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
