Читать книгу "Yellow Kid" Weil - J.R. Weil - Страница 13

CHAPTER 6

FROM NAGS TO RICHES

Hardly a week had passed after the Van Essen episode when the automobile I had hired from Dan Canary’s livery stable on Wabash Avenue was found on a side road near the outskirts of Joliet. Slumped over the wheel was the chauffeur who had driven me to Gray’s Lake. He was dead. He had been murdered.

Detectives who investigated learned that a man using the name of Dove had entered the Congress Hotel. Approaching the switchboard operator, he asked her where he could hire a motor car. She suggested Dan Canary’s establishment. Dove requested her to phone and have the car call for him at the hotel’s Michigan Avenue entrance. This was done, and when the car arrived the doorman helped Dove into it.

Detective De Roche went to see Dan Canary, who knew no one named Dove. But he did recall that I had rented the same car with the same chauffeur for the trip to Gray’s Lake. De Roche obtained a picture of me and showed it to the switchboard girl. She said that I was the man who had ordered the car.

The first I heard about it was when the papers came out with big headlines: “WEIL IS DOVE.”

Of course, the charge was absurd. I have never carried a gun or lethal weapon of any kind. It is well known, even to my bitterest enemies, that I have never resorted to violence.

I called a good criminal lawyer named Howard Sprokel. He said that he would surrender me, but first, I must come to his office. I did, and convinced him that I knew nothing of the murder of the chauffeur.

“All right, Joe,” he said. “I believe you. We’ll go over to the Detective Bureau and give you up. But first, we’re going to the Congress Hotel.”

He explained his plan, and we went to the Congress. Going up to the switchboard girl, he asked her to put in a call to his office. Then he took the phone and began a lengthy conversation with his secretary.

While he was on the phone, I engaged the switchboard girl in small talk.

She was a friendly sort, and I had a glib tongue. We discussed trivial matters and got along well. We conversed until Sprokel hung up and turned from the phone.

“You two seem to be well acquainted,” he said to the girl. “Been friends a long time?”

“Why, no,” the girl replied. “To tell you the truth, I never saw him until today.”

“Are you sure of that?” Sprokel asked.

“Certainly I am.”

I tipped my hat to the young woman, thanked her for a pleasant interlude, and accompanied Sprokel out the Michigan Avenue entrance. Sprokel pretended to have some business down the street and I waited in front, engaging the doorman in conversation. We discussed the man who had ordered the motor car from Dan Canary. He gave me the same details I had read in the papers.

Sprokel returned. He repeated the questions he had asked the girl. The doorman assured him that I was a stranger, that he had never before laid eyes on me.

“It worked, Joe,” said Sprokel, as we went over to the police station.

We asked for Chief-of-Police Collins. He listened to Sprokel’s story, then summoned Detective Johnny Halpin.

“Go over to the Congress Hotel with these gentlemen and verify their statements,” he instructed Halpin.

Both the girl and the doorman told him that I was not the man named Dove who had ordered the motor car. We went back to Headquarters and Halpin reported to Chief Collins.

The chief was apologetic. The newspapers were apologetic. My wife fainted.

In subsequent years, I became better acquainted with John Halpin. He rose to the post of chief of detectives. I know that he was a square fellow. I never offered him a bribe, because I knew that he would not have taken it. He was chief during the days of the infamous Barney Bertsch, the fixer. Halpin would have nothing to do with Bertsch, but was accused of accepting bribes, was convicted, and sent to the penitentiary. It was as foul a deal as I ever saw.

When Halpin got out of prison, I was in the money. I tried to set him up in business in a billiard hall. But everywhere he applied, he was refused a lease - as soon as my identity became known.

Just the same, Johnny Halpin remained square. He is an old man now, an armed guard at an industrial plant and gets along well with his fellow employees.

One day, shortly after I had been cleared of the Dove murder, I entered an establishment near the Loop-a wrecking and salvage place. I talked to the president, whom I shall call Ernest Rappe, and the vice-president of the company, Lester Bruno.

“I want to build a small race track,” I explained. “I thought you might have the equipment.”

“I doubt it,” said Rappe, a big fellow. “But you can look around. What are you planning to do - start a new track in Chicago?”

“Oh, no,” I replied. “But my partner and I want some place where we can train a horse in secrecy.”

I looked around, but of course the equipment I was looking for wasn’t there. But Rappe was interested and that satisfied my purpose.

“If we haven’t got what you need, we’ll get it for you,” he offered. “Suppose you come out to dinner tonight and we’ll discuss it further.”

That night, I dined at Rappe’s home. Afterward, while we were having coffee and cigars, he began:

“You know, my partner and I have been wondering why you want to train a horse in secrecy.”

I hesitated, as if doubtful whether to take him into my confidence. Finally, I murmured:

“We have a plan to clean up on wagers. We have an exceptionally fast horse named Black Fonso. He can beat anything on the turf today. Here’s what we plan to do. We’ve bought an inferior horse that resembles Black Fonso. We have entered him at the racecourses under that name. He will race for several weeks, but won’t win anything.

