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 ani-
mated 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 card-
sharps, swindlers, gamblers, policemen, and politicians.

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 Wail."
"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, Box W-62.

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, bowl-
ing 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 eyeshadc, 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 pay off the New York 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.
Then 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 1. 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 sup-
posed 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, event-
ually 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.
MacalUster 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 every-
thing 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 ofif. 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 sec 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 him-
self, 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.