Читать книгу "Yellow Kid" Weil - J.R. Weil - Страница 10

CHAPTER 3

A TIP FOR MR. MACALLISTER

One hot summer night I stood at the bar of Bathhouse John Coughlin’s Randolph Street saloon in Chicago, quaffing a glass of beer. I had spent a strenuous day at the racecourse. The saloon was crowded with men engaged in drinking and in animated conversation. It probably was as mixed a group as any ever assembled under one roof outside of a penal institution. Pickpockets, thieves, safecrackers, and thugs of every degree mingled with cardsharps, swindlers, gamblers, policemen, and politicians.

At the other end of the bar stood Alderman Coughlin, resplendent in a two-gallon silk hat, a mountain-green dress suit and a red vest with white buttons. He was talking to a blue-coated policeman named Fred Buckminster.

I had only a casual acquaintance with Buckminster. He was technically on the side of the law, although his chief duty was to collect tribute from the crooks on his beat and turn it over to the politicians. I doubt that Fred got much of the graft, because the politicians had a very good idea of who was paying off and how much.

However, I was operating pretty well within the law at that time and I had no reason to pay tribute. Not for several years did I really become acquainted with Buckminster, whose cherubic, extremely honest-looking face and portly bearing had earned him the sobriquet of “The Deacon.”

As I stood there a well-dressed man, several years older than I, approached the bar.

“Good evening,” he said. “Won’t you join me in a glass of beer?”

“Thank you,” I replied.

The bartender drew two glasses of beer, and we began to quench our thirst.

“My name,” offered my companion, “is William Wall.”

“Glad to know you, Mr. Wall,” I returned. “My name is Weil - Joe Weil.”

“The Yellow Kid!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard about you. They say you’re a pretty sharp young fellow.”

Of course, I had heard of Billy Wall. He was known as one of Chicago’s leading confidence men. We conversed for some time, taking turns buying the drinks.

“There are many things to learn in this - ah - profession,” said Wall. “Besides having a sharp wit, you must be a smooth, polished actor. Maybe I can help you some time.”

I was flattered. But I was not yet ready to enter into an alliance. Our meeting broke up with my promise that I would think it over and get in touch with him.

One thing is very important to the successful con man: honor. That may sound strange, but it’s true. I don’t know how much truth there is to the old saying about honor among thieves, but it is an absolute necessity among con men.

Though a con man may conspire to fleece others, he must always be on the level with his associates. The victim’s cash is usually taken by one man, who disappears. And it would be a sorry day indeed if this man, who had taken the money, didn’t meet later with his associates to divide the spoils.

During the next few days, I made careful inquiries about Billy Wall. Everyone had the highest praise for him: he could be trusted. So I contacted Billy and we formed a partnership.

For a while we worked the old con games that were, even then, growing whiskers. Billy Wall was an accomplished actor, and I learned a great deal from him. But he lacked imagination. He never thought of anything new.

I was not satisfied. My mind was alert and full of fresh schemes. One day I proposed one to Bill, and he readily agreed to follow my lead.

My first step was to insert a blind ad in an evening newspaper:

WANTED - Man to invest $2,500. Opportunity to participate in very profitable venture. Must be reliable. Confidential, BoxW-62, care this paper.

That brought several replies, each of which was tucked away for future reference. The one that intrigued me most was from a man whom I will call Marcus Macallister, owner of the “Macallister” Theatre, one of Chicago’s leading playhouses, which offered the best in legitimate stage productions.

I knew also that Macallister was one of the principal backers of a new amusement project then in the planning stage. It later became White City, which included an arena for boxing and wrestling, bowling alleys, a dance hall, a roller-skating rink, and other recreational features. Macallister was our man. He not only had money, he was a plunger.

The day after I received his letter I called at his office. In those days I traveled under my own name.

“What is your proposition, Mr. Weil?” Macallister asked.

“My brother-in-law,” I confided, “is in desperate need of $2,500. If you will lend it to him, I will show you how to make a fortune.”

“What does he need $2,500 for?” he inquired.

