Nevertheless, most of the travellers accepted the examinations with good grace, answering with candor the routine questions about their purchases abroad, and paying any duties assessed without complaint when the purchases exceeded the duty-free exemption of $100.
A few of the travellers had voiced complaints, as did the fat, perspiring man who demanded in a loud voice, “Why is it that our government is the only one which treats a citizen as if he might be a criminal?” He looked about belligerently to see if anyone would take exception to the statement, but the inspectors acted as though they had not heard the remark. None of them was in the mood for an unnecessary argument.
With minor variations, the scene had been replayed over and over throughout the day. Now, as the crowd from the 707 jet moved toward the inspection lanes, Simon ground out his cigarette in an ash tray and nudged a fellow inspector. He said, “Here comes trouble.”
“Which one?” the man asked.
“The Duchess,” Simon said, the crinkles deepening about his eyes. “The tall woman with her nose in the air. I’ll bet she comes to my station.”
Sure enough, The Duchess bustled into Simon’s lane and fixed him with a beady stare. “Young man,” she said with a heavy British accent, “can you tell me why I must go through with this nonsense of having my luggage examined?”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said, “but it’s a routine precaution we must take with all travellers unless they have the immunity of a diplomatic passport. I’m just doing my duty.”
The woman glared. “I still think it’s a lot of nonsense. It’s most inconvenient. What do you think I’m carrying that is illegal?”
Simon said seriously, “We were informed that you were smuggling twenty small Russians into the country in your suitcases. I’ve got to see if it’s true.”
It was a corny gag but, unexpectedly, The Duchess laughed. “All right, young man,” she said. “Get on with your job and I’ll not trouble you again.”