The Long Con

as Lady Liberty herself. Immigrants saw these towering figures as symbols of possibility. They arrived in ship after ship because they understood America to be a place of opportunity, as did the conmet who waited for the newcomers at the docks, some of whom, as we've talked about before on this show,

went about trying to sell them that very bridge. The scammers who preyed upon the dreams of these sea weary travelers and convinced them that they've had a bridge to sell were a dime a dozen, so much so that the processors of Ellis Island began warning people about them and others to be on the lookout for. It was

evident that the American dream was ripe for exploitation. Immigrants arrived believing they were starting over, that their new lives were about to begin, and some, like Bertha Hayman, relished in starting over again and again and again. Bertha was committed to the hustle. A daughter of Prussia, she made her way to the United States in eighteen seventy eight. She was an immigrant too, landing wide eyed at the docks like so many before her, but she wasn't one

to be scammed the opposite. In fact, Umbertha was known to be quite the talker, a bullish and brazen woman who made it her life's work to ingratiate herself with wealthy men. She was money driven, and in the golden era of industrialization, she knew that some of these men of Old New York had some cash to spare. So Bertha donned her finest garb and played the part of a rich mourning widow, often talking herself into endless lines

of credit, gifts and forged checks. The issue she often told her marks was that of course, she had the money, she was just struggling to access it. But she was charming and her looks were thought to be disarming by some, and this got her a long way. She stayed at the finest hotels, had a maid, and worked her way around the city. Her hard work involved less sweat and more pearls. As bold as she was, it's perhaps no surprise that she became a known quantity to the New

York City Police Department. Alberta was in and out of jail, but never stayed too long, and somehow managed to still keep bilking fortunes behind bars. The name she made for herself horrified and impressed many, to the point that she was eventually given her own one woman theater show. In it, she played herself recounting her capers and life of crime for all to enjoy. For this, she earned a paycheck fair and square. It seems that in America, newcomers could

become anyone. It's long been a place of reinvention. It still is today. But as you'll see, some took this quite literally, and not all for reasons you might expect. I'm Lorn Vogelbaum. Welcome to American Shadows. The Brooklyn Daily Eagle didn't mention her name, but her story was a cautionary tale for you youngsters across the city. The newspaper reported that she was a gal of sixteen off for an afternoon outing at P. T. Barnum's Great American Museum.

It was one of the most famous places in all of New York City. There, visitors were greeted with a collection of sights, sounds, and stories that prickled across their imaginations like goosebumps on the skin. Many people her age had never been to a city, let alone held court with a giantess, dwarf, or mermaid in New York, though anything was possible. She was alone that day, which wasn't

terribly uncommon. In the eighteen forties. Many young folks had been moving into the city to find new work opportunities, and there they sought out entertainment too. While she watched to play at the museum, a man saddled up to her. He appeared to be a gentlemanly fellow and taking the time to point out what was going on to us. This encounter probably wouldn't feel dissimilar to sitting with a

chatty moviegoer, but she couldn't quite shake him. He was so knowledgeable and so generous that she assumed he worked at the place, and she didn't want to be rude. By the time the play was over, it was dark. She had never intended to stay this long. The girl was stuck now, not wanting to travel alone, but not exactly excited to be traveling with this strange man. He insisted on walking her home, which she allowed him to do,

but he didn't stop at her front door. He allowed himself in, brushing past the maid and installing himself in her parlor, and there he sat at ease, but only for a few minutes, until the girl's father appeared. Both men, of course, were shocked to see the other, and only then did the intruder realize that the jig was up, and that his night of persuasion and intended predation had come to an end. The Brooklyn Daily Eagle went on to plea with Barnum to be more dutiful to his

visitors and safeguard them against opportunists. These people were a social scourge, the paper implied, and they were multiplying. Things were changing quickly in nineteenth century America. Industrialization was providing jobs where family farms were beginning to fall short, and young people were migrating into cities. Here they were on their own, dislocated from the watchful eyes of their families and communities. Most of them were on their own for

the first time in their lives. They moved into hotels and boarding homes. They went to work, they went to bars, they went to dance halls. They were performing independence and a new kind of adulthood that the country had never seen before. As a way to meet the needs of this ballooning teenage population, dozens of etiquette manuals were published around how to take care of oneself. These books spelled out rules for living, how to eat, dress, work, and court.

