own.
Without further questioning, at the same time solving her problem of how to win an electric toothbrush, Bunnie Vorobioff wrote a flight insurance policy, for three hundred thousand dollars, on D. O. Guerrero’s life.
Guerrero mailed the policy to his wife, Inez, on his way to the gate forty-seven and Flight Two.
13
U.S. Customs Inspector Harry Standish did not hear the announcement of Flight Two’s impending departure, but knew it had been made. Flight announcements were not relayed to the Customs Hall, since only international arriving passengers came there, so Standish obtained his information on the telephone, from Trans America Airlines. He had been informed that Flight Two was beginning to load at gate forty-seven and would depart at its rescheduled time of 11P .M.
Standish was watching the clock and would go to gate forty-seven in a few minutes, not on official business, but to say goodbye to his niece, Judy — his sister’s child — who was leaving for a year’s schooling in Europe. Standish had promised his sister, who lived in Denver, that he would see Judy off. Earlier this evening, in the terminal, he had spent some time with his niece — a pleasant, self-possessed girl of eighteen — and had said he would drop around for a final goodbye before her flight took off.
Meanwhile, Inspector Standish was trying to clear up a tiresome problem near the end of what had been an exceptionally harassing day.
“Madam,” he said quietly to the haughty, angular woman whose several suitcases were spread open on the Customs inspection table between them, “are you quite sure you don’t wish to change your story?”
She snapped back, “I suppose you’re suggesting I should lie, when I’ve already told you the truth. Really! — you people are so officious, so disbelieving, I sometimes wonder if we’re not living in a police state.”
Harry Standish ignored the second remark, as Customs officers were trained to ignore the many insults they received, and answered politely, “I’m not suggesting anything, madam. I merely asked if you wished to amend your statement about these items — the dresses, the sweaters, and the fur coat.”
The woman, whose American passport showed that she was Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman who lived in Evanston, and had just returned from a month in England, France, and Denmark, replied acidly, “No, I don’t. Furthermore, when my husband’s lawyer hears of this interrogation …”
“Yes, madam,” Harry Standish said. “In that case, I wonder if you’d mind signing this form. If you like, I’ll explain it to you.”
The dresses, sweaters, and fur coat were spread out on top of the suitcases. Mrs. Mossman had been wearing the coat — a sable jacket — until a few minutes ago when Inspector Standish arrived at Customs inspection station number eleven; he had asked her to take the coat off so that he could look at it more closely. Shortly before that, a red light on a wall panel near the center of the big Customs Hall had summoned Standish. The lights — one for each station — indicated that an inspecting officer had a problem and needed supervisory help.
Now, the young Customs man who had dealt with Mrs. Mossman originally was standing at Inspector Standish’s side. Most of the other passengers, who had arrived aboard a Scandinavian Airlines DC-8 from Copenhagen, had cleared Customs and had left. Only this well-dressed American woman posed a problem, insisting that all she had bought in Europe was some perfume, costume jewelry, and shoes. The total declared value was ninety dollars — ten dollars less than the free exemption she was allowed. The young officer had been suspicious.
“Why should I sign anything?” Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman demanded.
Standish glanced at an overhead clock; it was a quarter to eleven. He still had time to finish this and reach Flight Two before it left. He answered patiently, “To make things easier for yourself, madam. We’re merely asking you to confirm in writing what you’ve already told us. You say the dresses were purchased …”
“How many times must I tell you? They were bought in Chicago and New York before I left for Europe; so were the sweaters. The coat was a gift — purchased in the United States. I received it six months ago.”
Why, Harry Standish wondered, did people do it? All the statements just made, he knew with certainty, were lies.
To begin with, the dresses — six, all of good quality — had had their labels removed. No one did that innocently; women were usually proud of the labels in quality clothes. More to the point — the workmanship of the dresses was unmistakably French; so was the styling of the fur coat — though a Saks Fifth Avenue label had been sewn unskillfully in the coat lining. What people like Mrs. Mossman failed to realize was that a trained Customs man didn’t need to see labels to know where garments originated. Cutting, stitching — even the way the zipper was put in — were like familiar handwriting, and equally distinctive.
The same thing was true of the three expensive sweaters. They also were without labels, and were unmistakably from Scotland, in typical British “drab” shades, not available in the United States. When a U.S. store ordered similar sweaters, the Scottish mills made them in much brighter colors, which the North American market favored. All this, and much else, Customs officers learned as part of their training.
Mrs. Mossman asked, “What happens if I sign the form?”
“Then you may go, madam.”
“And take my things with me? All my things?”
“Yes.”
“Supposing I refuse to sign?”
“Then we shall be obliged to detain you here while we continue the investigation.”
There was the briefest hesitation, then: “Very well. You fill out the form; I’ll sign.”
“No, madam;
Harry Standish thought: He would have to leave in a minute; it was ten to eleven now. He didn’t want to reach Flight Two after the doors were closed. But first he had a hunch …
He waited while Mrs. Mossman completed the form and signed it.
Commencing tomorrow, an investigative officer would begin checking out the statement Mrs. Mossman had just made. The dresses and sweaters would be requisitioned and taken to the stores where she claimed they were purchased; the fur jacket would be shown to Saks Fifth Avenue, who would undoubtedly disown it … Mrs. Mossman — though she didn’t know it yet — was in for a great deal of trouble, including some heavy Customs duty to be paid, and almost certainly a stiff fine.
“Madam,” Inspector Standish said, “is there anything else you wish to declare?”
Mrs. Mossman snapped indignantly, “There certainly isn’t!”
“You’re sure?” It was Customs Bureau policy to give travelers the utmost opportunity to make voluntary declarations. People were not to be entrapped unless they brought it on themselves.
Not deigning to reply, Mrs. Mossman inclined her head disdainfully.
“In that case, madam,” Inspector Standish said, “will you kindly open your handbag?”
For the first time the haughty woman betrayed uncertainty. “But surely, purses are never inspected. I’ve been through Customs many times …”
“Normally they are not. But we do have the right.”
Asking to see the contents of a woman’s handbag was a rarity; like a man’s pockets, a handbag was considered personal and almost never looked into. But when an individual chose to be difficult, Customs men could be difficult too.
Reluctantly, Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman unclipped her purse.
Harry Standish inspected a lipstick and a gold compact. When he probed the powder in the compact, he extracted a diamond and ruby ring; he blew the powder on the ring away. There was a tube of hand lotion, partially used. Unrolling the tube, he could see that the bottom had been opened. When he pressed the tube near the top, there was something hard inside. He wondered when would-be smugglers would come up with something original. Such old tricks! He had seen them all many times.
