The big con, p.9
The Big Con, page 9
The cashier writes out a slip calling for $1,020,000 if Jitterbug wins.
“They’re off!” says the caller.
Mr. Ryan turns immediately to Mr. Lamster, showing him the ticket. “My God! man,” exclaims Lamster, “you bet this horse to win. I said place. That horse will run second.”
Mr. Fink thinks he is going to faint.
Mr. Lamster grabs the ticket, buttonholes the manager who is just passing and pleads with him to change the ticket to place instead of win. The manager is firm. Lamster begs frantically. But it is no use. Jitterbug places.
Mr. Lamster seizes Ryan by the throat. “You dumb s—– of a b—–!” he says. He shakes Ryan like a rat.* The manager tries to step between them. He apologizes for causing the trouble, but protests that he couldn’t change the bet after the horses were running.
Mr. Fink’s senses are beginning to return. He sees Mr. Ryan struggling and protesting in Lamster’s iron grip. They reel back and forth against a sea of cigar smoke and startled faces. A murky red fog settles over everything.
“He ruined me too,” shouts Fink. “Let me at him! He ruined me. Oh, he ruined me.” He lashes out wildly at Mr. Ryan. The manager and the cashier step in and try to stop his wild lunges. “You will lose my money!” he shrieks, and breaks away from the men who are restraining him, picks up a metal chair and charges at the struggling men, swinging it over his head. Lamster is still shaking and cursing Ryan, who now begs for his life. Fink has a glimpse of Lamster’s white face, distorted with rage, his eyes bulging. He catches the glint of a pistol in Lamster’s hand. Lamster breaks from Ryan and backs up a step. The heavy report stops Fink in his tracks, the chair poised awkwardly over his head. Ryan is on the floor, gasping. Fink lowers the chair and gazes at Ryan, who twists and groans. Mr. Fink, appalled and fascinated, steps closer. A stream of blood spurts from Ryan’s mouth, spattering Fink’s face and shirt. He feels it, warm and slippery, on him. The spectators close in. Lamster is in action. Fink feels himself hurled through the onlookers. They are in the street. Lamster rushes him into a cab. They hurry to the hotel.
There, they take stock of the situation. “I’m afraid I killed him,” says Lamster.
“If you hadn’t, I would have,” says Fink, shaky and fearful. He pours out two drinks.
Mr. Lamster regains his composure somewhat. “I never should have done a thing like that,” he moans. “I should never carry a gun. When I lose my temper, I go crazy. But now it’s done. And the terrible thing is that you’re implicated as an accomplice. I hope the poor devil doesn’t die.”
Mr. Fink is incapable of speech. He is sickened by what he has been through. He thinks wildly of his family, his wife, his friends, his business; a trial, prison, maybe—
“We can’t sit here like a couple of fools,” says Mr. Lamster. “Here, let me help you get that blood cleaned off you. Now you do as I say and we’ll beat this. Get out of here quickly and go to the La Tosca Hotel in New Orleans. I’ll give them the run-around and meet you there in a couple of days. Now follow my instructions and I’ll get you out of this.”
He helps Fink pack. Fink scurries wildly around the room with his hands full of neckties. Lamster finally gets all his things into his suitcases, hurries him down the stairs and out the side entrance into a cab.
“Don’t worry about checking out,” he says. “I’ll pay the hotel bill and you can square it with me later. See you in a couple of days. Good-by, and good luck.”
This method of “blowing the mark off” is called the cackle-bladder from the small bladder filled with chicken blood which the roper conceals in his mouth. It is not used except when the mark goes wild and is hard to handle, or where the mark feels sure he has been swindled.
And Mr. Fink is furtively off to New Orleans. But he never meets Mr. Lamster at the La Tosca Hotel. After he has been there several days, he receives a letter from Lamster. Ryan has died. He describes his difficulties with the authorities, warning Fink that he will be picked up in New Orleans, and advising him to move to a hotel in St. Louis, where they will meet. A second letter reaches him in St. Louis sending him to Detroit. From Detroit he is moved to Cleveland. He is furtive and frightened. He has sent home for more money. It is used up. He wires for more. He is moved to Philadelphia. There he receives a pathetic letter from Lamster telling how he has been harried by the police, and saying that he has managed to get enough money together to flee to Europe until the thing blows over. After that, he will get in touch with Fink again and they will recoup their fortune. Good-by and good luck.
