The Big Con (6 page)

“O.K.” said Jack. “I’ll try to be reasonable.” The party was going along fine and talk shifted to big touches that had come off recently. The boys knew Jack’s failing and played on it by solemnly telling of tremendous scores. Finally Jack could restrain himself no longer.

“The other day,” he said, “I was walking down the street and cut into a mark. He was a soft one, so right there I played the pay-off against the wall for him and beat him out of $80,000.” The Kid coughed pointedly. “Excuse me,” said Jewett, “it wasn’t $80,000. It was $75,000.” The Kid coughed again. “Maybe, now that I think of it, it was only $70,000,” said Jack. The Kid coughed desperately. Jack turned to him in annoyance and blurted out, “Kid, I’ll not take another grand off that touch if you cough till doomsday!”

It is just as difficult to secure reliable information on the number of touches any mob takes off as it is to get the facts on the size of any score. However, it is the consensus of opinion among con men that any roper who gets from two to four touches a year is doing quite well. If he should get as many as eight, he is very lucky. And many ropers are fortunate if they get one, while a few others go through an entire lifetime with only one touch—their first one—to entitle them to a place in the big-con rackets. Often a tendency to fictionalize regarding the number or size of touches is the roper’s natural method of trying to bolster up his self-confidence and maintain his status in his profession. On the other hand, a really successful roper has no occasion to lie about his exploits. It is an established fact that one week in February, 1922, Jackie French brought into the Florida store the following marks and beat them:
*

(This mark was tied up, but did not complete the play.)

As the war-boom died away, the big scores became less frequent. During the depression years a touch of $25,000 was considered a very respectable one and now we occasionally hear of one for $75,000 or $100,000; another war-boom may supply another crop of “war babies.” But one suspects that the day of the big scores taken off in quantity is temporarily over in the United States. With the increasing power and effectiveness of the Federal Government since 1930, the con men have had a hard time of it. Whenever a victim’s check passes through the mails the con men are laid open to possible prosecution and almost inevitable conviction, for once the government prepares a case thoroughly enough to bring it to trial, the fix is of little avail and it is almost a foregone conclusion that a federal jury will convict.

In view of these facts, many of the best operators are moving their stores to Cuba, Mexico, South America, Canada and Europe, where wealthy Americans traveling or living abroad supply a perennial crop of victims, not to mention the equally susceptible natives. Well-established stores now operating in Rome, Berlin, Brussels, London, Havana and the Argentine do a large volume of business which is increasingly international in character. However, the domestic stores still operate very profitably and show no tendency to disappear under the sporadic enforcement drives which are directed at them.

Of the three modern big-con games, the rag, the wire and the pay-off, the wire was invented first. Without it, the rag and the pay-off probably could not have developed. By 1910 it had spread all over the country and scores of $200,000 and higher were being talked of. While it has now waned in popularity in favor of the rag and the payoff, it is still played with very good success.

The name for the game is an abbreviated form of wire-tapping, from which the idea for the swindle was developed. During the late 1880’s and the 1890’s there were certain unemployed telegraph operators who traveled over the country looking for some gullible race-fan who could be induced to lay out rather large sums of money
for the expensive equipment which they represented as being necessary to tap telegraph wires and obtain advance information on the results of a race, hold up these results until the race-fan had time to place a bet with a book-maker, then advance the post-time and forward the results—with very happy consequences for the fan who had meanwhile bet on the winner. No doubt some of them did do what they claimed to be able to do, in which case they shared the profits with the fortunate fan. But many more acted only in the rather crude capacity of tout. They studied the form-sheets to find likely-looking horses, convinced the fan that they could tap the wires, and hoped for the best. If the horse won, of course they shared in the profit; but most of them depended for their profit upon the exorbitant fees which they obtained from the fan in advance in order to buy tools and equipment necessary for wire-tapping. This was known as “expensing” and became a small-time racket. Because it lacked the professional touch, it might well have gone the way of many similar rackets.

However, at this time there were swarms of professional grifters who worked the country over with many types of confidence racket, the immediate ancestors of the present-day big-time games. The idea of a big store, stimulated by old Ben Marks’ original experiment and the subsequent success of the fight store, was being applied to many con games with great success. There were mitt stores and monte stores and fight stores and wrestle stores. The big-time grifters of that day blinked in pleased surprise. Why hadn’t someone thought of it before? Why not a
wire store?
In other words, why not apply the tried and proved principles of confidence work to the rather clumsy touting efforts of the telegraph operators? If an unemployed telegrapher could get the mark’s confidence well enough to extort “expenses” from him, what could any expert insideman do? Once the mark was thoroughly
convinced that the race results were being delayed for him, it was immaterial whether they really were or not—
provided he was played against a fake bookmaker instead of a real one.
And so a fake horse-poolroom which took bets was set up, shills were used in place of real betters, fake races were called with convincing fervor, and the results were all that could be desired. Thus the wire store was born. Now it only remained for smart confidence men to study the idea, correct its weakness, refine its strong points, and develop its potentialities.

The modern wire store is operated by one regular insideman who poses as a Western Union official, a variable staff of shills, and a staff of several outsidemen or ropers. These ropers travel the country over looking for victims who have money and can be played for the wire. Some ropers depend largely on luck to enable them to find a mark and do very well by this haphazard method; others are more systematic, resorting to advertisements for “business opportunities” inserted in metropolitan newspapers, and carefully interviewing and sifting out the resulting clientele; the most enterprising have agents who locate prospective marks, investigate their financial standing, and compile a list from which the roper can select the fattest and juiciest. There is one restriction which, though it was formerly ignored especially in New York, is now rigidly observed: the mark must not be a resident of the city where he is to be trimmed.