They would become respectable members of society if only they could follow the rules. These newcomers were hopeful, and they were often naive. Urban life was ripe for anonymity, and sometimes this anonymity became an opportunity for crime. The etiquette manuals warned the newly arrived about the dangers of confidence men. These were opportunistic swindlers, wolves in sheep's clothing, seemingly charitable strangers who only dropped their masks when it was a

minute too late. Confidence men were nothing but clever actors performing charity on the stage of New York City's streets. There they hustled to get whatever they wanted by becoming whomever their unsuspecting victims wanted them to be. The tools of their trade were a bit of psychology and perhaps some fancy tailoring. The term confidence man or con man for short, first appeared in eighteen forty nine, coined by

the New York Press. The paper was documenting the court trial of William Thompson, whose game had been to win the confidence of a stranger as to borrow his watch and walk away laughing. The paper suggested men like him were becoming more common. By the eighteen sixties, police captains estimated that there were twenty five hundred professional criminals living and operating in New York. They became a quirky, dangerous feature of the city that needed to be kept under watch.

And there was one man, a son of Brooklyn, who had become one of the most famous cons of the ma all. What made him different was that money wasn't his end game, but rather something much deeper. The mirror was doing its job in it. The young man gazed at his reflection. He raised his eyebrows, jutted his chin, and pulled his shoulders back. He tried a few more postures, a few more faces. His looking glass was a tool. In time, it would become his constant companion, his fiercest ally,

a means of social lubrication and upward mobility. In it, he saw not who he truly was, but carefully crafted image of everyone he ever wanted to be. As he looked at himself and studied his newest disguise, the mirror gave him even more ideas of who he could become. That day, at nineteen years old, he would be a recently appointed US consular agent to the fictitious Portabrey's Morocco, a fairly straightforward claim, aided by the fact that Google Maps had yet to be invented. Who he really was

at the beginning was someone a bit more humble. He was a pint sized kid named Stephen Jacob Weinberg born in eighteen ninety in Brooklyn. He lived in a plain neighborhood, on a plain block, in a plain two story home. Nothing about his origin would suggest he would ever or eke out a life beyond the most ordinary of existences. His family was working class, and his dream of becoming a doctor was pretty out of reach, so he took on everyday service jobs, making a buck in the same

way many other folks did at the time. Not much about him was notable except for his imagination. He dreamed of a world outside of his block. He wished for power, He wanted to steam, respect, to instill all, and he wanted to fast track his way to it all. At his house in Brooklyn, he began stuffing his closets with a clever array of uniforms. He had trousers and coat tails,

brass buttons, and military jackets. He had an extensive collection of shoes and ties and other trappings of important fineries. But if one looked close enough, they could see that something might be askew, a button missing the wrong shoe color, ribbons pinned the wrong way. But these thoughts would quickly quiet once Stephen began to speak as he unraveled yarns

that captivated anyone in earshot. By twenty one though, he was frequently wanted by police for his impersonation tactics, but amazingly, he never tried very hard to hide himself. He continued to reside in his old neighborhood and never legally changed his name. Though he went by many, he never changed his signature, mustache, or dyed his hair. The police assumed he wouldn't be foolish enough to go home when they

were looking for him, but they were wrong. By all accounts, he lived quite comfortably, close to his parents and surrounded by all of his costuming. In nineteen fifteen, the U. S. Navy received a phone call from a man claiming to be Romania's consul general in New York. The caller claimed that Queen Mary had asked that he pay his respects to the US military by touring and inspecting the USS Wyoming battleship, which was docked nearby in the Hudson River.

The Navy obliged and brought aboard Stephen, the hero of our story and certainly the hero of his own, was greeted by rows of troops who stood at attention to meet him. He was a commanding sight in his light blue uniform in admiral's hat. When he was sufficiently pleased with the tour, he announced to everyone that he would be throwing a dinner party for military officers at the astor hotel in Times Square, and they were all cordially invited. This,

of course, would be on the Romanian consulate's dime. The night came and the festivities kicked into high gear, and the party was short lived. Though Stephen had been brazen enough to publish an announcement about the party in the pages of the New York Times using his own name. That evening, two detectives stormed into the room and dragged him away. By all accounts, Stephen never broke character the whole time, until one story claims he told officers that

