"You’re Not Howard Hughes!"

dashing lover of movie stars. From Betty Davis, I just washed my hair to Katherine Hepburn fath Here to Ginter Rogers. No one could teach you to dance in a million year. Take my advice and save your money. Hughes was an aviator back in the days when planes were novel and dangerous. He set air speed record in nineteen thirty eight. He flew around the world in half the time anyone had managed before New York City through him a ticker tape parade.

Hughes designed new and audacious aircraft and insisted on test piloting them himself. Twice. He was nearly killed in spectacular crashes. Between the movies and the planes. Investments in real estate and the oil drill company he'd inherited from his father. Howard Hughes became one of America's richest and most famous men, but his fortune couldn't buy him mental health. Hughes suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder. At first, the symptoms were manageable.

He insisted on the same dinner every night, medium rare steak with salad and peas. He'd eat only the small peas. He was a germophobe, picking things up in a tissue. As he got older, his behavior became stranger. In nineteen fifty eight, Hughes went into a studio's darkened screening room to watch a movie and didn't come out for four months. He sat there, often naked, watching movie after movie. He didn't shower. He had his assistants bringing chicken, glasses of

milk and chocolate bars. He wrote the memos reminding them not to look at him. When he eventually left the studio, he took to living in the penthouse suites of luxury hotels. He'd traveled between them, from Las Vegas to Beverly Hills to the Bahamas. He disappeared completely from public view. Years went by the longer Hughes spent as a recluse, the more the rumors swirled. Was he mad? Was he dead?

Then in nineteen seventy one, that press release by McGraw hill Howard Hughes had written a rollicking thousand page account of his incredible life story. The media went wild. It was going to be the publishing event of the decade. There was only one problem. Howard Hughes didn't know a thing about it. I'm Tim Harford and you're listening to

cautionary tales. In December nineteen seventy, Clifford Irving was leafing through a copy of Newsweek on an overnight ferry from Barcelona to the Ballyarics, a small chain of islands off the coast of Spain. Six ft two, suave and smooth talking, Irving had grown up in New York, but he made his home on the Baliaric island of Ibitha, where he shared a fifteen room house with his fourth wife, a Swiss German artist called Edith. Their two small children, local servants,

and a pet monkey. Irving had just turned forty. His father, a famous cartoonist, had just died. Irving himself was an author, though not a famous one. He'd written a few novels, and most recently a biography of a fellow ibitha resident, a master art forger, published by McGraw hill. As the sun rose over the Mediterranean, the Faery stopped first at neighboring ma Yorker. That gave Irving a few hours to kill, so he called up his friend, Dick Suskind, another American

writer who'd relocated to a sunny island. Suskind met Irving off the ferry and they drove back to his house. Listen, said Irving, I've got a wild idea. He pulled out copy of Newsweek and showed Suskined an article about Howard Hughes. It was titled the Case of the Invisible Billionaire. I read this on the boat last night. Irving explained his idea.

Imagine if they wrote a biography of Hughes but published it as an autobiography, pretending that it was actually in Hughes's own words, as told to Clifford Irving, an autobiography would be a much bigger deal than a biography. It would sell better and bring in lots more money. They could make millions. The idea was wild because Hughes might deny it, but Irving was willing to bet that he wouldn't. As the newsweek piece made clear, Hughes hadn't spoken to

the media for well over a decade. Even more promising, he seemed phobic about appearing in court. There's a story about a lawsuit involving Hughes's airline. His lawyer him to do one simple thing in person. Go to a courthouse, let a judge watch him sign a certain document, and leave again. Hughes winced. Supposing he didn't do it, He asked how much might it cost him? Maybe a hundred million dollars, said the lawyer. Okay, said Hughes. I won't bother.

So if McGraw hill published an autobiography of Hughes, would he really take them to court? Surely the chances were that he wouldn't contest its authenticity. You've flipped your lid. McGraw hill's the most conservative publisher in New York. Let never go for an idea like that. You're probably right, said Irving. They drank coffee at breakfast and talked about other things. Then it was time to drive back for Irving's ferry. What if they didn't know it was a hoax.

