“Right-o,” Simpson said agreeably, and tucked the paper into his pocket. He reached out a long arm to tap the shoulder of an uniformed figure hurrying through the area. Customs officer Griggsby turned around, saw the short man beside the tall, thin man, made a rapid calculation in his brain, linking the two to the noises from the loudspeaker he himself had initiated, and beamed.
“You are Clifford Simpson?”
“That’s right,” Simpson said, somewhat baffled by the instant recognition, but somewhat pleased by it as well.
“And this, I gather, is Timothy Briggs?”
“That’s bloody well too-damn right!” Briggs said belligerently. “Now; what’s this all about?”
“A private word with you two gentlemen, if you please,” Griggsby said with a tone of politeness he was sure A.C. Winterblast would have admired. It was the tone he would use, he decided, it he ever got on “Noughts-and-Squares”; then the panel worked with you and not against you. “In my office?”
“And what about our luggage?” Briggs demanded.
“You’ll find it waiting for you there,” Griggsby said significantly.
He waited with anticipation for the shocked and/or frightened look of criminals-unmasked to cross the two faces, but all he got was a look of complete bewilderment from the tall, horse-faced one, and an angry glare of impatience from the short, peppery one. In all his years of experience, James J. Griggsby had come across some hard cases, but these two were undoubtedly the most calloused smugglers he had ever encountered. Not the slightest sign of guilt crossed their visages. For the briefest of moments James J. Griggsby wondered if possibly the assistant commissioner could have made a mistake, but this, he knew, was impossible. No, these two were simply rascals more clever than most. They probably figured their advanced age would permit them to pass Her Majesty’s Customs without suspicion. Well, little did they reck! He cleared his throat authoritatively.
“All right,” he said firmly, and remembered Winterblast’s admonition. “And no fuss, either! Come along, now.”
“Wait a moment,” Carruthers said, suddenly getting into the act. This certainly had nothing to do either with interviews from journals, nor with their losing their money. He looked at Briggs sternly. “Tim, tell the truth. What mischief did you get into in Gibraltar before we left that I know nothing about?”
“Who, me?” Briggs said in a semi-shriek, highly incensed. “Nothing, I swear!”
“Cliff?”
“Yes, Billy-Boy?” Simpson smiled at his friend in comradely fashion, and then suddenly understood the question. “Oh! You mean, what mischief did I get into?” He pondered a moment and then nodded. “None, I’m quite positive. Clean as a church mouse.”
“That’s poor,” Carruthers said, and almost added, like us. He put the bitter thought aside and turned to the customs officer. “Then I’m afraid, sir, that I must ask you for an explanation.”
“And I’m afraid I must refuse to give you one,” Griggsby said flatly. “You’re Mr. Carruthers, aren’t you? Well, sir, you are not involved, and if you want my suggestion, you will not get yourself involved!”
Carruthers was about to challenge that statement when, to his utter astonishment, little Tim Briggs began to giggle. The others also considered him with surprise.
“It’s all right, Billy-Boy,” Briggs said, and winked. “I get it, now. You go ahead. We’ll see you later at the club.” As Carruthers continued to stare, Briggs leaned toward him, covering his mouth, whispering. “It’s that Candid Camera thing, don’t you see? What else could it be? And they give out prizes, you know...” He straightened up with another wink.
As Briggs marched off confidently beside Simpson, with customs officer Griggsby hurrying to catch up, Billy-Boy watched his taller friend take the newspaper from his pocket and start to turn the page to the financial news on page two. Carruthers turned away before any anguished cries could reach his ears. If only it were Candid Camera, he thought disconsolately, with the prize a lifetime supply of good food as well as brandy and champagne. For three, of course...
But he knew it wasn’t.
Sir Percival Pugh, also approaching the luggage-claim area, but unseen or at least unnoted by the three, frowned slightly to see Timothy Briggs and Clifford Simpson being cut away from the herd by a man who was obviously a customs official. Sir Percival’s massive brain instantly went into action. It was extremely doubtful that the two had managed to get into trouble on the airplane, even though Sir Percival would have been the last to deny their ability to get into trouble in a reasonably short period of time. Someone had therefore either made a mistake, or the customs official had been diddled for the purpose of separating Carruthers from his two friends. While mistakes by customs officials were certainly not uncommon, they were not overwhelming, and Sir Percival was a great believer in the percentages. In this case, therefore, he felt fairly confident that the customs official had been used as a pawn to allow Billy-Boy Carruthers to emerge from the building unaccompanied by his two friends.
His mammoth intelligence having gone this far, Sir Percival went on to consider the long face he had noted on Carruthers as opposed to the rather cheerful expression on the faces of the other two at the moment of parting. Since Carruthers had been the blithest of spirits just that morning, and had even been seen smiling brightly at the moment of embarkation onto Flight 129, Pugh could only assume he had received bad news since then. But what bad news could possibly have been transmitted to just one of the triumvirate without the other two having been informed as well? Undoubtedly something Carruthers had read on the airplane and had not cared to disturb the other two with, while they were enjoying the flight. And the only bad news in the paper handed out on the plane had been the failure of the Namibian Chartered Mines, Ltd.
It was now all clear. The three had put their money from the Jarvis award into the shares of Namibian, and were now broke, but Simpson and Briggs were as yet unaware of the fact.
Sir Percival Pugh, in addition to being a giant intellect, was also the finest criminal lawyer in all England. He was also the most successful; he had never lost a case. When “Killer” Kiley, the well-known bank robber and psychopathic murderer, was accused by reliable eyewitnesses of slaying six hostages in the course of stealing eleven thousand four hundred and eight pounds from the Millrace Bank in Upper Lowerly, Sir Percival was able to prove to the satisfaction of both jury and judge that the witnesses were suffering from mirage, caused by the light reflection from all the new notes, and that what appeared to be murder was actually the greatest mass suicide since Masada. Not only was Kiley acquitted, but Pugh was even able to have Kiley reimbursed for the ammunition expended, by the bereaved relatives of the deceased. His fee, by an odd coincidence, was exactly eleven thousand four hundred and eight pounds.
For Sir Percival loved money. But since at the moment he could see no probable gain from three old men without funds, no matter how enjoyable the mental exercise of considering their predicament might be, he put the matter out of mind and went on to practice his basic philosophy of patience and faith by moving to the luggage-arrival conveyor and waiting.