“Well, he’s hopelessly addicted to betting on the horses. He began borrowing money to make bets. Now, he’s in the clutches of the loan sharks. He owes them $2,500, but his wife - my sister - doesn’t know about it. The loan sharks have demanded their money. If it isn’t paid by tomorrow night, they are going to my sister and expose him.”

“How can a man like that help me make a fortune?”

“By giving you absolutely reliable information on the races. He works for Western Union. He will tip you off on a horse after it has won. You can make a bet on the nose and you can’t lose.”

There is something about a “sure thing” on a race that a horse player can’t resist. A gleam of anticipation appeared in Macallister’s eyes. He tried to cover it up.

“I never bet on the horses,” he said. “How does it work?”

I knew he was lying, but I led him to the Redpath Saloon at State and Jackson. In the rear was a poolroom.

In those days, most handbooks - which were legal - operated in poolrooms. Their equipment included a cashier’s cage for taking bets and paying off winners, wall sheets where the odds on various horses were posted, and the telegraph desk.

Western Union furnished racing information by wire. Most of the poolrooms subscribed to this service and had direct wires from the Western Union building. Of course every bookmaker had to employ an operator who jotted down the messages. The results were called out by a clerk.

In present-day handbooks all betting is closed at post-time. In those days bets were accepted until the telegraph operator received the flash, “They’re off!” He received a running account of the race which was called out by the clerk. At the finish the winners were announced.

Mr. Macallister seemed fascinated by the amount of money that was changing hands.

“You could make a fortune,” he agreed, “if you had the right horse.”

“If you know the winning horse beforehand you can’t lose.”

“But how is that possible?”

“Come over to the Western Union building with me.”

On the way over I explained that my brother-in-law knew nothing of my plan.

“He’s too honest,” I said. “If he wasn’t he could have cleaned up himself.”

The Western Union building was an eight-story edifice, but the elevator ran only to the seventh floor. We took the stairway to the top floor, which was one big room, where about a hundred operators sat at their desks. We could see them through a glass partition. They were coatless and wore green eyeshades.

I threw up a hand, and an operator waved back. He probably thought I was someone he knew.

“My brother-in-law just signaled,” I told Macallister. “He wants us to meet him on the fifth floor.”

We went down to the fifth floor and waited in the corridor. I knew that Billy Wall had been waiting in the washroom on the sixth floor. In a few minutes, he came down the stairs. He wore a green eyeshade, was hatless, and his sleeves were rolled up. He was my mythical brother-in-law.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, with a fine display of indignation. “Haven’t I told you not to come around here when I’m working? Suppose the boss finds out I’m away from my instrument-”

“No worse than if he finds out about the loan sharks,” I retorted. “This gentleman is here to help you.”

I introduced them and they shook hands.

“Are you really willing to help me?” Billy asked.

“He will,” I promised, “if you give him a winner.”

“How can I do that?” he asked innocently.

“You’re on the gold wire, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“What is the gold wire?” Macallister asked.

“That’s the wire from New York that we get the race results on,” my “brother-in-law” explained. “I get them here and flash them to the poolrooms.”

“Then here is what you can do,” I said, lowering my voice. “Hold back the results for a couple of minutes and give Mr. Macallister a chance to make a bet before the poolrooms get the flash that they’re off. You can send through some sort of signal so he’ll know which horse won.”

“But that’s dishonest!” Billy protested. “And my job-”He hesitated. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and paced up and down the hall. “No! I can’t do it.”

I shot him a scornful look.

“You love your wife and family, don’t you?” I goaded.

“More than anything else in the world,” he replied.

“And you know what will happen if my sister finds out about those loan sharks, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, wearily. “She’ll leave me. My home will be wrecked.”

“In that case,” said Mr. Macallister, “it seems to me that you haven’t anything to lose by going along with us.”

That was the tipoff. It meant that Macallister was sunk.

“All right,” Billy returned reluctantly, “I’ll do it this once. But only once.”

“That’s all right,” said Macallister. “We can make plenty of money on just one sure thing.”

“I’ll have to payoff the New Yark operator,” Billy grumbled, “He wouldn’t go in a deal like that for less than a 50-50 split.”

We turned questioning eyes on Macallister.

“That’s all right with me,” he said. “I can afford to pay him if I get a winner.”

