Page 16 of Shambles

The liner Queen Elizabeth, out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, was battling homeward through a severe autumn gale. The time was two o’clock in the morning and notwithstanding the entertainments the ship could offer, even at that hour, most of the passengers were asleep in their cabins. All, that is, except two very wide awake and worried gentlemen. They were sitting at a table in the day room of one of the ship’s first class suites.

  “How are we going to do it?” Bert demanded. He was big and brawny, looking as if he’d be more at home on a building site than on board the world’s biggest floating hotel

  “I don’t know,” admitted his colleague whose name was Lionel. “I’ve done my part.”

  He put his hand into his pocket, withdrew a small cloth pouch, untied the cord round the top and spilled onto the table a small heap of diamonds. They both stared.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Bert. “It’s something else when you actually see them. How did you manage to get them aboard?”

  “Never mind; if I tell you I probably won’t be able to do it again.”

  “I won’t tell!” exclaimed Bert.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I resent that!”

  Lionel caressed several of the stones further apart. “Beautiful. Need to know. You don’t Bert. The real difficulty will be getting through customs in Southampton. We’re known. Still, that’s Meekin’s problem.”

  “Where is he? It’s gone two o’clock.”

  “He’ll be along.”

  Without warning the cabin door opened. “All right, relax. It’s only me.”

  “You might have knocked, Meekin. If someone else sees these we’re sunk.”

  Meekin strode over to the table and picked up several of the stones. “No trouble?”

  “None at all,” Lionel replied.

  “What happens in Southampton,” asked Bert.

  “I don’t know yet,” replied Meekin.

  They stared at him, incredulously. “Do you mean to tell us you still haven’t thought of a way to get these into the country? It’s only two days before we dock!”

  “So it is,” replied Meekin, lightly. “Thanks for reminding me. I’ve got one or two other things to arrange.”

  “Forget them,” Bert snapped. “There is £250,000 at stake here.”

  “We have plenty of time. I’ll think of something. In the meantime,” he added, scooping the stones up into his hand and dropping them casually into his pocket, “It’s time I got some sleep.” He went to the door. “Good night.”

  “Is that another ‘need to know gambit?’” Bert demanded.

  “I don’t know. It’s worrying.”

  “Yes, Lionel old by, it is. Now you know how I feel.”

  When Arthur Meekin stepped off of the Queen Elizabeth two days later in Southampton he already felt at home, although it was the first time he had been on English soil for nine years. He had spurned the offers of help made by his two associates. Indeed, he had told them to keep out of his way until they were clear of the docks. He would see to the arrangements himself. He had no choice in the matter of the customs.

  “Have you anything to declare?” demanded a uniformed, gold braided and peak capped individual who looked far more like the captain of the ship he had just left than the captain himself.

  “Yes, I have.”

  They stood there in the customs shed, looking at each other. Then the officer, realising that Meekin was not going to elaborate, said. “Please don’t be difficult. I’ll ask you again, have you anything to declare. Any wines, spirits, tobacco products,” he smiled cynically to himself, “contraband?”

  “Yes,” agreed Meekin.

  The customs official had dealt with difficult travellers before. The cleverer they think they are, he reminded himself, unconsciously setting his peaked cap more firmly on his head, the harder it goes with them. It is always the same. Well, we’ll see what sort of a bill we can run up for this bright little lad.

  “I need details. If you haven’t completed the appropriate form perhaps you could just tell me. We can then write down the details, examine the items and calculate any duty that may be due.”

  “Of course, what would you like to know?” said Meekin in the mildest of tones.

  “You are aware of the concessionary limits?”

  “Oh yes, they told me on the ship.”

  “Very well. You realise that knowingly to omit items that are chargeable is an offence?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me help you,” the custom’s man said, well aware that Meekin had a number of question marks hanging over his head. I’ll do it in stages, let him sweat. “Have you any perfumes, psittacotic birds,”

  “What’s that?”

  “Psittacosis is a parrot disease.”

  “I’m no pirate.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, sir. Have you any liqueurs, illegal drugs, such as….?”