Mr. Fink is now close to home. He returns to Boston because he doesn’t know what else to do. He has been swindled, but he hardly realizes it. In his heart he nurses a lifelong hatred against James Ryan. His one aim is to conceal his loss from his family and his business associates. For a long time he is apprehensive about being picked up by the police. But they never molest him. By and by he doesn’t worry much about it any more, though sometimes he awakes at night to see Ryan’s face, contorted and hideous, writhing in the dark. And sometimes he wonders—whatever became of Lamster? He was one hell of a swell fellow.
3
The Rag*
In the rag we see the principles of the pay-off applied to a deal in stocks or securities. Its present form, which is a direct adaptation of the pay-off, has been used for about twenty-five years.
However, let us revert for a moment to the time before the origin of the rag to see what technique was formerly used by confidence men who dealt in stocks. By 1880 stock swindles were common. By 1900 the con men had perfected a technique, entirely different from the stock swindle now used, which had only one serious weakness—the touches were not very large compared to those taken off by the modern rag. As was the case in most of the earlier and more primitive forms of confidence swindle, the use of the store was not known. The older form of the stock swindle worked this way:
The roper, whom we shall call Will Finley, had connections with a brokerage office in New York from which he obtained lists of the persons who bought stocks by mail. From these lists he culled likely-looking prospects whom he interviewed. When he found one living, say, in Marion, ion, Indiana, who he felt sure would take the bait, he told him this story:
“Mr. Eggbert, I have information that there is a man in Indianapolis who has three thousand shares of stock in the Bird Cage Gold Mine. The stock hasn’t been quoted for a long time. Everyone thinks it is worthless. But I have a friend who works on Wall Street and he tells me that the old mine has come to life. It promises very good returns for anyone who holds the stock. Smart brokers are now quietly buying it up in blocks for next to nothing.
“Now this fellow who has the stock is about to die of consumption. He has no idea that the stock is going up, and I understand he is pretty hard up. I think he would sell it for anything he could get out of it. His name is White. He is staying at the Henry Clay Hotel there. I haven’t seen him, but the desk clerk says he is very sick and may not live. If his stock could be bought at the right price it would make the buyer a good profit. I haven’t the money to swing the deal, but if you could finance it, we could split fifty-fifty on the profit and both make a nice little thing out of it.”
Mr. Eggbert has owned some stocks now and then and likes to speculate in them. This sounds like just what he is looking for. But it will have to be investigated. He wants to look into it. Mr. Finley suggests a personal investigation. They set forth to find Mr. White.
They visit Mr. White in his hotel room. White has been selected for his tall and slender physique—a build not hard to find among con men. His face is skillfully made up. His hands are waxy and almost transparent against the white sheets. He coughs red ink into a towel. He reclines against the pillows. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are starry bright. He doesn’t look as if he would live a week. The shades are drawn and in the semi-darkness a satchel reposes beside his bed. In it are three thousand shares of perfectly worthless Bird Cage mining stock, beautifully engraved and embossed. This stock is practically all of his worldly goods.
In this pitiable state he meets Mr. Eggbert and Mr. Finley, who have concocted a story to allay any suspicions which Mr. White may have regarding their motives for buying the stock. “We are acting for the executors of the estate of the late John Bowling,” says Mr. Finley. “We have heard that you have a small block of Bird Cage mining stock.”
Mr. White admits that he has three thousand shares, inherited from his father.
“Well,” says Mr. Finley, “this estate must be settled up. But it cannot be cleared up until we secure a controlling interest in the old Bird Cage Mine. The stock is almost worthless, but we must buy up fifty-one per cent of it before January first. We can’t offer you much for the stock, but we have come to see you with a view to talking the matter over.”