We then arranged the details. We would take the sixth race at Saratoga on the following day. As soon as the winner had come through, Billy would flash a signal. Mr. Macallister would place his bet and two minutes later Billy would send details of the race to the poolrooms.

“As long as this is a sure thing,” Billy proposed, “you might as well bet the $2,500 you’re going to loan me. Then I can repay the loan out of what I win.”

Macallister agreed to that. We parted after I had arranged to meet him the next day.

The poolroom I led Macallister to the next day had been arranged for his special benefit. We had rented the banquet hall of the old Briggs House, and outfitted it fully with equipment which also had been rented for the occasion. Of course, the telegraph instrument was not connected with Western Union, as Macallister believed. It received messages from another instrument which we had installed in a room of the Briggs House.

To be our innocent props we had hired a hundred actors. We had told them that Mr. Schubert Henderson, the producer, was casting for his new play and wanted some actors for a poolroom scene. They looked real enough to Mr. Macallister. The cashier’s cage, wall sheets, and telegraph operator all looked authentic too. We had stooges at the cashier’s cage and other stooges went to the windows and placed bets. Among those who helped were a number of minor con men.

The big wall clock had been set back a few minutes. This was done because we wanted time for our operator in the other room to find out the actual result of the sixth at Saratoga before he began sending his message. Our scheme required that we have the actual winner because it would be easy enough for Macallister to check up.

Came the time for the sixth race to start, according to our clock - actually the race was already over. The telegraph began to click. The clerk called out:

“Colorado is delaying the start.”

That was the signal we had agreed upon. It meant that Colorado actually was the winner. The odds were 4 to l.

It had been agreed that Mr. Macallister would bet the $2,500 that he was to lend Billy Wall. Besides the $2,500 to pay Billy’s loan and the cut to the New York operator, Macallister could keep the profit. He hurried to the window, but it was completely blocked by several men in a violent argument.

“We wish to place a bet,” I said, pushing toward the window.

One of the stooges gave me a shove that sent me reeling backward. The argument continued and Mr. Macallister tried frantically to get to the window, while the clock ticked away the precious seconds. He was no more successful than I and the altercation was still in progress when the flash came: “They’re off!”

That meant all betting on that race was closed. Mr. Macallister and I stepped back and listened as the account of the race was called out. Of course, Colorado won.

If Macallister had been able to bet, he would have won $10,000.

Of course, we had no intention of letting him do that. That was why the argument had been staged in front of the cashier’s window.

“Look here!” I said to the cashier. “My friend had $2,500 to bet on that last race, but he couldn’t get to the window. Those fellows cost him $10,000.”

The cashier shrugged. “I’m sorry, but what can I do? I didn’t start the argument.”

“Hereafter,” I said, truthfully enough, “we’ll go elsewhere to make our bets.”

With that, we left. We had previously arranged to meet my supposed brother-in-law in the Western Union building for the payoff. As before, we went to the eighth floor where the operators were at work and I pretended to signal. Of course, Mr. Macallister had no way of knowing that I was not acquainted with any of the operators. And in such a large room with so many men busily at work, he could not distinguish anyone’s features well enough to identify him.

Nor could he know that the closest Billy Wall had been to the operator’s room was the washroom on the sixth floor. It seemed natural enough when Billy came down the stairs, wearing a green eyeshade and dressed like the operators we had seen. Even to tenants of the building he appeared to be a bonafide operator.

Billy came toward us, his face beaming. He grabbed Macallister’s hand and shook it heartily.

“Mr. Macallister, you don’t know how grateful I am to you,” he said happily. “You have saved the day for me. Now, I can pay those loan sharks and go home to my family without fear-”

At the dejected look on my face he broke off.

“What’s the matter, Joe?” he asked. “Did something go wrong?”

“We got your signal all right,” I said, “but Mr. Macallister wasn’t able to make the bet.”

“But you had two minutes to get it down. I don’t understand-”

“You tell him, Mr. Macallister.”

He told Billy how he had been prevented from making the bet.

