Authors: Arthur Hailey
Richardson said curiously, 'You give Harvey Warrender a lot of leeway, don't you? - more than some of the others.'
'Not this time,' James Howden said. After their discussion his mind was quite made up. 'I'll have him up here the day after tomorrow and this Vancouver case will not boil over. I guarantee it.'
Chapter 6
It was seven-thirty when Brian Richardson arrived at Milly Freedeman's apartment and he carried two packages, one containing an ounce of Guerlain, a perfume he knew Milly liked, the other twenty-six ounces of gin.
The perfume pleased Milly. About the gin she was less certain, though she took it to the kitchenette to mix drinks.
Waiting in the softly lighted living-room, Richardson watched from one of the two deep armchairs. He stretched his feet luxuriously across the beige broadloom - the single large-expense item Milly had indulged in when decorating the apartment - then said approvingly, 'You know, a lot of the stuff you've got in here, Milly, other people would throw out. But the way you've put it together, this is the cosiest hangout I know.'
'I assume that's a compliment.' In the kitchenette Milly turned, smiling. 'Anyway, I'm glad you like it.'
'Sure I like it. Who wouldn't?' Mentally Brian Richardson was contrasting the apartment with his own, which Eloise had remodelled just over a year ago. They had ivory walls, with off-white broadloom, Swedish walnut furniture and tailored curtains of pale peacock blue. He had long grown indifferent to it all, and the effect no longer offended him. But he recalled the bitter fight there had been with Eloise when on being confronted with the bill he had protestingly described it as 'the President's suite in a whore-house'.
Milly, he thought, would always know how to make a place warm and personal ... a little untidy, books piled on tables, some place a man could relax.
Milly had turned away again. He watched her thoughtfully.
Before his arrival she had changed out of the suit which she had worn earlier into orange slacks and a plain black sweater, relieved only by a triple strand of pearls. The effect, Richardson thought, was simple and physically exciting.
As she returned to the living-room he found himself admiring her gracefulness. There was rhythm and economy about each of Milly's movements and she seldom wasted a gesture.
'Milly,' he said, 'you're an astonishing girl.'
She brought their drinks across the room, ice clinking. He was aware of slim legs and firm thighs under the slacks; again the unselfconscious rhythm of movement... like a young, long-legged racehorse, he thought absurdly.
'Astonishing in what way?' Milly asked. She handed him his glass and their fingers touched.
'Well,' he said, 'without the filmy negligee routine, pants and all, you're the sexiest thing on two legs.'
He put down the glass she had given him, stood up, and kissed her. After a moment she eased herself gently free and turned away.
'Brian,' Milly said, 'is this any good?'
Nine years ago she had known what love meant, and afterwards the intolerable anguish of loss. She supposed she was not in love with Brian Richardson, as she had been with James Howden, but there was a warmth and tenderness; and there could be more, she knew, if time and circumstance allowed. But she suspected they would not allow. Richardson was married ... he was practical; and in the end it would mean, once more, breaking ... parting...
Richardson asked, 'Is what any good, Milly?'
She said levelly, 'I think you know.'
'Yes, I know.' He had returned to his drink. He held the glass against the light, inspecting it, then put it down.
She wanted love, Milly thought. Her body ached for it. But suddenly the need for more than physical love overwhelmed her ... There must be some permanence. Or must there? Once, when she had loved James Howden, she had been willing to settle for less.
Brian Richardson said slowly, 'I guess I could kid you with a lot of words, Milly. But we're both grown up; I didn't think you'd want it.'
'No,' she answered, 'I don't want to be kidded. But I don't want to be an animal, either. There ought to be something more.'
He responded harshly, 'For some people there isn't any more. Not if they're honest with themselves.'
A moment after, he wondered why he had said it: an excess of truthfulness perhaps, or merely self-pity, an emotion he despised in others. But he had not expected the effect upon Milly. Her eyes glistened with tears.
'Milly,' he said, 'I'm sorry.'
She shook her head and he went to her. Taking out a handkerchief, he gently wiped her eyes and the rivulets beneath.
'Listen,' he said, 'I shouldn't have said that.'
'It's all right,' Milly said. 'I was just being womanly, I suppose.'
Oh God, she thought, what's happening to me - the self-reliant Millicent Freedeman ... crying like an adolescent. What does this man mean to me? Why can't I take something of this kind in my stride as I've done before?
His arms went around her. 'I want you, Milly,' he said softly. 'I don't know any other way to say it, except I want you.'
He lifted her head and kissed her.
Hesitancy assailed her. 'No, Brian! Please no!' But she made no effort to pull away. As he fondled her, desire grew stronger. Now, she knew, she cared. Afterwards, there would be loneliness again; the sense of loss. But now ... now... eyes closed, her body trembled ... now.
'All right.' Her voice was husky.
The light switch snapped in the silence. As it did, faintly from outside came the high-pitched whine of aeroplane engines high over the city. The sound came closer, then receded as the night flight to Vancouver - Senator Deveraux among its passengers - turned westward, climbing swiftly through the darkness.
'Be gentle, Brian,' Milly whispered. "This time ... please be gentle.'
Part 6
Alan Maitland
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.