Part 2

15. A Fool’s Dream 184

16. The Chiselers 196

17. The Innocents 213

18. The Stormy World of Art 223

19. Sex and the Censor 234

20. Of Toy Canaries and Pirates 241

21. The Middle Men 255

22. The Restless American 265

A SLIGHT CASE OF CONSCIENCE

One of the most serious problems confronting the Customs Service in this century is the control of the illegal importation of narcotics. Some of the difficulties involved in handling dope smuggling can be seen when it is realized that these drugs are being sent from all over the world, by every means of international transportation. The comparatively small number of Customs agents rely on patience, diligence and intelligence, and they are doing a remarkable job. Since this problem is so important, and so typical of the job the Service does, we will begin with the story of one successful case.

On the night of May 17, 1955, seventeen-year-old Truls Arild Halvorsen sat in an office in the Customs House in Boston, Massachusetts, blinking back the unmanly tears that threatened to spill down his face. He kept trying to swallow the dry lump of fear in his throat, but it wouldn’t go away. And he had to concentrate hard to remember the answers to all the questions being asked of him by the men sitting about the room.

He was a tall, handsome youth. His blond hair was cropped in a crew cut. His eyes were as blue as the waters in the fjords of his native Norway which he had left for the first time only a little more than a year before. That was when he had shipped out as a seaman aboard the MS Fernhill.

He remembered the day he left home his father had said, “We are very proud of you, son.” His mother had wept as she clung to him. His friends had gathered to shake his hand and wish him good luck on his first voyage. He had felt grown up and proud and excited--ready to cope with anything the future might bring.

But now ... now he sat, a virtual prisoner, answering questions about his role in the plot to smuggle narcotics into the United States. It was a nightmare he wished he could forget, but he knew he never could. The men around him were members of the U.S. Customs’ Special Racket Squad out of New York City, whose job it was to run down smugglers.

He heard the big, soft-voiced man sitting across the desk from him--the agent named Dave Cardoza--say, “Let’s go over the story again, Halvorsen. This time it’s for the official record. Tell it just as you did before--exactly what happened.”

Halvorsen swallowed once more and nodded. He didn’t need a translator to understand what Cardoza was saying because he spoke excellent English as well as German.

“Will you state your full name?”

The youth replied: “Truls Arild Halvorsen.” And the recording began.

Q--What is your position on the ship?

A--Ordinary seaman.

Q--What vessel are you on?

A--The name of the ship is the Fernhill.

Q--How long have you been employed aboard the Fernhill?

A--Three trips, about fifteen months.

Q--How old are you, Mr. Halvorsen?

A--I am seventeen and a half years old.

Was it possible this had begun only a few weeks ago? It had begun that day in Hong Kong when he met the Chinese stranger aboard the Fernhill and, like a fool, he had listened to the man’s talk about making easy money. That was when he should have walked away.

But he hadn’t walked away. And that’s why he was now in this strange room in Boston with these men who asked so many questions....