Mrs. Mossman was noticeably pale. Her hauteur had disappeared.
“Madam,” Inspector Standish said, “I have to leave for a short while, but I’ll be back. In any case, this is going to take some time.” He instructed the young Customs officer beside him, “Inspect everything else very carefully. Check the linings of the bag and cases, the seams and hems of all the clothes. Make a list. You know what to do.”
He was leaving when Mrs. Mossman called after him. “Officer!”
He stopped. “Yes, madam.”
“About the coat and dresses … perhaps I did make a mistake … I was confused. I did buy them, and there are some other things …”
Standish shook his head. What people never seemed to learn was that there had to be a cut-off point somewhere; after that, cooperation was too late. He saw that the young officer had found something else.
“Please! … I beg of you … my husband …” As the Inspector turned away, the woman’s face was white and drawn.
Walking briskly, Harry Standish used a short cut, below the public portion of the terminal, to reach Concourse “D” and gate forty-seven. As he went, he reflected on the foolishness of Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman and the many like her. Had she been honest about the coat and dresses, and declared them, the duty payable would not have been great, especially for someone who was clearly well-to-do. The young Customs officer, though noticing the sweaters, probably would not have bothered with them; and certainly her handbag would not have been inspected. Customs men were aware that most returning travelers did a little smuggling, and were often tolerant about it. Also, if asked, they would help people lump high-duty items under their duty-free exemption, charging duty on other articles which were entitled to lower rates.
The people who got nabbed, hit hard, and were sometimes prosecuted, were invariably the greedy ones like Mrs. Mossman, who tried to get away with everything. What had depressed Harry Standish today was the number of others of her kind.
He was relieved to see that the doors of Trans America Flight Two had not yet closed, and a few remaining passengers were still being checked in. His U.S. Customs uniform was a passport anywhere within the airport, and the busy gate agent barely glanced up as Inspector Standish went past. The gate agent, Standish noticed, was being helped by a redheaded woman passenger relations agent whom he knew as Mrs. Livingston.
The inspector entered the walkway to the tourist section; a stewardess was at the rear airplane doorway. He smiled. “I’ll only be a moment. Don’t take off with me aboard.”
He found his niece, Judy, in an aisle seat of a three-seat section. She was keeping a baby amused, the baby belonging to a young couple in the two seats alongside. Like all airplane tourist sections, this one already seemed cramped and crowded, the seats oppressively close to one another. On the few air journeys Inspector Standish made himself, he traveled tourist, but always had a sense of claustrophobia. Tonight he didn’t envy any of these people the monotonous ten-hour journey which lay ahead of them.
“Uncle Harry!” Judy said. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.” She handed the baby back to its mother.
“I just came to say God bless!” he told her. “Have a good year, and when you come back don’t try any smuggling.”
She laughed. “I won’t. Goodbye, Uncle Harry.”
His niece put her face up to be kissed, and he bussed her affectionately. He felt good about Judy. He had a feeling she would not grow up to be a Mrs. Mossman.
Leaving the aircraft, with a friendly nod to the stewardesses, the Customs inspector paused a moment at the concourse gate, watching. The last moments before departure of any flight, especially one for some far distant place, always fascinated him, as it did many people. The final call … “
The knot of people waiting to board had been reduced to two. The redheaded passenger agent, Mrs. Livingston, was gathering up her papers as the regular gate agent dealt with the last arrival but one — a tall blond man, hatless, and wearing a camel-hair coat. Now, the blond man left the agent’s desk and entered the tourist section walkway. Mrs. Livingston left too, walking away from the departure gate, toward the main section of the terminal.
While he had been watching, Inspector Standish was aware, almost subconsciously, of someone else nearby, facing a window which looked away from the departure gate. Now the figure turned. He saw that it was an old lady; she appeared small, demure, and frail. She was dressed primly in black in an old-fashioned style, and carried a black beaded purse. She looked as if she needed somebody to take care of her, and he wondered why someone so old, and apparently alone, was here so late at night.
Moving with surprising spryness, the old lady crossed to where the Trans America ticket agent was dealing with the last Flight Two passenger. Standish heard some, though not all, of what was said; the old lady’s words were punctuated by noise from outside, from the aircraft engines, which were being started. “Excuse … my son just boarded … blond hair, no hat, camel-hair coat … forgot his wallet … all his money.” The old lady, Standish observed, was holding what looked like a man’s billfold.
The gate agent glanced up impatiently. He appeared harassed; gate men usually were at the last moments of departure. The agent put out his hand to take the wallet, then, observing the old lady, changed his mind and said something quickly. He pointed to the tourist boarding walkway and Standish heard, “Ask a stewardess.” The old lady smiled and nodded, and entered the walkway. A moment later she was out of sight.
All that Customs Inspector Standish had observed had taken only moments — perhaps less than a minute. Now, he saw a newcomer arrive — a stoop-shouldered, spindly man, hurrying down Concourse “D” toward gate forty-seven. The man had a gaunt face and a slight sandy mustache. He was carrying a small attache case.
Standish had been about to turn away, but something about the man attracted his attention. It was the way the newcomer was holding his case — under his arm, protectively. Harry Standish had watched people, many times, doing the same thing as they came through Customs. It was a giveaway that whatever was inside the case was something they wanted to conceal. If this man had been coming in from overseas, Standish would have had him open the case, and would have examined its contents. But the man was going
Strictly speaking, it was none of Harry Standish’s business.
Yet something … instinct, a sixth sense which Customs men developed, plus a personal connection, through Judy, with Flight Two … something kept the inspector watching, his eyes directed at the small attache case which the spindly man still cradled.
The feeling of confidence which returned to D. O. Guerrero at the insurance counter had remained. As he approached gate forty-seven, observing that he was still in time for Flight Two, he had a conviction that most of his difficulties were over; from now on, he assured himself, everything would work out as he had foreseen. In keeping with this belief, there was no problem at the gate. As he had planned from the beginning, at this point he drew attention to the minor discrepancy between the name “Buerrero” on his ticket and “Guerrero” on his passport. Barely glancing at the passport, the gate agent corrected both the ticket and his passenger list, then apologized, “Sorry, sir; sometimes our reservation machines get careless.” Now, Guerrero noted with satisfaction, his name was recorded properly; later, when Flight Two was reported missing, there would be no doubt about his own identification.
“Have a pleasant flight, sir.” The gate agent returned his ticket folder and motioned toward the tourist section walkway.
As D. O. Guerrero went aboard, still holding his attache case carefully, the starboard engines were already running.
His numbered seat — by a window in a three-seat section — had been allocated when he checked in downtown. A stewardess directed him to it. Another male passenger, already in the aisle seat, stood up partially as Guerrero squeezed by. The center seat, between them, was unoccupied.
D. O. Guerrero balanced his case cautiously on his knees as he strapped himself in. His seat was midway in
