When Skilly Stole the Cipher.
When Skilly Stole the Cipher.

When Skilly Stole the Cipher.

TWO CON MEN TRY THEIR HAND
AT A NEW GAME AND
GRANADAY WINS.

[New York Press.]

SKILLY, the schemer, had a swell sit with Old Virginia, but it didn't bring him anything on the final count, because he blew it all in against Granaday's game. Old Virginia remonstrated and Skilly confessed his sin, but declared reform was far beyond him. "When I get a bolt of stuff in my breech," he said, "I begin to hear old Granaday a-calling, and I say I'll just slip over there. And when I get there Granaday gives me that old bookmaker look, and I just got to go and set in my checks or bust. And next day I'm broke again and you and I are figuring on another frame-up."
    Old Virginia sympathized, but it's six, two and even his commiseration was phoney. For Skilly was too valuable a side partner to lose and the author of many productive schemes the mind of the veteran was incapable of originating. Nobody knew Virginia's regular name--he had so many. More even than Skilly. But then Skilly was younger.
    The two had got together in Papa Perreard's castle in E street, down in Washington, and over the stud game Skilly's admiration was won by the graceful manner in which the white-haired gent with the distinguished bearing nicked the cards with his finger nail and in the shortest time possible knew every "down" held by the other players. There were Congressmen and a former Governor and a couple of hard-drinking lobbyists in the game, every one of them capable of playing fancy cards, but nary an hombre qualified to start in company with Old Virginia, known at that time as Judge Wynkoop, of Colorado Springs. Skilly retired from that game in good order and quietly watched Judge Wynkoop scoop in the pots. When the session was over he followed the Judge to the sidewalk and remarked pleasantly: "Come across, kid--and nothing short of fifty-fifty." The aristocratic old gentleman stared hard at the cool youth for a full minute, and then handed over half his winnings. They worked double from that time on.
    The pair parlayed a stud game into an office in Fifth avenue, New York, where they prospered as their talents deserved. There was no name on the door and no indication of the nature of the business transacted within. As a matter of fact, the business was elastic and made to accommodate each day's circumstances. Just at present Old Virginia, styling himself for immediate purposes Colonel Tyler Warrenton, and Skilly, posing as the private secretary of the philanthropist and loyal son of the South, were working as neat a game as was ever operated from that particular address.
    The pair had a splendid library--that is, splendid for their purposes. It consisted of such standard works as the "Directory of Directors," "King's Notable New Yorkers," "The Elite Directory," "The Club Men of New York," and all the offshoots of "Who's Who."
    "We will take the Southerners first," said Old Virginia, "because I've got the patter down fine, and, besides, they're the softest set of muts on earth, outside a feather pillow. Write to one of these guys on stationery that has the stars and bars stuck up in one corner, and he'll send you a mortgage on his life by the next mail. We'll pick our people, and they'll all stand a tap."
    That, indeed, was Skilly's idea, and they had set to work. They picked on a wealthy real estate dealer born in Charleston as the first victim. Old Virginia wrote him a note on the most irreproachable of paper, bearing in engraved letters at the top simply the number of the office suite. The communication set forth that Colonel Warrenton had in mind certain investments in New York land, and he turned naturally to the most distinguished of New York's operators, because he too, was a Southerner. Could Mr. Acres make it convenient to receive Colonel Warrenton on a certain date? Mr. Acres wrote back that he could, and on the day set, and 10 minutes before the appointed time, Skilly got Acres on the 'phone, and told all about being Colonel Warrenton's private secretary, and how the Colonel was in conference with Paul Morton and other powers, and couldn't be on time, and couldn't Mr. Acres run up to Colonel Warrenton's office in the afternoon when he would be at leisure?
    And Acres, duly impressed, said he'd come up, and he did, and was conducted by a discreet attendant from the outer office into the private room where Colonel Warrenton received him with the cordiality that is everywhere associated with the section he was supposed to represent. The gentlemen discussed big deals and Acres could feel the commissions coming his way, when the attendant rapped respectfully and handed a note to Old Virginia.
    The latter excused himself while he read, and then said to show the gentleman in. "A note of introduction from General Hampton Rhoades," he said. "He wants me to meet Mr. Claude Silcott, of the Confederate Preservation Bureau."
    Enter Skilly, who is introduced to Mr. Acres, and there is much innocuous chatter for five or ten minutes, while the gentlemen get acquainted. Skilly makes himself thoroughly appreciated, and has his audience in good humor when he comes to the plot of the piece. He explains that the Confederate Preservation Bureau needs funds to carry on its noble work of restoring the flags and such like to the Southerners who once waved them. Only the true friends of Dixieland are to be allowed to help. General Hampton Rhoades has contributed and has suggested that perhaps Colonel Warrenton might like to be included.
    "How much do you-all need?" asks Old Virginia, reaching for a check book on a prominent bank, and on which his own name is conspicuously printed.
