Yellow Kid" Weil

I returned to my family in Chicago. I had accumulated some money, but I got rid of it even faster than I got hold of it. When I spent an evening at one of the gay spots, it was not unusual for me to spend $500. This was in the days when the average worker considered $500 fairly good pay for six months’ work.

I knew my failings. That is why, when I made a good score, I turned a major part of it over to my wife, Jessie. She was wise enough to know it was best to put our money into something tangible.

Thus, at her behest, we gradually acquired considerable property in Chicago. Some of it was in vacant lots expected to increase in value. But most of it consisted of income-producing property such as apartment buildings. If I had followed the course my wife had charted, I might have escaped poverty in my old age - who knows?

At that time we owned a three-story apartment building on Pratt Boulevard in the Rogers Park section of Chicago. We occupied a nine-room apartment and rented the rest of the building.

Not so far away on North Broadway was Johnny Butterley’s buffet, a gathering place for many people of unusual talents - confidence men, actors, writers. I went there because it was close to home and I liked rare wines - and Johnny served the best. The actors and writers came from the old Essanay Studios near by where they were doing the pioneer work in the motion picture industry. The con men liked Butterley’s because of its atmosphere and its location, far from the territory of the Central Police, where the Detective Bureau was located.

I was seated here one day, when “Big John” Worthington came in. I had christened Big John “the Wolf of La Salle Street” and the appellation stuck. He was a big fellow, about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and an imposing manner. His features were broad and stern. He dressed well, but conservatively. He bore a strong resemblance to the late J. P. Morgan and could easily have passed for the financier, except among Mr. Morgan’s intimates.

Big John looked around and, seeing me, sidled up. He asked in a whisper, “Joe, how would you like to be vice-president of a LaSalle Street bank?”

My attitude seemed to annoy him. “Are you questioning my sincerity?” he demanded. A flush of anger crossed his stern features.

“If you were sincere, John, I’m sorry,” I replied. “But surely you must realize what would happen if I became an official of a bank. There would certainly be a run, followed by the complete collapse of the institution!”

“On the contrary, Joe,” he said, “the depositors would feel that your acumen would safeguard their interests.”

Briefly, he told me: The American State Bank, at 10 South LaSalle Street, could be purchased. (This bank had no connection with the present American National Bank in Chicago.) All the stock could be purchased for $75,000. He proposed that we invest $37,500 each and share the control. He would be president and I vice-president.

Big John was acquainted with Melville Reeves, known as the Skyscraper Burglar. Reeves had come into the possession of millions of dollars worth of bonds that had been stolen. It was Worthington’s idea that we could buy these bonds from Reeves at a small fraction of their actual value.

“Accept them as collateral for loans,” he replied. “Of course, we could use fictitious names for the borrowers. And we would always have good collateral to show what had happened to the depositors’ money.”

“I’m sorry, John,” I said, “but such a proposal doesn’t interest me. These transactions in stolen bonds would have just one result: they would take us out of circulation for a long time.”

“Perhaps not. But I think I have a plan that will reap us considerably more profit - and with far less risk - than your scheme.”

“I do. My trips abroad have familiarized me with their uses. Through letters of credit, I think we can clean up.”

It was agreed that we would buy the stock, though Big John did not fully realize the scope of my plan. I didn’t understand his ready acquiescence until he said:

I agreed and gave him a check for $75,000. He purchased the stock and we took over the bank. It was an old-fashioned, gray stone structure and was comparatively small. An iron stairway led from the sidewalk to the entrance.

We decided it was best to retain all the personnel with whom the patrons were familiar - tellers, bookkeepers, and other employees. We made only three changes: Big John became president and I was named vice-president. A disbarred attorney, whom I shall call Newman, we made cashier. In our plans, the cashier was the key man.

Big John was a natural for the job of president. Not only did he look the part, but he was well versed in financial operations and was a graduate of Harvard.

Nobody misses a vice-president, so that fitted into my plans. As long as John’s imposing figure could be seen at the president’s desk, my own absence would not be noticed.

We agreed that all our American business would be conducted legitimately in accordance with general banking practices of that time. Worthington took care of all the routine matters requiring official attention.

I went to work on a scheme that, as far as I know, had never been tried up to that time. Using the bank’s best engraved stationery, I wrote out six letters of credit, each for $100,000. They were signed by Newman, the cashier, and the bank’s seal was affixed.

A letter of credit is just what the name implies, and there are two kinds. One is a letter from a bank or mercantile house, addressed to a specific correspondent or affiliate, authorizing a certain designated party to draw drafts for certain sums.