It is with difficulty that Mr. White arouses himself enough to talk about the matter. His cough racks him. Yes, he is interested. He knows the stock isn’t worth very much on the market. But it is all the property he has and he wants to get all he can out of it. He needs cash badly.
“What will you offer me for it?” he asks.
“We are hardly prepared to make you an offer on it,” says the cautious Mr. Finley. “It isn’t even listed on the market, and probably is worth very little. We would have to investigate it before we can make you an offer. But we are prepared to offer to take an open option on the entire block, and make you an offer a little later.”
“Well,” says the cadaverous Mr. White, “I need cash very badly. What would you consider a fair price for the option?”
“We can offer you $25,” says Mr. Finley, and Mr. Eggbert nods assent.
“That isn’t very much,” complains Mr. White. “But if that is all you will give, I’ll have to take it.”
“Very well,” says Finley. “Here is the option form. You sign it and we will pay you the $25.”
The deal is completed and the two men leave Mr. White racking his piteous life away. They congratulate each other on the wisdom of their move. Now to find out something about what the stock can be sold for to the right people. Mr. Finley has the names of three brokerage houses, one in New York, one in New Orleans, and one in Chicago, all furnished by his friend on Wall Street. They go to a telegraph office. Wires are sent to all three asking for quotations.
These wires are picked up at their respective destinations by accomplices who have been notified just when to expect them and they are waiting at the telegraph offices to pick up the messages sent under their respective names. Immediately they wire back offers to buy blocks of any size of the stock. New York offers $3.50. New Orleans $3.75. Chicago $4. That looks good.
Fortified with these telegrams, Mr. Finley and Mr. Eggbert decide that they will try to buy the stock for $1, and at most $1.25 or $1.50. They decide that cash on the line will make a strong impression on Mr. White. So Mr. Eggbert either goes home for the money while Mr. Finley attends to pressing business in the city, or, more desirable still, Mr. Eggbert signs a check and has the bank in Indianapolis open up an account for him immediately. Just as soon as the cash is on hand they hover like vultures over the dying victim.
The hotel room is still hushed and dark. Mr. White looks even more waxen and deathlike than before. They offer him a dollar a share. He declines, contending that his father paid $50 a share for it and that it must be worth much more than a dollar. They haggle. Mr. White holds out stubbornly. They finally compromise at $1.50 per share and Mr. Eggbert pays him the $4,475 in cash.
They leave the hotel feeling that they have made a fortunate deal. It is very comforting for Mr. Eggbert to think of that telegram from Chicago offering $4 a share. A neat profit of $7,500, to be split in half—$3,750 apiece.
Mr. Finley pleads very pressing business in Indianapolis which will hold him there for some time. He proposes that Mr. Eggbert go to the brokerage house in Chicago to cash in the stock, and Mr. Finley, in return for this accommodation, will pay Mr. Eggbert’s expenses when they divide the money. Mr. Eggbert lusts for the $3,750 profit and agrees. Mr. Finley sees him to the train for Chicago, admonishing him to guard the package of stock with his life. Mr. Eggbert, armed with the telegram and the address of a brokerage house which does not exist, departs with joy in his heart. He will be back tomorrow, he promises.
Back at the hotel Mr. Finley knocks with a pre-arranged signal upon Mr. White’s door. Mr. White, who has played ’possum lest Mr. Eggbert return for something, now admits his partner. He resembles a frowsy corpse in his short nightshirt, his gangly joints protruding grotesquely. But he is very agile for a sick man.
“The egg has blown,” says Mr. Finley cheerily. “Now he can play hide and seek around the Village for a while. I’ve got the touch right here. Get a move on and get that grease-paint off. You look like a damned scarecrow. You give me the fan-tods. We’ve just got time to check out and get down to the shed before the 4:40 pulls out.”
And Mr. White makes prodigious noises in the bathroom.
This game was, within limits, very successful. It was played both in America and abroad by American confidence men as the best and most effective stock swindle which, up to 1910, the con men had been able to devise. The only capital needed to operate it was a bundle of worthless stock. But it lacked the advantages of play against a store, with a permanent fixer to take care of trouble. The convincer, in the form of the telegrams, was rather weak, and there were no facilities for cooling the mark out; it depended too heavily upon a single factor—the roper’s getting the mark’s confidence and holding it. However, the game prospered—and still does, as a matter of fact—even though it is largely supplanted by the rag.