    "We won't accept a very large contribution from any one person," says Skilly. "We want the movement to be participated in by all friends."
    "May Ah subscribe for $250?" asks Old Virginia, fingering his pen.
    "Oh, yes," says Skilly, "we shall be very glad to accept that sum."
    Then the name of Tyler Warrenton is written at the bottom of a check for $250 and passed with graceful flourish to the schemeful Skilly. Suddenly Colonel Warrenton declares, "Well, Ah do declare! Heah's Cunnel Acres setting right beside us at this minute, and mo' of a Southernah than I am, Ah'll be bound. Acres," turning to his guest with easy familiarity, "you ought toe be in on this."
    There is only one thing for Acres to do, and he does it. He is not going to miss a monster real estate deal for the sake of a paltry $250. And he signs a check, and Skilly bows himself out.
    These transactions had been fairly numerous for a time, but, of course, they cannot be pursued indefinitely, and after a while the partners agreed they'd better can the play for the present. They must think out a new one.
    Leaving the office one morning for a stroll down the avenue Skilly was startled to see Granaday coming out of a room on the same floor and making for the elevator. They exchanged greetings and Skilly asked what brought the poolroom person into this sanctified atmosphere.
    "Oh, I do a little in the market," said Granaday, "and I just stopped in to see how much I was loser."
    They both grinned. The idea of Granaday being a loser at anything was most deliciously humorous.
    "You haven't been around lately," said Granaday at parting, "come over and see me--I need a new set of tires for my automobile."
    Skilly cursed him bitterly. "But, doggone him, he's right at that," he reflected: "Any time I show at his joint it's just so much more spending money for him. I wish it was different."
    He gave over his notion of a stroll and rode up to his floor again. He had a fancy to investigate the brokerage office that enjoyed Granaday's play. The sign on the outside was unobtrusive and elegant, and said simply, "Cunningham Bros., Bankers and Brokers." The door was closed.
    Skilly went into his own office and spoke to Old Virginia about it. "Say, kid," he said, addressing his white-haired mate as usual, "I just happen into Granaday browsing around this floor. What you reckon he's doing here?"
    "Come to look you up, probably," ventured Virginia. "You haven't been around as often as you usedter."
    "He wasn't after me," said Skilly, and added, "he doesn't have to send, worse luck! He said he was in to see his brokers, the Cunningham Bros. I don't believe that's a broker office. I got a flash as Granaday came out, and I didn't see any blackboard."
    "Well, they woudn't have to have a blackboard," said Virginia. "Anyway, let's look them up, just for fun."
    The firm didn't belong to the Stock Exchange, according to the documents devoted to this subject. Laborious investigation failed to identify them as being connected with the Street in a little or big capacity.
    "Oh, what's the difference?" said Colonel Warrenton, petulantly, at the finish of their research.
    "I've got my curious up," said Skilly. "I'm going to find out about those folk. The more we know the better we are off."
    "Which I question most decidedly," said Old Virginia, who, as mentioned, was considerably Skilly's senior.
    It isn't a work of great magnitude to discover the business of a firm on your own floor, if you have ordinary intelligence, and Skilly had more than that. So it was not surprising when, next morning, he said to Old Virginia: "I know who the guy is that Granaday came to see yesterday."
    "Indeed?" said Virginia, with mild interest.
    "Ever hear of Hick Randall?" asked Skilly.
    "The man they call the poolroom king?" asked his partner.
    "Yes," said Skilly, "Well, Hick Randall is Cunningham Brothers."
    Virginia thought this interesting, but not important. "What of it?" he asked. "I suppose he's got a right to have an office in this building, and put any name he feels like on the door."
    "Sure," said Skilly. He felt his sensation had failed. "Gee, I'd like to be in right with that guy," he said.
    "Why?" asked Virginia.
    "Why?" repeated Skilly, "because he knows more than any other man in the racing game. When he sets his checks in, it's all over but getting in line for the paying teller. He's able to buy jocks and owners and information, just like Pittsburg Phil did, only more so. It ain't gambling when he bets."
    "Better cultivate him," sneered Old Virginia, "he might put you wise."
    "A fat chance!" said Skilly, but he took the tip and watched.
    "Randall sent a message out this morning," said Skilly, a day or two later. "I wonder what was in it, and where it went?"
    "Why didn't you follow the boy and take it away from him?" suggested Old Virginia, lazily.
    "Great!" cried Skilly, jumping up and whacking his partner on the back. "Great for you, kid. That's just what I'll do next time." Old Virginia shrugged his shoulders. Next day another message about the same time, and Skilly followed the boy and saw it delivered at a certain number in a Forty street. "Plunger Hackett lives there," said Skilly, and did some thinking. Then he took counsel with Old Virginia. "Look here, old son," he said, "here's the way it sets--Hick Randall, the gambling king, sends a message every now and then to Plunger Hackett, and the same day Hackett makes a big kill in the ring, as you can see by the papers. What's the answer? Just this. Randall gets his information by a hundred good routes, and Hackett acts as his betting commissioner. If we could get hold of that message we wouldn't need to worry about a new scheme, my brave Colonel Warrenton."