The other - the kind I prepared - is a circular letter of credit. It is addressed to bankers and merchants at large and authorizes the designated party to draw any sum up to the limit fixed in the letter. Each bank or mercantile establishment honoring a draft writes the amount on the back of the letter. For example, when ten entries of $10,000 each have been made, a $100,000 credit is exhausted. The last banker to honor the letter takes it up and forwards it to the issuing bank.

Circular letters of credit have been in wide use, both at home and abroad, for many years. They have been developed into very fancy documents, with engraving, embellishments, and paper as hard to imitate as federal currency. But at that time they were not so well protected, and mine looked as authentic as any.

Armed with the six letters, I left for New York, where I contacted six men - all well-known boat-riders or transoceanic cardsharps and swindlers: The Harmony Kid, Bill Ponds, George Barnell, Max Cott, Bud Hauser, and Henry Smart.

They all agreed to try my plan, and we sailed for Europe. We dropped Ponds at Liverpool, from whence he proceeded to London. The rest of us went on to Paris, with which I was quite familiar and there set up headquarters for our venture.

Each of the six men was given one of the letters of credit. Each engaged the services of a young woman; that was necessary to our scheme. Henry Smart remained with me in Paris, while the other four went to Rome, Vienna, Budapest, and Antwerp, each accompanied by the girl he had engaged.

In Paris, Smart and his girl visited such places as Cartier’s, Poiret’s, and Schiaparelli’s, buying expensive jewels and fine furs. Smart and the woman posed as wealthy American tourists. Parisians dearly loved the American tourist, especially for his money.

The woman made the selections and Smart paid with a draft against the letter of credit. It was not unusual for American business men to take their wives for spending sprees in the Paris shops. And they presented letters of credit more often than they paid in cash.

If the purchases the woman had selected amounted to $2,500, Smart wrote a draft for $5,000. He received the change in currency and no questions were asked. In this manner, he drew until the entire $100,000 had been exhausted.

We were prepared in advance for any inquiry. If any banker had cabled to Chicago to see if the letters of credit were good, our cashier, Newman, was ready to cable back that they were. But nobody made inquiry.

We had to work fast. One of our drafts might clear within six weeks. As each draft came in, it was turned over to Big John, who protested it. But by the time the draft got back to Paris or whatever other European capital it had been drawn in, we were back in the United States.

Within a few weeks, Barnell and Hauser joined us in Paris and we returned to New York, where the Harmony Kid, Ponds, and Cott were waiting for us. It had been agreed that each man would keep 40 per cent of the net proceeds. Some of them sold the furs and jewels on the return trip, in a few instances getting more than they had paid. They all had channels to dispose of the merchandise in New York at a discount.

When an accounting was made, we found it had been a very profitable venture. The total amount turned over to me was $292,000. This amount I took back to Chicago, dividing with Big John, who was now able to repay the $37,500 I had loaned him to go in the banking business.

I had been back only a few days when the first complaint came in. It was from Barclay’s of London. I had anticipated this, however, and had already sent Newman to Mexico City, where he took up residence under an assumed name. He was supplied with sufficient money for expenses and his salary was paid regularly.

“This letter of credit was issued without my knowledge,” Big John replied. “Obviously it was a fraud perpetrated by the cashier, who signed it. The cashier has absconded and we have been unable to locate him.”

The next complaint was from the Banque de France. Others came subsequently from Vienna, Antwerp, Budapest, and Rome. Big John made the same reply to all. No one was able to prove that he was not telling the truth. Newman, who had signed all the letters, was nowhere to be found. There was no evidence to connect Worthington with the transactions. Strangely enough, nobody thought of blaming me. We continued to support Newman in Mexico City until the affair had been forgotten.

Our bank prospered, but the profits were not spectacular. Big John was not satisfied. He was impatient for big money. One day he asked me into his office.

“Don’t be foolish, John,” I returned earnestly. “Those bonds can all be traced. You’d be paying $100,000 for a ticket to the pen.”

“If we made loans on them and locked them in the vault, how could they be traced? Everybody doesn’t have the combination to our vault.”

“Go ahead, John. But count me out. I’m willing to take chances, but I’m not willing to do anything so foolhardy.”

The transaction was completed then and there. Big John Worthington paid me my original investment of $37,500 and my connection with the hank ceased.

He went ahead and made the deal with Reeves. He milked the bank of all its funds and eventually it was forced to close. But the bond gang had no intention of letting him get away with the money. They kidnapped him and did not let him go until he had parted with the money he had taken from the bank.

Big John was broke when the kidnappers released him, and he never recovered. A few years later he died penniless. He was saved from a grave in potter’s field by a collection among con men to give him a decent burial.