From Hellhound On His Trail: The Electrifying Account of the Largest Manhunt In American History, by Hampton Sides (Knopf Doubleday, 2010), Kindle pp. 365-366:
“Passport please,” a young immigration officer named Kenneth Human said when Sneyd approached the window.
Sneyd fished his wallet out of a coat pocket. From an inside fold, he retrieved a dark blue Canadian passport, which the officer opened and studied. Officer Human glanced at Sneyd, and then back at the passport photo. Nothing seemed untoward: the same man, the same glasses, everything matched.
Then Human saw another passport, peeking from Sneyd’s billfold. “May I see that other one?” he asked.
Sneyd handed the officer the second passport, which was clearly stamped “Canceled.”
“Why are the names different?” Human asked, noting that one said “Sneyd” and the other said “Sneya.”
Sneyd explained that his original passport, issued in Ottawa, had contained the misspelling—simply a clerical error—but that he’d had it corrected as soon as possible while in Portugal.
Officer Human appeared to be buying Sneyd’s explanation. But at this point, a Scotland Yard detective materialized—a slender, fastidious man with blue eyes and a trim mustache named Philip Birch. While Sneyd and the customs officer continued talking about the passport, Birch studied the Canadian’s face and movements. He had an “absent-minded professorial air” about him, Birch thought, but something about the traveler looked familiar. He seemed to recall seeing the man’s photograph in the pages of the Police Gazette.
Birch ran his finger down a list of names typed on an official Scotland Yard document that was labeled “Watch For and Detain.” Under the heading “All Ports Warning,” the Canadian’s name jumped off the page: Ramon George Sneyd.
Detective Birch tapped Sneyd on the shoulder. “I say, old fellow,” he later recalled telling the subject. “Would you mind stepping over here for a moment? I’d like to have a word with you.”
Seemingly more annoyed than alarmed, Sneyd glanced at his watch. “But my plane’s leaving soon.”
“Oh, this will only take a moment,” Birch assured him in a chipper tone. “May I see those passports, please?”
Two policemen joined Birch, and the three men escorted Sneyd across the busy terminal toward a police administrative office. Sneyd believed this was all just a routine passport mix-up, and so he remained grudgingly cooperative. Should things turn dicey, there was always the loaded revolver in his pocket. As far as he could see, this friendly trio of officers did not carry weapons.
When they arrived at the office, Birch turned and faced Sneyd. “Would you mind if I searched you?” he asked. Sneyd raised his arms and offered no protest.
Carefully patting him down, Birch quickly discovered the revolver: a Japanese-made .38-caliber Liberty Chief—its checkered walnut stock wrapped with black electrical tape. Birch spun the revolver and found five rounds of ammunition.
“Why are you carrying this gun?” Birch asked in an even tone.
“Well,” Sneyd replied. “I’m going to Africa. I thought I might need it. You know how things are there.” For the first time, a note of alarm had edged into his voice.
Birch handed the revolver to one of the other policemen and continued frisking the suspect. In Sneyd’s pockets, Birch found a little booklet on rifle silencers and a blank key, of the sort that a locksmith might carry. Sneyd had a small amount of money—less than sixty pounds—on his person.
“I have reason to believe you have committed an arrestable offense,” Birch said, and told Sneyd he was being detained. Now he would be missing his flight. Sneyd slumped in his chair.
The officer got on the phone and tried to have Sneyd’s bag pulled from the plane—but it was too late, the jet was already easing back from the gate. Then Birch called Scotland Yard headquarters and informed his superiors that just two days after being placed on the “All Ports Warning,” Ramon George Sneyd was now in police custody.
Far Outliers 