he wished they could have waited until after dessert. Ring to the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, the captain of the wyoming was thoroughly impressed. He told the paper, all I can say is the little guy can put on one hell of a tour inspection and this was just the beginning of a much longer career. Two years later, he would end up in jail for forging the name of a US senator on a job recommendation to become a local

bank teller. In nineteen twenty, he would be arrested in a park for wearing a navy uniform with stripes all askew upon arrest, he told a half truth that he wasn't really an officer, but in reality a doctor. He was only a short prison stint away from his next adventure, which took him to Peru. Here he conned his way into the role of a sanitation expert for an American engineering company. He spent wildly throwing extravagant parties and living

the high life on the company dime. It seems like you just can't put a price on charisma and charm, in two things that Stephen was very rich with. Indeed, in later years, Stephen would talk about his depression, his mania, and the life saving chemical cocktail that came in the midst of what he called perking up. He was prone to the blues. His ego was fed by the dopamine hits that came from playing someone else. A uniform brought

him admiration, Fancy titles brought reverence. A new backstory made him the most interesting man in the room, not some poor kid from Brooklyn. Laying in bed one morning and on sure of his next move, he read about a princess. She was coming to New York from Afghanistan, and though the press was enamored with her, arrival, Sho had been met by Cool Latitude from the US government in July nineteen twenty one. Afghanistan was a newly minted sovereign nation.

Princess Fatima and her sons, it seems, were somewhat distant relations to the crown and weren't high on the priority list for all the state craft and red carpets. She wanted to meet President Warren G. Harding, but her invite hadn't materialized, and it was there not far from dreaming himself, but Stephen decided he was going to make this dream

of hers happen. He was shortly out the door, blue uniform pressed and face freshly shaven as soon he arrived at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where he canned his way into her suite. He was there on behalf of the Secretary of State, he said, and promised to personally take her to Washington, but first she needed to hand over ten thousand dollars for tribute gifts. He then made a

few phone calls. First was Robert woods Bliss, an underling to the Secretary of State, who Stephen told that he was calling as the State Department Naval Liaison officer and that Princess Fatimah was with him. She was amenable to meeting with the President. Stephen reported, and that he would go ahead and contact the President's office directly to arrange a meeting. Robert, who assumed he had missed an order

from above, went to work. Soon thereafter, the Secretary of State briefed the President on Afghanistan in preparation for her arrival. Stephen meanwhile rented a luxurious private rail car to bring the princess and her family to Washington. He installed them in an expensive hotel suite before quickly making tracks over to the State Department offices. Upon arrival, he told them he had come at the behest of several senators who wanted to encourage the government to show a bit more

gracious diplomacy. Princess Fatimah wanted to meet the Secretary of State, which she soon did, and then the entire unlikely troop was on their way to the White House's front door. The photo record shows a smiling court on the White House lawn, the President and the First Lady, the Princess and her sons, and Stephen all smiling for the hardings. This was a somewhat unexpected development. The President had just returned home from a camping trip and ended the day

a lot more decadently than it had started. By bedtime, he had inherited an entire collection of cashmere shawls, finely knotted rugs, and brightly colored turbans of plus, had had an audience with Royalty, and as the records show, Princess Fatima was very pleased as well. Stephen Chatty, as always, relished the moment and worked to ingratiate himself to every one in the room, which was quite odd behavior for a man in uniform. But before any side eyes turned

into real questions, he was back out the door. Stephen stayed on with the princess and telling her that he was granted a leave of absence from his job so he could be her personal secretary and adviser and her physician if she and her sons ever needed one, for he also happened to be a medical doctor. It took about two months for Fatima to begin articulating her concerns about Stephen. The bills weren't adding up, gifts weren't being delivered. He seemed to be ghosting her. He was giving her

conflicting information. Law enforcement realized the Brooklyn address he gave the Princess matched that of the city's most notorious serial impostor. He was quickly handcuffed and charged for impersonating a naval officer and sentenced to two years in prison. Stephen's father appealed for psychiatric treatment instead, and Stephen insisted that he never committed these impostures out of ballas they stemmed from, he said, his manic depressive episodes from which he had

long suffered. The judge didn't buy this. He thought the claim was just another one of Stephen's stories, a creative fiction to help him slink through the world and many important doors. Like the chameleon he had proven himself to be. We can look at Stephen's life as one long piece of performance art. We can also admire his stamina. He was as crafty as he was beguiling. He dressed for every part, he played if imperfectly, and crafted his moves

around tactical omission. For example, though he claimed to be a pilot and he was never seen flying a plane as a sanitation expert, he was never down in the trenches. He was gregarious, friendly, and nothing but a consummate gentleman. He couldn't help, but like the guy. This is exactly how silver screenstar Pola Negri felt about a certain physician. When her sweetheart, Rudolph Valentino died at a New York hospital.