  “Hold on,” interrupted Meekin, in some agitation.

  Aha, thought the customs man, I have him now. Unconsciously he again touched his cap, re-adjusting it to a jauntier angle. “Well sir?”

  “You go to fast. You’re not trying to trap me, are you?”

  “I am simply trying to assist you, sir,” was the cold response. “You should know you cannot import large quantities of tobacco based products or perfumes...”

  “Yes, yes. You’ve already told me that.”

  “For clarity, sir. When you sign the paper work you will be acknowledging that.”

  “Then aren’t you going to do something about it?”

  “No sir, I can’t change the regulations, you should know that.”

  “I don’t intend that you should,” replied Meekin, deliberately exuding impatience. “All I want to know is how much I owe you?”

  “Nothing, sir. I can not accept any gratuity.”

  “I should hope not,” Meekin exclaimed. “The very idea!” It had been worth a try. “All I want to know is how much duty do I have to pay?”

  “That depends upon how many cigarettes you have, “

  “Five thousand, four hundred and…” Meekin fished into his pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, opened it, counted the contents, “and eleven,” he finished.

  “Indeed. You’ll need an import licence for such a large quantity.”

  “Of course. I have one.”

  It was still unusual. When import licences were involved the quantities at stake were usually millions. It was time to nail him down. The customs official called to one of his fellow officers who had been waiting expectantly in the background. At the same time he thrust his cap hard down onto his head.

  “What’s the trouble?” asked the second customs official. He was as elegantly dressed as the first.

  “This gentleman, Mike, says he has five thousand, four hundred and eleven cigarettes.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is,” snapped Meekin. “I also have three pounds of tobacco, a bottle of whisky, five gallons of a unique Fijian liqueur and an import licence.”

  “Where is his luggage?” asked the second customs man.

  “It is all over on the trolley. There are the three trunks and two green suitcases,” interrupted Meekin. “But I have only my personal effects in them. The dutiable goods, apart from the liqueur which is in a carbuoy on the other trolley, are packed in this case.” He indicated a battered wooden packing case behind him.

  “We will have a look.”

  “Feel free,” Meekin replied airily. “I admit I can’t see the need but I suppose you must do your job.”

  “Precisely, sir.”

  “Can’t I just pay the duty? I have a train to catch.”

  “It is in your interest, too,” the first customs official informed him. “We might over charge you unless we take a look and see exactly what you’ve got.”

  “You are thorough.”

  “We try to be, sir.”

  The second customs official had opened the case by this time and began to examine t
he contents. “But these are English cigarettes,” he said in surprise.

  “That’s right.”

  “You can buy as many as you like once you get outside the docks. And no questions asked.”

  “I happen to think exported cigarettes are superior to those on sale at home, and so do my associates. So from time to time we re-import them. It is all above board, I assure you.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but we shall have to open some of the packets” said the second customs man, straightening up.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s just a precautionary random check.”

  “I suppose I can consume them myself,” sighed Meekin, who was a non smoker.

  “A label means nothing, sir.”

  “It is perfectly absurd,” Meekin replied, but not too harshly. “Ok. I’ll catch a later train. Please do whatever checking up you think necessary.”

  “Oh, we will sir. We appreciate your co-operation.”

  “I think I’ll phone for a car,” Meekin replied. “This could take some time.”

  It was some hours later that a nonchalant Meekin walked out of the customs shed and found his two companions were anxiously waiting.

  “Is everything all right?” Bert asked, immediately.

  Meekin ignored him, turning his attention instead to the two men who were struggling to load the carbuoy of Fijian liqueur into the boot of the car. It didn’t fit too well but eventually, precariously balanced, it was tied down. The other luggage went inside the car. All three climbed in.

  The car hire firm had supplied a driver as well as the vehicle but as this did not suit Meekin they instructed him to drive straight to the firm to change the arrangements. There were no significant problems encountered and it was not long before they set off again, Meekin driving.

  Ever since they had been re-united with Meekin the other two had been trying to find out how he had fared, but it was not until they were well on their way to London that Meekin explained.