Wherever the roper finds his mark, he knows that each one is an individual problem and that the play must be varied somewhat for each victim. Consequently, in an account of the wire it has seemed best to simplify it in order to present the general principles of the game without confusing the reader by the infinite possible variations in the play.

In order to visualize the wire in operation, let us assume that a roper whom we shall christen Louis Sanborn
has been told that one John Bates, owner of a small department store in Providence, is a prospect for the wire. So Mr. Sanborn visits Mr. Bates, represents himself as the agent for a large corporation which is buying up small stores, and gets his victim’s confidence. Mr. Bates is pleased to find a buyer for the business because it has not been too profitable. The two spend several days going over the matter. Sanborn blows hot and cold, then finally decides to buy and makes Bates a very generous tentative offer, subject to the final approval of his superiors. Mr. Bates snaps it up. So Mr. Sanborn takes an option on the business and invites Bates down to New York to consummate the deal.

They arrive in New York around noon and take up quarters at the Fairdale. Mr. Sanborn ’phones his “main office” and reports that their attorneys are occupied with another deal and will not be available until the following day. Then he excuses himself and makes a private call from a ’phone booth to his insideman, whom we shall call Charley Maxwell.

“I have a businessman from Providence,” he says. “What time can we play for him?”

Maxwell consults his appointment book. “How about half past two this afternoon?” he asks.

“Fine,” says Sanborn. “We’ll be there.”

When he returns to the room he finds his victim ready for lunch. They go down to the dining room. There, during luncheon, Sanborn plants the first seeds for the play to come. He casually mentions the fact that his cousin is manager of the central office of the Western Union here in New York.

“On my way up I tried to locate a friend in New London,” he explains. “Charley wanted to see him about some kind of deal, but he was out of town.”

Luncheon progresses. They talk of the pending sale of Mr. Bates’ business. When it is time to depart, Sanborn
picks up the check and again brings up his cousin. “We aren’t in any hurry,” he says, “and Charley’s office is just around the corner from here. Would you mind walking around that way with me? I think you’ll like Charley.”

And Mr. Bates does like cousin Charley, for he has a dignified and attractive personality which puts Bates immediately at his ease. He is one of the best insidemen in New York. When they arrive, he is very busy directing the activities of a staff of telegraphers. In the midst of this wholesome hum and clatter the introduction is made.

“Where are you staying, Louis?” asks Charley.

“Over at the Fairdale,” says Louis. “Mr. Bates is here on business with me and he is over there too.”

“Why, you’re just around the corner,” observes Charley. “What about our man in New London? Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet,” says Louis. “He was out of town.”

Cousin Charley rolls up his sleeves another notch and adjusts his green eyeshade. “I want to talk to you about him later, but I can’t entertain you here. The inspectors will be around any minute now and it wouldn’t look good to have a couple of strangers loafing in the office. I think you understand the situation. Now you two go on down to the hotel and as soon as inspection is over I’ll join you there in the lobby. It won’t take long. Good-by.”

Little does Mr. Bates suspect that the Western Union office he has just been in is entirely fake, that the energetic whir of teletypes was for his benefit only, that as soon as he left, it ceased entirely, the Western Union sign came down, and that cousin Charley put on his coat and dropped his manner of dignified, conscientious executive. The outward appearances have been so convincing, the stage set with such precision, that it does not occur to him to question its authenticity.

Half an hour later, in street clothes, Charley meets Mr. Bates and Mr. Sanborn in the hotel lobby. “It’s all over,”
he remarks, “and they’re gone. Now, Louis, how about Brown? You said that you’d find him and bring him along.”

Louis explains that he learned that Brown is out of town for two weeks. He ventures to suggest tentatively that perhaps his friend here, Mr. Bates, could be persuaded to fill in on the deal. Cousin Charley looks somewhat shocked at this suggestion and gives Mr. Bates an appraising look.

“How long have you known this gentleman, Louis?” he asks.

“Not very long,” answers Louis, “but long enough to know that he is a responsible man, with his own business in Providence. He is O.K. I feel sure that you can depend on him.”

Mr. Bates’ very natural discomfort in this situation is quickly allayed by cousin Charley, who turns upon him full force the benign rays of his personality and suggests that they talk the matter over confidentially. Mr. Bates begins to feel that he likes Mr. Maxwell even better than he does Mr. Sanborn. Charley Maxwell already “has his con.”

They go up to Sanborn’s suite and relax. Mr. Maxwell rises to the occasion and “tells the tale” with such dignified sincerity that even the cynical Mr. Sanborn is touched by his fine acting. He explains to Mr. Bates that he has worked for a heartless corporation for years; that he has had advancement, but never what he had been promised and assured; that the company has neglected him when it should have promoted him, and that he has decided to resign.

We must not assume that Mr. Bates is a fool. He has been about a bit himself, he manages his own business and he flatters himself that he knows a good deal about people. If he ever saw character, there it is in Charley Maxwell. He is not so much touched by the facts which
Maxwell has outlined, but by the manner in which they are presented. Instead of a dissatisfied, disgruntled employee, he begins to see before him a man with the makings of a fine executive who has been neglected and wronged.

“And,” Mr. Maxwell adds, “I have decided that when I resign, I will not be poor. I know how to swing a deal by which I can make a very good profit without hurting my company in the least. But I must have the assistance of an honest and dependable man, one who is able to put up some funds in return for a share of the profits. Louis’ friend, Mr. Brown, was the man I had in mind. Now he cannot be located. I must act quickly, for I may not have the opportunity a second time. Are you interested?”