She was heartbroken, and when this sweet and concerned doctor showed up, she couldn't help but be taken by him. Stephen had introduced himself and offered his services in this dark moment. He installed himself in an extra bedroom in her hotel suite, and there he tended to her. He took her temperature and ordered things from the pharmacy. He kept her fed and rested. On the day of her beloved's funeral, among the throngs of tens of thousands, Stephen

escorted Pola to Rudolph's casket. He also found time to set up a first aid station for folks who might be feeling faint of heart, But he was soon recognized. After all these years, the police were finally getting hit to his jib. Though the con was up, Pola refused to press charges. He had never accepted her offer for payment, after all, nor had he improperly conducted himself in her presence. In fact, as she told the American Medical association multiple

times when they tried to go after him. He was the best doctor she had ever had. This was something, of course, that he had always dreamt of being a doctor, that old dream dashed early in childhood. It seems, through a convoluted route, he had finally made it. Stephen would continue to compulsively imposture for the rest of his life. It's ironic that his end came in a quiet moment of obscurity in older age, in the night time, at

a thankless job as an anonymous overnight motel clerk. To say that he never made anything of himself would be misleading. The whole point was to make many things of himself. Stephen once told a reporter that, and I quote, one man's life is a boring thing. I've lived many lives. I'm never bored. There's more to this story. Stick around after this brief sponsor break to hear all about it.

The golden age of the side show had something for everyone, and while it was in the habit of promising audiences the world's tallest man or oldest woman, Martin Cooney promised them a different kind of person, potential future presidents or the next great industrialists. All packaged up in the bodies of sickly premature babies. Down on the sandy shores of Coney Island, Martin and his team of nurses were hard at work. Here. Right on the board walk, Martin had

installed a permanent exhibit he called the Inventorium. Barkers would beckon passers by to stop and take a look inside. Each season, the babies were hawked to visitors in the same way as all of the other spectacles, with a quarter to be paid for the price of admission. There they'd meet rows of palm sized newborns, bedecked in pink and blue and encased in glass. And while some found this framing abhorrent, Martin had good reason to draw up such an attractive pitch. He was in the business of

saving the tiniest lives. It cost about fifteen dollars a day to care for each baby in the facility. He never charged parents for the care of their children, and he paid his staff of nurses well, and still he had enough money left over to plan his expansion. The whole scene felt both fragile and other worldly, and was

a smash hit among the general public. For many many years, Medical professionals often criticized the exhibit and particularly dangerous imitations, but the truth was that hospitals weren't able to provide the extensive availability of incubators nor the dogged care that Martin and his teen did. They were able to provide round the clock support and took in the most desperate cases in the city if they were lucky. Local hospitals might have one incubator, that is, if it was available

and wasn't prohibitively expensive to operate. In all, he helped over sixty five hundred premature babies survive, an eighty five percent success rate that pioneered the study of neonatology in America. He's considered to be the father of the field, a legend, and a lab coat. It might be surprising to hear, then, that Martin had no medical life. He is also said to have lied about his birthplace and changed his name a few times, and created himself anew upon his arrival

to New York City. It's hard to figure out exactly who he was beyond his own telling, which it seems changed over the years. What is certain among all of that, though, is that he had long been interested in babies, It's been said that he studied under French doctor Pierre Constantboudin, who pioneered moving incubators from the chicken coop into the hospital. This new technology was a hit at the eighteen ninety six World's Fair and eventually went on the road with

Martin at the Helm. He experienced some success on the road and had some misses too. It was when he arrived at Coney Island, though, that his potential truly ignited, and the crowds were so happy to be there to look on with their hot dogs and grilled clams. The inventorium closed down for good in nineteen forty three. It was that year that Cornell Hospital opened up the first neonatal unit in the world, which meant that those babies and ones who would need care in the future had

a place where they could go. After Martin, whoever he really was, was long gone, and wouldn't you believe it, some of these babies, with the truth of Martin's genius, grit and kindness at the core of their own story, are still alive today.