“Of course, the odds on him will be long. Meanwhile, we plan to keep Black Fonso in shape. And then, after our horse has lost enough races to make the odds on him very long, we will substitute Black Fonso. The authorities will have become familiar with a horse by that name. They won’t know the switch has been made - nor will the bookmakers. We expect to collect a tremendous sum in wagers at long odds.”

Rappe was interested. “And you need to build a race track where Black Fonso can be kept in shape?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why don’t you use the course at one of the tracks where the horses are not running?” he asked-a natural question.

“We could do that,” I replied, “but some tout would be certain to get onto it. If we’re to clean up, the training must be done in absolute secrecy.”

“I can understand that now,” said Rappe, as he mulled the matter over. While I lay no claim to telepathic powers, it was easy to read his thoughts: he was wondering how he could get in on this deal.

I have made proposals to numerous people for crooked bets on the races. If these bets had been made as I proposed them, the bookmakers would have lost thousands of dollars. Everyone who was ever approached on a deal of this sort was interested, but not one of them ever gave any thought to the fact that it was basically dishonest. Rappe was no exception.

“Mr. Rappe,” I confided, “I am not a wealthy man. I can’t afford to buy the equipment we need. That is why I was looking at your salvage material. Perhaps you would be interested in helping to defray the expenses of training Black Fonso.”

He jumped at the bait without bothering to see if there was a hook attached. “I would! Provided, of course, that I could share in the profits when you clean up.”

“Naturally,” I replied. “Mr. Rappe, I’ll make you a proposal. Tomorrow, if you will meet me, I’ll take you to see Black Fonso. If you’re still interested, we can make some sort of deal. If you will furnish certain sums to purchase equipment and further the project, we’ll let you in on the betting.”

“Both Mr. Bruno and I would be interested,” said Rappe. “We will go with you.”

I had Black Fonso out at Palatine at old Jim Wilson’s farm. When Black Fonso came prancing out of the stall they were visibly impressed. He stood sixteen hands high and had a satiny black coat, with not a spot on him. He was really a beauty - black as night and with a spirited gleam in his eye. They were very enthusiastic.

The next day I called at their place of business to discuss terms. Bruno seemed the more impressionable of the two, and I had learned that he wrote the checks for the firm. This made him doubly valuable in my eyes, and I addressed most of my talk to him.

I explained why Black Fonso must be trained in the utmost secrecy if our plan was to succeed. I was quite frank about the inevitable expense.

It was agreed that Rappe and Bruno would pay certain costs to be passed on by me from time to time. In return, on the day that I selected to run Black Fonso as a ringer, they would be given an opportunity to wager as much as they liked.

A few days later we brought in Black Fonso from the country and stabled him near the Harlem track. We clocked him one morning at the Harlem seven-eighths course. The season had closed and we had the track to ourselves.

Rappe and Bruno held a stop watch and I used a timing device then used in harness racing. It was a mechanical clock, which was started or stopped by blowing into a rubber tube attachment. It gave us a double check on Black Fonso, who ran the course in one minute, twenty-seven and a fraction seconds.

At that time, this was considered very fast, although present-day horses have been speeded up so that 1:27 for a seven-eighths course now would tag a horse as a hopeless plug. Rappe and Bruno were extremely gratified. Of course, in this case, there was no faking on the distance.

“When do we make the killing?” Bruno wanted to know.

“At the right time,” I replied. “First, we must race an inferior horse under the name of Black Fonso so that authorities at the course will become familiar with him. I have a suitable horse for this purpose.

“Also,” I pointed out, “we must get Black Fonso in tiptop shape. We must have a place where he can be exercised secretly. I have located some equipment suitable for the purpose. In a few weeks, the odds should be long enough so that we can run him in and make a real cleanup.”

While I knew that it was not good policy to touch a potentially rich sucker for insignificant sums, I did get a few hundred from Rappe and Bruno to pay Black Fonso’s training expenses. I told them that I considered it better to train him in the country, away from prying eyes. They could see the logic of this.

What I didn’t tell them was that Black Fonso was a “Morning Glory”-a type of horse that is not uncommon, even today. He makes a sensational showing and looks like a world-beater in the morning; but in the afternoon’s competition, he folds up completely. Black Fonso was a whiz in a morning work-out but a washout in an afternoon race.

Another thing I didn’t tell them was that the horse entered at the track as Black Fonso was Black Fonso himself - he was the one and only horse I had. He didn’t need another horse anyway to make a poor showing - he was quite capable of doing it himself. And of course we helped him along this path to obscurity.

It is the custom, on the day that a horse is entered in a race, to withhold all feed, giving him only a small amount of water. This helps to put him on edge by the time he goes to the post. We always saw to it that Black Fonso had even more than his usual daily intake of hay and water-a precaution to keep him from winning, if by some freak of luck, he might come near it.

He was never in the money, however, and every time he raced and finished back of the field, the odds on him became longer. In three weeks the odds against him were 10 to 1. I went to Rappe and Bruno and told them I had decided on a date when the horse running as Black Fonso would be withdrawn and the real Black Fonso would be substituted.

“Put us down for about $300,” said Bruno.

“Don’t be foolish!” I scoffed. “Here you have an opportunity to clean up and you talk of a paltry $300. I thought I was dealing with men who knew how to bet.”