were forcibly ejected after a wild mélee amid splashing paint.
Bolton immediately contacted the track officials and learned that he had been duped. However, it was a fact that they were considering a paint job for the grandstand and stables. I later learned that Bolton very likely would have had the job since his men had already started, had not the track manager interfered.
Bolton soon learned that the race he had supposedly bet on was not fixed. But what irked him even more was that he had been misled about the grandstand contract.
He went to Skid. “Where is that little slicker?” he demanded.
Skid pretended ignorance, and Bolton poured out the whole story. “He took advantage of me, he led me on and then swindled me.”
Nor did Bolton let the matter drop. He swore out a warrant charging me with operating a confidence game. I was arrested and the case came before Judge Shott in his Justice Shop. As it happened, Skid knew Judge Shott and had a private talk with him.
Over Bolton’s protests, Judge Shott ruled that he was not “an unwary stranger,” that he had entered the betting deal, believing he would make money on a dishonest race, and that, as a businessman, he should have obtained a written contract before he started painting the grandstand. The case was dismissed and I was released.
I saw Bolton many times after that, at Skidmore’s cigar store. His rancor eventually disappeared and we became friends, though I never tried to take him again.
“You’re a slick duck,” he used to say, and there was grudging admiration in his voice.
The odium of the confidence-game charge did not help my standing at the track, and I decided to take a short rest until the affair had blown over. I went to the lake-resort region of Illinois, northwest of Chicago.
I soon learned of a man I shall call Van Essen, who was by far the wealthiest man in those parts. He had an estate on Gray’s Lake and was a heavy investor in the bank. I had heard there was to be a big Fourth of July picnic at Gray’s Lake, and decided to attend. But first I returned to Chicago to prepare my “props.”
Dan Canary ran a livery service on Wabash Avenue. From him I hired a car and liveried chauffeur. All cars in those days were one-cylinder affairs and were rarities even in a big city like Chicago.
With my chauffeur, I motored to Gray’s Lake and attended the picnic. During the height of the festivities there was a plea for contributions to some charitable institution. The justice of the peace, a onearmed man, made a strong exhortation for funds; then the hat was passed. I contributed twenty-five dollars.
Of course, everybody wanted to see 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