  “Did they give you much of a going over?” Lionel asked

  “Oh yes,” Meekin replied, keeping his eyes on the road. “They went through all the suitcases, examined the lining looking for false bottoms; they ran scanners over everything and must have opened nearly every other carton of cigarettes. Hey, look at all these cars,” he exclaimed in surprise, as they edged into an almost continuous line of traffic going the same way as they were. “I thought it was bad enough the last time I was here! Now look at it!”

  “Pretty bad,” agreed Lionel.

  “The diamonds,” prompted Bert.

  “Oh yes,” replied Meekin, dividing his attention between them and the road, which is always a dangerous thing to do. “Well,” he continued, “They went through all my pockets and then took me to a changing room where they made me undress. They practically pulled my clothes apart as I gave them to them. When that was over they took me back to the shed. They lifted the carbuoy of liqueur out of its cage. They were particularly suspicious of the straw. That was shredded and finished up all over the place. There was nothing to find, of course. Not there. I helped them repack. They even tasted the liqueur.” He grinned, “It’ll probably put them in bed for a week. It’s filthy stuff, but legal, if you pay the duty.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course. Oh, I wanted the cigarettes, they really are better than those you can buy here. Our friends won’t complain.

  “The diamonds; you’ve got the diamonds?”

  “Of course I’ve got them. You don’t think I went through that pantomime just for the fun of it, never mind the expense!”

  “But why the liqueur? It must have cost hundreds.”

  “Nearly a thousand, actually. It was worth it.”

  “You hid the stones in it?”

  Meekin laughed. “They thought so. I won’t bore you with the details of all the tests they ran. They found nothing, of course which did not a lot to dispel their suspicions. But they couldn’t nail me down.”

  “But they even tasted the stuff,” objected Bert. “You said so.”

  “The point is,” Meekin explained, “I needed something large enough into which to conceal those diamonds yet something so insignificant that it would be over looked. Those customs guys are sharp, you know. They’ve seen it all before,” he laughed again, “except this one.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, please! We’ve all got a lot invested.

  So in the end Meekin explained. “It took me a while. I knew I needed something normally thrown away. Before we sailed I was racking my brains, sitting in the hotel, staring at the bottled water. It was when I tossed the lid in the bin that the solution came. A bottle top, the only problem was it had to be a big one.

  “Hence the carbuoy of liqueur!” Bert exclaimed.

  “Bright boy,” Meekin grinned. “I needed a diversion. The carbuoy provided that, combined with the other stuff. Well they got diverted. Besides, I helped them and paid the import duty with a smile.”

  Lionel and Bert looked at him with admiration. “That’s pure genius, Arthur, pure genius,” said Lionel.

  “To think they actually handled the top,” chortled Bert.

  “I told you not to worry,” Meekin said, smugly.

  By this time they were crawling over Westminster Bridge, in even heavier traffic.

  “Look out!” cried Bert, as Meekin grinned at him.

  The warning came too late. In the second or so Meekin’s attention had wandered the car ahead had stopped. They crashed slowly into it. That was not a disaster and although all three were thrown forward essentially they remained unhurt. Unfortunately the car following them was also unable to pull up in time and ran into their boot. They all heard the tinkling of broken glass.

  “The diamonds!”

  They jumped out of the car. It was much too late. The carbuoy, smashed by the bonnet of the car that hit them, was scattered in several pieces in the road. The thick, creamy liqueur dripped slowly down the bodywork and on to the tyres. It spread everywhere, smelling horribly. What riveted their attention however was the sight of the stopper which, still intact, had bounced onto the tarmac. It did not break. A bus, coming the opposite way, tried to avoid it. The driver almost succeeded, but not quite. The front wheel caught the rim of the stopper and flicked it, as in tiddlywinks, high into the air, over the traffic, over the parapet of the bridge and down, down, down towards the river.

  Horror struck, the three importers rushed to the rail. They were just in time to see the splash as the stopper disappeared below the surface.

  “Well,” sighed Meekin, turning to the other two, “I wonder which of you will look best in a wet suit?”

  back
Peter Tranter's Novels