed to an enamel teapot which was standing on a hot plate. He poured a strong dark brew to which milk had already been added. Putting the mugs on the galley table he motioned the others to sit down.

'I expect, being on a ship like this,' Dan said, 'you get to meet all kinds of people.'

'You said it, matey.' The seaman grinned. 'All shapes 'n' colours 'n' sizes. Some queer ones, too.' He glanced knowingly at the others.

'What's your opinion about Henri Duval?' Dan asked.

Stubby Gates took a deep swig from his own mug before answering.

' 'E's a decent little fellow. Most of us like 'im. 'E works when we ask 'im to, though a stowaway don't have to. That's the law o' the sea,' he added knowledgeably.

'Were you in the crew when he stowed aboard?' Dan asked.

'You betcher! We fahnd 'im when we was two days out o' Beirut. Thin as a ruddy broomstick, 'e was. I reckon the poor bastard was starvin' before 'e come on the ship.'

De Vere had tasted his tea and put it down.

'Bloody awful, ain't it?' their host said cheerfully. 'It tastes o' zinc concentrate. We picked up an 'old full of it in Chile. Bleedin' stuff gits in everything – yer 'air, yer eyes, even the tea.'

'Thanks,' the photographer said. 'Now I'll be able to tell them at the hospital.'

Ten minutes later Henri Duval came to the galley. In the meantime he had washed, combed his hair, and shaved. Over his shirt he wore a blue seaman's jersey. All his clothing was old but clean. A tear in the trousers, Dan noted, had been neatly darned.

'Come and sit down, Henri,' Stubby Gates said. He filled a fourth mug and placed it before the stowaway, who smiled his thanks. It was the first time he had smiled in the presence of the two newsmen, and it lighted his face, making him seem more boyish even than before.

Dan began the questioning simply. 'How old are you?'

There was the slightest of pauses, then Duval said, 'I twenty-three.'

'Where were you born?'

'I born on ship'

'What was the name of the ship?'

'I not know.'

'Then how do you know you were born on a ship?'

Again a pause. 'I not understand.'