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.
