the man who had given twenty-five dollars-a considerable sum in the rural areas. Word got around that I was the man who had driven the car to Gray’s Lake. The car alone aroused considerable excitement.
My main object was to meet Mr. Van Essen, and that was no trick at all. He came forward to see the man with the philanthropic streak.
He was very cordial. I could see that he was deeply impressed by my display of affluence.
“Mr. Van Essen,” I said, “perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for a farm. I want to breed horses.”
“I’ll certainly be happy to help you, Mr. Weil,” he replied. “It must be fascinating to be a breeder of blooded horses and see them race and win and have your own colors.”
“It is,” I replied. “You seem to have a great interest in horse racing yourself, Mr. Van Essen.”
“Yes,” he declared, with a show of modesty. “I happen to own the poolroom here in Gray’s Lake, and we do some wagering.”
“Is that so?” This was shaping up better than I had hoped. “Now, about that farm-”
Mr. Van Essen owned a great deal of the land around Gray’s Lake. He showed me the property and I chose 350 acres, with a few buildings.
Van Essen was very happy because of the prospective deal.
“Of course, I’ll have to go over this with my architect,” I pointed out. “Meanwhile, why don’t you come up to Chicago with me and be my guest at the races?”
He accepted eagerly, and we motored back to Chicago. The Harlem season had opened and we went to that track. First, I took Mr. Van Essen to my fine tack room. He was greatly impressed by this window dressing - another display of affluence.
“How about a tip, Mr. Weil?” he asked. “As long as I’m free and in the city, I might as well take a flyer.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, “but I have no tips. I bet only on certainties. I have to be certain a horse is going to win before I lay out my money.” Then to throw him off his guard: “Mr. Van Essen, when we have become better acquainted - that is, when I have purchased the farm and remodeled it - I’ll take you into my confidence.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Weil,” he returned. His voice fairly sang with elation. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have met you.”
I showed him around the track. We watched a few races, and then I took him to the station. I promised to see him soon.
A week later I motored again to Gray’s Lake, accompanied by a supposed architect who was, in fact, my stooge Winterbill. Guided by Mr. Van Essen, we went over the ground. Winterbill, as I have said, was very impressive looking. He carried a sketch book and pencil and from time to time made notes and drew diagrams of proposed buildings.
When we had completed our preliminary survey of the property, Winterbill returned to Chicago. I stayed on as Mr. Van Essen’s guest.
The following morning a telegram came for me. I had arranged for it beforehand.
“I came away and forgot my glasses,” I said. (As a matter of fact, I didn’t even wear glasses at the time.) “Would you be good enough to read this message for me?”
Mr. Van Essen was only too happy to do so. He read it aloud:
EVENTS HAVE SHAPED UP ALL IS SATISFACTORY
RETURN IMMEDIATELY.
“That means we can close the deal very shortly,” I said, smiling.
I then unfolded to Van Essen the story of a race that was fixed for my horse to win.
“Inasmuch as you have been so gracious to me,” I added, “even neglecting your own affairs to aid mine, I’d like to do something for you. I will, provided you don’t tell anyone about it nor how much you win - not even your wife.”
Mr. Van Essen was so delighted that he vowed eternal secrecy. He obtained a draft on the First National Bank of Chicago and we left for the city. He stopped at the bank and cashed his draft. When he came out he displayed a big wad of bills.
I said, “You’ll have to get those small bills changed into $1,000 bills. When we make the bet, it will be just before post time and speed will be essential. The bookmaker wouldn’t have time to count so many bills. And if we go too much ahead of time, the odds on the horse will come down when they see the vast sums that are being wagered on it.”
My purpose in telling him to change the bills was that I thought he’d hand me the money and ask me to go back into the bank. But it didn’t work out that way. Van Essen went himself, returning with ten $1,000 bills. I had told him that I was wagering $100,000 on the race.
On the way to the track, we stopped at several roadhouses for drinks. When we arrived at The Gardens-a popular roadhouse of that day - it was nearly time for the race to begin. The Harlem racecourse was located not much more than about six blocks away.
“Perhaps it would be a better plan,” I told Mr. Van Essen, “if I handled the whole thing through my betting commissioners. You might get confused.”
But Van Essen was reluctant to part with his money. So I had to use a psychological touch. I was wearing a light English-whipcord topcoat.
“It’s almost time,” I muttered, looking at my watch. “I’ll have to hurry to make it.” I took off my topcoat and handed it to him. “Here, hold my coat and give me the money. I can make better time without the coat.”
He took the coat and handed over the money. For some reason, he seemed to feel that, as long as he had my coat, he was holding security for his money. Actually he was holding the bag. I did not return for my coat. Eventually Van Essen went to look for me. While he was gone my chauffeur disappeared. Mr. Van Essen returned to Gray’s Lake a sadder but a much wiser man.
At the track I had taken one precaution. Alderman John A. Rogers was then making book at the Harlem course. He was a good friend of mine, so I went to him.
“Johnny,” I said, “do me a favor. I have a deal on with a man. I’d like you to enter $10,000 in your book on Black Fonso.”
“Sure, Joe.” Rogers made the entry, though no actual money was wagered.
I felt rather good about the Van Essen deal, but I hadn’t heard the last of it. A former Chicago policeman had a summer home in Gray’s Lake. My victim told him the story. On the advice of the policeman, Van Essen had me arrested and charged me with swindling him. But the case didn’t get very far. Alderman Rogers brought his books into court and the $10,000 entry sufficed as proof that Van Essen’s money had been wagered.
The case was dropped because he could hardly do anything to me for failing to fix a race!
Why did I get away with all these deals - why didn’t the racing authorities do something? As a matter of fact Sheridan Clark was reluctant to press a charge against me. For one day when police had raided Hawthorne for some alleged illegal activities, I was on hand, and helped Clark to escape in my carriage. He never forgot the favor.
Most of the people connected with racing in those days - jockeys, trainers, stable boys,