    Old Virginia was interested at last. They went over the facts carefully. "We'll get the next message," decided Virginia. "Of course, he doesn't put one over every day, but next time he does we'll know. By the way, what has Granaday to do with it?"
    "Well," said Skilly, "Randall is the topside guy in the poolroom game, and the little fellows all have to come to see him every now and then."
    They had learned that the messages, when there were any, were sent off at noon sharp, and on this information they laid their plans. Skilly occupied a seat in a saloon near Plunger Hackett's house and started up at each ring of the phone. For three days he failed to get the word, and then it came. Old Virginia reported the message as having been sent.
    Skilly made his way craftily across the street, and, carefully feeling his way, entered the vestibule of the Hackett home, one of the stormdoors of which was closed. He was prepared, if his presence were discovered, to act the part of a man in search of a suppositious person at this address. But the inner door did not open, and in a few minutes Skilly saw the messenger approaching. Skilly threw his hat in one corner of the vestibule, and, bareheaded and with much show of indignation, faced the boy. Snatching the message from him he demanded the reason for the delay. "You ought to have been here five minutes ago," he said, signing the slip. "Don't let this happen again."
    The boy slunk off, and Skilly, back of the storm door, waited till the youngster was out of sight, then made a successful getaway to the saloon, where in privacy he carefully opened the flap of the envelope and copied the message. Then he hurried to a near-by messenger office and sent the rifled note to Hackett.
    At the fifth-avenue office Skilly and Old Virginia puzzled over the communication. It read thus:
    "Dear Sir: We have bought for your account and risk--
        100 Amal Copper, 67
        150 Am Ag Ch, 22�
        Am Gr T, 7 5/8.
        100 Amer Can, 4�
        200 Am Heat & Light, 3�
        200 Amer Can, 4�
          20 Am Coal Oil pf, 80
          50 Am Coal Oil, 30�
                                                   Very truly yours,
                                    "CUNNINGHAM BROTHERS."
    "I know it," said Old Virginia disgustedly, "it's nothing but a stock mem. You've been smoking."
    "Oh, behave," said Skilly, "it's a cipher. Let's get after it. We haven't too much time. The policy people get out their 'official' the same way. With them, it's the numbers that count. The stocks are just stalls."
    The pair worked all afternoon and missed. Next morning's papers spoke of another big win made by Plunger Hackett on Derision, which was backed down from 5 to 2.
    "That was the horse," said Skilly, "now we'll see how to get at the start when we know the finish. There are eight letters in Derision. How many stocks were mentioned?" They found the answer to be eight. "Look," said Skilly, excitedly, "there's two 'i's' in Derision, and there's two Am Cans. Am Can must represent the letter 'i.' Gimme, a stock list."
    It didn't take the pair long to figure out preliminaries from known finishes, and to discover that the cipher was simply the stock list with the alphabet standing for the first twenty-six of the securities listed. "And now," said Skilly, "watch me go after that Granaday person." The combination adventured with another Southern gentleman and got a $250 check. With what the Colonel put in out of his savings, the bank roll was $1,000 when the next message was intercepted. This called for a play on Hand Me Down, and Skilly took his wad around to Granaday and set it all in at the first betting, which was even money. Hand Me Down closed at 3 to 5 and won by the length of a seven-car "L" train. Skilly drew down his $2,000 and said things to Granaday he had long wanted to say. He and Old Virginia agreed the occasion was a felicitous one. "It's just like money in the bank, kid," said Skilly, "all we got to do is to get the messages and make the plays. We won't win every hand, but we'll win two out of three, and I guess that's good enough."
    Contrary to expectations, there was a message next day. It read Hostetter and Skilly put the $2,000 capital in at the first betting, the price being 4 to 1. Hostetter finished seventh.
    "I didn't think Hick Randail would let them put him as far out of line as that," said Skilly, disconsolately. However, they managed to raise a short roll and stood ready to recoup. Again there was a surprise, for the very next day another message was sent. Skilly, having signed for it in the Hackett doorway, resumed his hat and hurried out to the adjoining saloon. His message read:
    "Dear Sir--We have sold for your account--
    2 Amer. Suckers.
    1 Skilly.
    1 Old Virginia.
                                                   Very truly yours,
                                    CUNNINGHAM BROTHERS."
    "I always warned you against gambling," said Old Virginia when he glimpsed the message. "Let's stick to business."
    "I guess you're right, kid," said Skilly, subduedly. "Gimme that list of members of the Southern Society again."


Source:

Unknown, "When Skilly Stole the Cipher," Washington Post, Washington, D.C., Sunday, 21 June, 1908, p. M3.

Created May 22, 2006; Revised May 22, 2006
http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com/~wynkoop/index.htm
Comments to [email protected]

Copyright © 2006 by Christopher H. Wynkoop, All Rights Reserved

This site may be freely linked to but not duplicated in any fashion without my written consent.

Site map

The Wynkoop Family Research Library
Home