“This is awful,” Billy quavered. “What will I tell that New York operator? He’s expecting $5,000 out of this deal. And my wife-”

“I don’t know about you, Bill,” I said, “but I’m going to pack my grip and get out of town. I don’t want to be around when my sister discovers you’re in the clutches of the loan sharks.”

“I’ll go with you,” muttered Billy. “No use for me to try to hang onto my job. And I can’t face the humiliation-”

“Just a minute,” declared Macallister. “I told you I’d lend you the $2,500 and I will. It wasn’t your fault the scheme failed.”

“That will be wonderful,” Billy said gratefully. But the elation quickly went out of his voice. “But what am I going to do about that New York operator? He thinks I won $10,000 and he’s expecting half. He’ll expose me.”

“I’ll pay that, too,” Macallister offered. “Can you come over to the bank with me?”

“Not now,” said Billy. “I’m on duty, you know.” He looked at me. “But Joe can go with you. He’ll bring me the money.”

I accompanied Macallister to the First National Bank, where he withdrew $7,500 and gave it to me. I told him I would deliver it to my brother-in-law when he got off duty.

But he was not to be disposed of so easily. He wanted to know when we were going to make the killing. So I arranged a meeting with him the following day at the Western Union building.

Then I met Billy Wall and we divided the profit, which exceeded $7,000, since expenses had been less than $500.

“Macallister is a good bet for another deal,” I told Billy. “But not right now. We’ve got to hold him off.”

We devised a method of doing this and put it into practice the next day when I met Macallister. We went through the usual routine, eventually meeting my supposed brother-in-law on the fifth floor.

Billy Wall was a good actor. He wore an uneasy expression and glanced furtively about as he came down the stairs. He was the picture of dejection. Before either of us could speak, he said:

“I can’t stay long. I think the boss is suspicious. He has taken me off the gold wire and put me on straight messages.”

It was Macallister’s turn to look dejected now. He probably had visions of his $7,500 flying out the window.

“Do you mean to say,” I demanded, “that we can’t help Mr. Macallister win his money back?”

“Maybe,” said Billy. “But not now. We’ll have to wait until this blows over. If the boss makes an investigation and finds out everything is on the square, he’ll put me back on the gold wire. Then we can do something.”

“How long do you think that will be?” Macallister asked, obviously disappointed.

“I don’t know,” Billy said sorrowfully. “You have no idea how bad I feel about this, Mr. Macallister, after you were so good as to help me out of my trouble. It may be two weeks - it may be longer. But I will get in touch with you.”

Billy went back up the stairs, presumably to return to his instrument. Macallister and I left together.

“I’ll let you know, never fear,” I told him. “After all, I got you into this, and I want to see you get your money back - and a lot more besides.”

He was none too happy, but there wasn’t much he could do except wait. He might have called the Western Union to check up on Billy, but to do so would be to expose his own part in the conspiracy. So he impatiently bided his time.

Meanwhile, we contacted other suckers and worked the same game on them, though none was so gullible as Mr. Macallister. We kept a baited hook dangling just out of his reach. Our dilatory tactics served only to whet his appetite and to ripen him for a bigger killing.

On one pretext or another we put him off. In due course we told him that Billy was back on the gold wire. We made preparations to get a winner, delay the results, flash a signal to a poolroom, and let Macallister clean up. But before we could go through with it, the Western Union inspectors appeared for a general checkup - or so we told him. This meant any phony business was out until the inspectors had completed their work - and we had them hanging around for weeks.

Before I decided to take him again I strung Macallister along for several months. This time, I had an entirely different plan. I made no mention of my brother-in-law. Macallister, too, seemed to have forgotten him. He went with me to Willow Springs, a suburb of Chicago, and I showed him the layout.

John Condon had a poolroom in Willow Springs, and received the Western Union wire service direct from Chicago. Condon had several telegraph operators. Willie de Long was the chief operator and got the results on most of the big races. I took Macallister to the poolroom where he could see for himself that big money was bet there.

Then I led him to a secluded spot near Archer Avenue and Joliet Road, where the telegraph line ran. It was not far from the depot. I explained that, with the right equipment, we could tap the wires, get the messages intended for the poolroom, and send our own messages. We could control everything that went into the poolroom.

