Arthur Hailey - In High Places

Alan said irritably, 'What do you mean – gave it away?'

'Exactly what I say. There was a room-service waiter about Henri's size. So Henri gave the suit to him. Just like that. Oh yes, and he threw in a couple of the new shirts and a pair of shoes.'

'If this is a joke,' Alan snapped, 'I don't think it's very funny.'

'Listen, chum,' Orliffe cautioned, 'whatever's biting you, don't take it out on me. And for the record, I don't think it's funny either.'

Alan grimaced. 'Sorry. I guess I've a sort of emotional hangover.'

'It happened before I got here,' Orliffe explained. 'Apparently Henri took a shine to this guy, and that was it. I phoned downstairs to try and get the suit back, but the waiter's gone off duty.'

'What did Henri say?'

'When I asked him about it, he sort of shrugged and told me there will be many more suits and he wants to give away a lot of things.'

'We'll soon straighten him out on that,' Alan said grimly. He crossed to the bedroom door and opened it. Inside, Henri Duval, in a light brown suit, white shirt, neatly knotted tie, and polished shoes, was studying himself in a long mirror. He turned to Alan, beaming.

'I look pretty, no?'

It was impossible to ignore the infectious, boyish pleasure. Alan smiled. Henri's hair had been trimmed too; now it was neatly combed and parted. Yesterday had been a busy time: a medical exam; press and TV interviews; shopping; a fitting for the suits.

'Sure you look pretty.' Alan tried to make his voice sound stern. 'But that doesn't mean you can give away new suits, bought for you specially.'

Henri's face took on an injured look. He said, 'The man I give, my friend.'

'As far as I can make out,' Dan Orliffe put in from behind, 'it was the first time they'd met. Henri makes friends pretty fast.'

Alan instructed, 'You don't give your own new clothes away, even to friends.'

The young stowaway pouted like a child. Alan sighed. There were going to be problems, he could see, in adapting Henri Duval to his new environment. Aloud he announced, 'We'd better go. We mustn't be late in court.'

On the way out Alan stopped. Looking around the suite, he told Duval, 'If we are successful in court, this afternoon we will find a room for you to live in.'

The young stowaway looked puzzled. 'Why not here? This place good.'

Alan said sharply, 'I don't doubt it. But we don't happen to have this kind of money.'

Henri Duval asserted brightly, 'The newspaper pay.'

'Not after today,' Dan Orliffe shook his head. 'My editor's already beefing about the cost. Oh yes, and there's another thing.' He told Alan: 'Henri has decided that from now on we must pay him if we take his picture. He informed me this morning.'

Alan felt a return of his earlier irritability. 'He doesn't understand these things. And I hope you won't print that in the paper.'

'I won't,' Dan said quietly. 'But others will if they hear it. Sometime soon, I suggest you have an earnest talk with our young friend.'

Henri Duval beamed at them both.

There was a milling crowd of people outside the courtroom in which this morning's hearing would be held. The public sears were already full; politely but firmly, ushers were turning newcomers away. Pressing through the throng, ignoring questions from reporters close behind him, Alan steered Henri Duval through the centre courtroom door.

Alan had already stopped to put on a counsel's gown with starched white tabs. Today's would be a full dress hearing with all protocol observed. Entering, he was aware of the spaciously impressive courtroom with its carved oak furnishings, rich red carpet, and matching crimson and gold drapes at the high arched windows. Through Venetian blinds sunlight streamed in.

At one of the long counsel's tables, Edgar Kramer. A. R.

Butler, QC, and the shipping-company lawyer, Tolland, were already seared in straight-backed leather chairs, facing the canopied Judge's bench with its royal coat of arms above.

With Henri Duval, Alan moved to the second table. To his right the Press table was crowded, Dan Orliffe, the latest arrival, squeezing in among the others. The clerk of the court and court reporter were seated below the judge's bench. From the packed spectators' seats, behind counsel, came a low-pitched buzz of conversation.

Glancing sideways, Alan observed that the other two lawyers had turned towards him. They smiled and nodded, and he returned their greeting. As on the earlier occasion, Edgar Kramer's eyes were studiedly averted. A moment later Tom Lewis, also gowned, dropped into the seat beside Alan. Looking around, he remarked irreverently, 'Reminds me of our office, only bigger.' He nodded to Duval. 'Good morning,

Henri.'

Alan wondered when he should break the news to Tom that there would no longer be a fee for the work which they were doing; that through impetuous pride he had brushed aside payment to which they were properly entitled, whatever his quarrel with Senator Deveraux might be. Perhaps it might mean the end of their partnership; at the very least there would be hardship for them both.

He thought of Sharon. He was sure now that she had had no knowledge of what her grandfather proposed this morning, and that was the reason she had been sent from the room. If she had stayed, she would have protested as he himself had done. But instead of having faith, he had doubted her. Suddenly, miserably, he remembered the words he had used to Sharon: You were included in the deal. He wished desperately that he could call them back. He supposed that she would not wish to see him again.

A thought occurred to him. Sharon had said she would be in court this morning. He craned around, surveying the public seats. As he had feared, she was not there.

'Order!' It was the clerk of the court.

The officials, counsel, and spectators rose as, robes rustling, Mr Justice Stanley Willis entered and took his seat upon the bench.

When the court had settled, the clerk announced, 'Supreme Court, January 13th, in the matter of Henri Duval.'

Alan Maitland was on his feet. Speedily he dealt with the preliminaries, then began, 'My lord, for centuries, every individual who is subject to the jurisdiction of the Crown -whether in the country temporarily or not – has been entitled to seek redress from injustice at the foot of the throne. Expressed in essence, in this application of habeas corpus, that is my client's plea today.'

In its correct sense, Alan knew, the hearing would be legally formalistic, with points of abstruse law being debated by himself and A. R. Butler. But he had decided in advance to introduce every ounce of humanity that he could. Now he continued, 'I draw the Court's attention to the deportation order issued by the Department of Immigration.' Alan quoted the words he knew by heart, '… detained and deported to the place whence you came to Canada, or to the country of which you are a national or citizen, or to the country of your birth, or to such country as may be approved…'

An individual, he argued, could not be deported to four places at the same time; therefore there must be some decision as to which of the four was to apply. 'Who is to make this decision?' Alan inquired rhetorically, then answered his own question: 'One would conclude – the authorities issuing the deportation order. And yet there has been no decision; only that my client, Henri Duval, shall be imprisoned on the ship.'

By this action – or inaction – Alan claimed, the ship's captain was being forced to make an impossible choice of the four alternatives. Alan declared vehemently, 'It is as if Your Lordship found an individual guilty of a crime and said, "I sentence this man either to three years in the penitentiary, or to twelve strokes of the paddle, or six months in local jail, and I leave it to someone else outside this courtroom to determine which it shall be."'