The modern rag constitutes an application to stocks of the fundamental principles of the pay-off; in fact, most big-con ropers will bring in marks for either the pay-off or the rag;* usually it is not until the roper has brought the mark into town and has had a talk with the insideman that it is decided which game to play him for. As a general rule—though there are many exceptions—the mark is played for the game he is least likely to know something about. Thus a broker would probably be played for the pay-off since he might know too much about stocks to be fleeced by the rag; on the other hand, an experienced race-gambler and sportsman might be easier to play on the stocks, for he might suspect the race-game. But any big-con man will tell you that brokers and bankers have taken the hook for the rag, and hardened race-track plungers have been trimmed by the pay-off.
Let us call the intended victim of the rag Mr. Asa Savage. He has met a very affable gentleman, whom we shall call Charles Meade, on the Pullman coming into Denver. Mr. Meade has decided that Mr. Savage is well fatted for the kill and he has him firmly in tow, although Mr. Savage feels no suspicion. They have moved into Denver and are established there.
Mr. Meade immediately gets in touch with his insideman, who shall be named Daniel Duff during the play.
“Well, Kid,” says he, “the savage is here. He is a wholesale fruit merchant from Dallas. He is here for the convention. I think he’ll go for fifty or sixty grand. I have him parked over here in the Granada Hotel.”
“What does it look like?” asks Duff, who is well equipped to give their man a fine play in almost any kind of store on almost any kind of game.
“I think he craves the rag,” says Meade. “He has already copped some dough in stocks and I guess he is about due to blow some.”
“Can we play the point-out for him?” asks Duff.
“I think that will suit him fine,” answers Meade. “He likes to hike in the fresh air. He’s hipped on it. And he gets up early in the morning. I’ll take him to breakfast about seven. You park in front of the hotel dining room and I’ll pick out a table by the window. When I give you the office, have the driver pull away from the curb. That will give him the first flash. Then I’ll walk him around until about nine. You plant yourself in the car over on University Boulevard. Then we’ll give him the play right away.”
“O.K.,” says Duff. “I’ll see you there.”
The next morning Mr. Savage and Mr. Meade breakfast together. They have ham and griddle-cakes, for strenuous times are ahead. There is no use to play for a mark when he is faint with hunger. As they are enjoying their meal, Mr. Meade suddenly rises in his seat and peers through the window which gives directly on the street. Mr. Savage has a glimpse of a large, chauffeured limousine pulling away from the curb.
“Did you see that man in that big car?” asks Meade. “He looks to me like a friend of my uncle’s down in Fort Worth. Let me see, what was his name? Duff, that’s it. Duff. He was in on some deals with my uncle. He’s some kind of a big-shot in Wall Street.”
“He certainly drives a swell car,” says Mr. Savage. “But I didn’t get a very good look at him.”
“If he is staying here in Denver, I’d like to look him up,” says Meade. “But I suppose it would be impossible to find him.”
Conversation turns to the stock market, and Mr. Savage holds forth at some length on his investments. They finish breakfast and Mr. Meade picks up the checks.
Mr. Savage likes Mr. Meade. He is a native Texan. It is pleasant to hear that drawl up here in Colorado. And Mr. Meade is such a quiet, mild-mannered man with pale blue eyes and a kindly face. He is past middle age, with a sizable nest egg laid away. And he knows some of the people in Brownsville where Mr. Savage lived as a boy. He shares Mr. Savage’s penchant for walking and seems to appreciate Mr. Savage’s effort to acquaint him with Denver. They get along very well.
After breakfast they start out for a brief walk before Mr. Savage goes out to attend the convention he has come up for. The air is crisp and invigorating. The trees are blossoming out with the first warm days of spring. Mr. Meade produces two of the long, strong stogies which Mr. Savage has smoked for years. They walk briskly and Mr. Savage volubly discusses the problems of the wholesale fruit business.