Macallister had heard of wire-tapping and the idea intrigued him. Back in Chicago, I took him to Moffatt’s Electrical Shop at 268 South Clark, just back of the Western Union building. We asked to see the device for stopping messages.

Joe Moffatt showed us into a room filled with expensive-looking gadgets. He pointed out a “special transformer”-a box about three feet square and eighteen inches deep.

“This is one of the most intricate mechanisms ever constructed,” he said. “Just lift it once.”

Both Macallister and I tried lifting the box. But all we could do was to get one end of it off the floor. It was extremely heavy.

Moffatt launched into a detailed and highly technical account of the device inside the box. Then he raised the cover and showed us the intricately strung wires and switches, including a telegraph sending and receiving instrument. Attached to each end of the box was a long cable, on the end of which was a special attachment.

“How does it work?” Macallister wanted to know.

“It allows you to control messages,” Moffatt explained. “One cable sidetracks the message into the box. It comes over your instrument. The other cable allows you to send any message you want to. Of course, you need a telegraph operator.”

Simple enough, as Moffatt explained it. Actually there was no such device for stopping messages. Wires could be tapped, but even then Western Union had perfected a method for determining when their wires had been tapped. Of course Mr. Macallister didn’t know all this. Nor did he know that the box was so heavy because it had been filled with porcelain tubes.

He made a deal with Moffatt to buy the mechanism, including the cables and a set of pole climbers, for $12,000. It was to be delivered to me.

Moffatt’s was a unique place. Though it apparently was a shop selling electrical equipment, there was hardly a workable device on the premises. Moffatt’s entire business was with con men. He rigged up inexpensive but fancy-looking gadgets to be sold to wealthy suckers. Moffatt collected the money, kept a ten per cent commission for himself, and turned the balance over to the con man.

A couple of days later, with a stooge, I called at Moffatt’s and picked up the equipment which Macallister had bought for his $12,000. The only person who knew that we had made the deal, besides the principals, was a man I’d seen around the tracks and the saloons. His name was Bull Finley.

It was dark when we arrived at Archer Avenue and Joliet Road. We planned to hook up the cables and bury the box. As soon as we had unloaded the stuff from the rig we were confronted by a dark figure.

“Up with your hands!” he commanded.

We raised our hands because the other man had drawn a gun. As I became accustomed to the darkness I recognized Constable Herzog of Willow Springs.

“You didn’t just find us here,” I said. “Somebody told you.”

“Could be,” Herzog admitted.

“The only other person who knew about this was Bull Finley. Did he tell you?”

“I ain’t sayin’ he didn’t,” said Herzog. “You fellers gonna come along with me quietly?”

“Why do you want to take us in?” I asked.

“You’d freeze to death if you stayed out here. And besides, it’s against the law to tap telegraph wires.”

“We haven’t tapped any wires.”

“No, but you were going to.”

“Just the same, no crime has been committed,” I reminded him. “You might get $20 for taking us in, but you’d have a hard time proving anything. How would you like to make $250?”

That was big money to Constable Herzog. He readily agreed to forget the whole matter. I gave him $50 on the spot and $200 the following day. To me, it was a worth-while investment: I had learned the identity of a stool pigeon. I was now reasonably certain of no interference from the law. And, as it later developed, I was probably saved from freezing.

“If you’re goin’ to stay here,” said Herzog, “you’d better build a fire. It’s ten below zero.”

He departed, and we acted on his suggestion. The ground was frozen and we had to work hard to bury the box. Of course we didn’t hook the attachments to the telegraph wire. But we did wrap ends of the two cables to insulators on top of the pole so that it appeared we had attached them.

The next day I went to Condon’s poolroom and talked to Willie de Long. I asked him what horse he would pick in the fourth race at New Orleans.

“Jerry Hunt,” he replied without hesitation.

“Do me a favor,” I said, handing him fifty dollars.

“Sure. What?”

“I’ve got a man who is coming in here to place a bet. About two minutes before post time, you hand the clerk a message. That will be a signal for my friend as to what horse to bet on.”

“Sure,” said Willie. “I’ll do it.”

I met Macallister at the depot and led him to the spot where we had installed the equipment. My stooge, posing as a telegraph operator, was there. But one glance was enough for Macallister. He didn’t wait for me to give detailed instructions to the “operator.” He was afraid of being seen and hurried back to the depot to wait for me.

I waited for a few minutes, presumably giving instructions to my operator. Then I joined Mr. Macallister at the depot and we went over to the poolroom.

I told him that I had decided on the fourth at New Orleans. Macallister did not question this. In fact, no sucker ever asked me why I always picked a late race. There was a very good reason why I never picked the first three. For those races, there was an established post time, and, generally speaking, the first two races went off on time or nearly on time. But, as the day progressed, circumstances often made the other races start later than scheduled. The later the race, the more chance there was that it would be delayed a few minutes. This made it impossible for the suckers to know exactly the time that any race would start.

Another thing Macallister never questioned me about was my brother-in-law. Although he had been the key man in the original scheme, the theatre manager never mentioned him again. That is one of the basic points of many swindles. The con man starts off on one deal, builds it up to a certain point. Then something intervenes and the victim’s interest is sidetracked to another scheme, where he is to be fleeced. The strange thing is that the victim forgets all about the original deal.

Macallister was one of the most excitable gamblers I ever knew. When Willie de Long handed the message to the clerk and the latter called out, “Jerry Hunt is acting up,” I whispered to Macallister that that was the signal. He almost stumbled over himself hustling to the window. He bet $10,000 and came back with the ticket trembling in his hands.

Avariciously, he listened to the account of the race. As the clerk called out: “Jerry Hunt won,” he collapsed completely.

I revived him. He went to the window and cashed his ticket. Jerry Hunt paid $18,000 for his $10,000 bet. He was so elated that he insisted on cutting me in, and gave me $2,900 as my part of the winnings. I had taken a long chance. Had Jerry Hunt not won I was prepared to blame the operator who had supposedly cut in on the wire.

But now that was unnecessary. Macallister was convinced that I really could tap wires and control the messages going into the poolroom. He was eager to repeat the performance.

I stalled him.

“You can’t go in there every day and make a killing,” I told him. “They’ll become suspicious. Better wait awhile.”

He agreed that this was logical. Of course, I had no intention of going through it again at Willow Springs. It was hardly likely that I would be able to get a winner the next time. And there was no more money to be gained from selling Macallister equipment for the Willow Springs setup.

Meanwhile, news of what we were doing had got back to the Western Union detectives and they were lying in wait for us. Neither Billy nor I dared to go into the Western Union building.

Billy continued to pose as the gold-wire operator. One day I met a man whom I shall call Fetterman in Thebolt’s Buffet. After getting him interested in a “sure thing,” we arranged a meeting with my supposed brother-in-law in the buffet. Our reason for having him come to meet us instead of our going to the Western Union building was logical enough: it was a strict rule that any Western Union employee caught playing the races was subject to instant dismissal.

However, Fetterman was so anxious to make a killing that he didn’t question my brother-in-law’s authenticity. It was arranged that Billy would hold back the result of the fifth race. He would write the name of the winner on a slip of paper, which he would put inside a slit in a rubber ball. The ball would be dropped into the court adjacent to the Western Union building. Mr. Fetterman would get the ball and hurry to the poolroom where I would be waiting. I couldn’t be there because I might be recognized and get my brother-in-law in trouble.

Every time we took a sucker like Mr. Fetterman we had to have a new location. Mobility was a necessity if we were to avoid detection. We rented various places on one pretext or another, sometimes resorting to lodge halls, moved in our equipment, used it for the benefit of one sucker, then moved to a new location. However we always set up our poolroom as near the Western Union building as possible.

Since neither Bill nor I could appear in the Western Union building, we had to hire a stooge. I would get the race results, write them on slips of paper, and insert them in the rubber ball. My stooge would then hurry to the washroom on the sixth floor and throw out the ball.

Mr. Fetterman was a most amusing sight as he went chasing after the high-bouncing rubber ball. He caught it, extracted the slip, and hurried to the poolroom where I was waiting. We had told him that my brother-in-law would hold up the results for about two minutes on each race, so that when the fifth was run he would have a reserve of ten minutes. This gave him ample time to get to the poolroom and place the bet. I was supposed to be betting a large amount, too.

Fetterman was breathless when he arrived. He showed me the slip. On one side was “Lightning” and on the other side a big figure “3.”

“What does the ‘3’ mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I suppose it means the odds were 3 to 1. Are you sure that’s the slip?”

“Of course,” said Fetterman, anxious to get his bet down. “I took it out of the slit in the rubber ball.”

“Okay, let’s make our bets.”

We went to the window of our fake poolroom and made our wagers, then waited for the results. The flash came, “They’re off!” An account of the race was called out. Lightning ran third.

“There goes $10,000 of my money,” I muttered disgustedly. “I wonder how my brother-in-law happened to slip up.”

We had previously arranged to meet Billy at the Buffet after he quit work. We were there when he walked in, all smiles. As in many other similar schemes, he was expecting $2,500 to pay off the loan sharks. He grabbed Fetterman’s hand and went into his usual routine of thanking him.

“Just a minute,” I said. “We didn’t win anything. What was the idea of giving us the wrong horse?”

“But I didn’t,” Billy protested.

“Look at this,” I said angrily, displaying the slip.

“What’s wrong with it?” Billy asked, obviously puzzled. “Lightning ran third. That’s the reason for 3 on the back. Didn’t you take the other slips out of the ball?”

“What other slips?”

“There were three slips in the ball,” said Billy. “I wrote down the win, place, and show horses and numbered them 1, 2, 3.”

I turned a stony gaze on Mr. Fetterman, who was now squirming.

“Where is that ball?”

He removed the ball from his pocket. I opened up the slit and inside, of course, were the two other slips, with the first and second place winners.

“Of all the stupid people I ever saw,” I cried, apparently in a rage, “you take the cake. Why didn’t you make sure before you told me that horse was the winner?”

“I’m sorry,” was all Fetterman could say. “I guess I was too excited to look any further.”

“That doesn’t get my $10,000 back,” I said acidly.

“Nor the $2,500 I owe the loan sharks,” complained Billy. “If I don’t pay that by tomorrow night, I’ll lose my job.”

“I’ll get your $2,500 for you tomorrow,” Fetterman promised. Then to me: “I’ll give you the $10,000 you lost out of my earnings tomorrow.”

“I don’t want any more to do with you,” I replied.

He pleaded for another chance, and I finally relented. This is a con man’s best psychological touch. As long as he can keep the sucker on the defensive, he can maneuver him any way he wants to. We always tried to place the blame for any failure to clean up on some mistake by the sucker. In every case the victim thought that only he was to blame.

“Just so there won’t be another mistake,” I said, “we’ll make a different arrangement.” I turned to my brother-in-law. “Billy, can you get to a phone?”

“Yes.”

“Then call me up.” I gave him the number of the booth phone in the drug store that occupied the ground floor of the building our poolroom was in.

The next day Fetterman and I were waiting when the phone rang. I answered. “What?” I asked. Then, after an interval: “I can’t understand you.” Finally, I turned to Fetterman: “I can’t make out what he says. See if you can get it.”

He took the receiver and had no difficulty hearing what Billy Wall said: “The odds were short on the winner. Place your money on Humming Bird.” Then, for emphasis (and to confuse the sucker) he repeated: “Place your money on Humming Bird.”

Fetterman hung up. “Humming Bird,” he repeated excitedly. “Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you sure you heard right?”

“Certainly, I am. Humming Bird is the horse.”

We hurried upstairs to the poolroom.

“Don’t you think we’d better spread our bets?” I suggested. “Maybe if we played it across the board-”

“Not me,” said he. “I’m going to put my money on the nose.”

He did and of course he lost. Humming Bird came in second.

“You’ve made another mistake,” I accused. “I asked you if you were sure. I’m beginning to think you’re a jinx.”

Fetterman and I met Billy Wall at the Buffet that evening. Billy was eager, as usual. When he saw how dejected we both looked his smile vanished.

“What’s the matter?” he gasped. “Did you make another mistake?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Our friend did. Just what did you tell him over the phone?”

“Why, I told him the odds on the winner were short, but to place his money on Humming Bird. Didn’t he do that?”

“No, he bet it on the nose. Look here,” I said to Fetterman, “don’t you know what ‘place’ means?”

“Of course. It means to run second.”

“Then why did you insist that we put our money on the nose?” I demanded icily.

Fetterman was full of excuses, but they all sounded lame, even to himself. We heaped ridicule upon him, and he took it. I really felt sorry for the fellow because he was so firmly convinced that it was all his fault. He asked for another chance.

“I won’t be able to help you,” said Billy. “The loan sharks will go to the boss tomorrow and I won’t have a job.”

So on condition that Mr. Fetterman would give Billy $2,500 to get him free of the loan sharks and save his job, we relented and agreed to go along with him again.

But this time there would be no slip-up. Each horse would have a number.

“You just give us the number of the winning horse,” I told Billy. “Forget about the others. Just the winner. Is that clear?”

“Yes. Just the winner.”

When the call came the following day, I let Fetterman answer it.

“Twenty won,” said Billy. “Have you got that? Twenty won.”

Again, we hurried up the stairs. Again, Fetterman assured me that he had heard correctly. We went to the cashier’s window and put our money on No. 21. Of course No. 20 was the winner.

Again Fetterman was the goat. Billy insisted that he had said “Twenty won.”

We took Fetterman for a total profit of $28,000, after deducting the expenses of operating our fake setup, which included wages for the con men who acted as our stooges.

Several months had elapsed since Marcus Macallister had made his killing at Willow Springs. I decided the time was ripe to take him again. He had been busy with the White City construction project and now had a partner. Bill Porter was not averse to making a few thousand dollars at the expense of the bookmakers.

“The elements have damaged our equipment,”’ I told them. “The cables have been stolen. I’ll salvage what I can, but I think we’ll have to buy additional wiring.”

I did salvage the box, but threw away the cables. Macallister and Porter accompanied me to Joe Moffatt’s shop, and we negotiated with him to repair the box and furnish new cables. The bill for this was $7,800.

There had been some publicity about wire-tapping around Chicago, so I suggested to Porter and Macallister that we set up our equipment near the Kingston poolroom, outside Indianapolis. I went ahead with a “lineman” and did the installation. I also hired an “operator” and made a date to meet them at the poolroom.

But I didn’t go near the poolroom after that. The “operator” was not on hand and Porter and Macallister were doomed to disappointment. The expected signal did not come through. Naturally, two men so prominent couldn’t be seen near the telegraph line where the apparatus had been put up. They returned to Chicago.

Meanwhile I had severed my connection with Billy Wall. He was a swell fellow to work with as long as he played the same role. But it was difficult to find enough for him to do, and he never had a new idea. Our parting was friendly. I went to Louisville and lost track of him.

I was in the South a couple of weeks before returning to Chicago. As luck would have it, one of the first men I met on my return was Macallister.

“Just a minute,” he said. “Where did you disappear to?”

I put my finger to my lips in a gesture to indicate silence and drew him to a corner.

“We were almost caught,” I told him in a whisper. “We had to get out of town fast. I’m certainly glad I bumped into you. I’m broke and I’d like to borrow $500.”

He laughed. “What do you think I am?”

“Listen,” I said, “I’ve shown you how you can make a fortune. And yet you refuse me a small loan like $500.”

“Oh, all right,” he smiled. “Come up to the office.”

He lent me the $500 and I gave him a note. That was the last I saw of Mr. Macallister for many years.

One evening, years later, I was seated at a table in the College Inn with a red-haired young woman. I noticed a group nearby having some kind of celebration, but I thought little of it until a man arose and came over to my table.

The man was Marcus Macallister.

We shook hands and I invited him to sit down.

“I just wanted to tell you,” he said, “that we know you swindled us on those wire deals, but I haven’t said anything about it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“I went into it with my eyes open,” he replied. “I’ve only myself to blame.”

We chatted for awhile, and he told me they were celebrating the success of White City. Then he shook hands again and returned to his party.

After I had parted from Billy Wall, I bought a couple of race horses. Mobina, an old plater, was one of them. I had a fair-sized fortune and had resolved to race my own horses.