Suppose I told McGraw hill I was in touch with Hughes. Assume I could work out a phony private contract between me and Hughes forbidding communication between him and the publishers Jesus Christ. That could work, replied Suskind, What a fantastic idea. You know it could work. We could do it. They have to learn everything they could about Hughes's life. Suskind was good at research. Then that have to make it sound like Hughes had told the story. Irving had the

literary flair for that. They went back and forth planning out the details. First, Irving would write to Beverly Loo, his editor at McGraw hill. He could say that Howard Hughes had known his father, and that had sent Hughes a copy of his latest book, The Biography of the Art Forger, along with a note about his father's recent passing.

He'd say that Hughes had written back to express his condolences and also to say that he had enjoyed the biography had started to correspond, Hughes had expressed an interest in meeting with Irving so he could write Hughes's life story too, McGraw hill would want evidence. Of course, Irving would have to try his own hand at forgery. The Newsweek article contained a photo of a note in Hughes's handwriting,

including his signature. It also mentioned that Hughes always wrote on yellow lined notepads of the kind used by lawyers. Suskind had just such a notepad at home. What about money. McGraw hill would pay Irving for his part in the book, but they'd have to pay more to Howard Hughes. After all, it was his autobiography that presented a problem. If McGraw hill wrote checks to Howard Hughes that didn't clear, they'd get suspicious. Irving and Suskin would need some way to

pay those checks into a bank account. Irving had an idea. His wife, he told Suskind, just happened to have a spare Swiss passport. The last one she had applied for had seemed lost in the post. She got a replacement, then the first passport belatedly turned up. What if he could doctor that passport to change the name, say to Helga Hughes. Edith could open an account with a Swiss bank.

They were famous for protecting their client's privacy. He'd just have to make sure that McGraw hill made the checks out to H. R. Hughes rather than Howard. But would Edith be up for the subterfuge? How would you like to change your name to Helga Ranata Hughes, said Irving, expatriate Swiss businesswoman who conducts her financial affairs only with her initial A. Well wig sure and dark glasses and lipstick. Maybe maybe not. I think about that. I thought you

might not do it. I wasn't sure it was fair to ask. I help you. I don't let you down. They seem to have covered every angle except one. It seemed unlikely. But what if Hughes did appear in public to deny he'd been involved in the book. What then you say, but you're not Howard? Use said, suskind, help, I've been duped. The plan seems full proof. Irving has a go at mimicking Hughes's handwriting. He drafts a series of letters on the yellow legal pad. They look convincing enough. Next,

he tackles Edith's spare passport. Passports in those days were less sophisticated than they are today. No microchips or holograms or biometrics. Irving explores the art supplies he's inherited from his cartoonist father and gets to work. He uses inca radic cater to raise Edith's name, takes a black felt tip and carefully writes in helga ranata hughes. He changes the number on the passport, turning threes into eights. He takes a photo of Edith in a wig and lipstick

and replaces the existing passport photo. Now he tries to raise Edith's signature, but the ink eradicator starts to bleach the watermarked paper. He's getting tired and frustrated. He signs Helga nata hughes over the top and hopes it'll be good enough. Suskind isn't impressed. You must be kidding Christ. It looks like it was made by a six year old kid with a felt tip laundry marker. You're out of your mind. Look here at the helga. You can

see Edith coming through like a palincest. It doesn't matter, Irving replied, I've talked to a few people who have bank accounts in Switzerland. They don't give a damn about those id papers. If the money's real, that's all I'll care about. I sure hope you know what you're doing, said suskind. So do, I replied Irving. Cautionary tales will be back after the break. On the twentieth floor of the offices of McGraw hill and New York, Clifford Irving

and his editor, Beverly loo A meeting Beverly's boss. What I don't understand is why a man like Howard Hughes, who's avoided publicity all his life, should suddenly want to have his biography written, and, with all due respect to you as a writer, why he should choose you to work with him. He had to choose somebody, replied Irving. He wouldn't pick someone very well now on someone like Norman Mailer, would he? Then the book would be Mailer,

not Hughes. Beverly Lou has been completely taken in. Cliff's a perfect choice. He's a professional, he delivers. She's not just Clifford Irving's editor. She's his friend, or so she thinks. They've known each other for years. She's vacationed at his house. It would hardly cross her mind that Irving was flat out lying about his access to Hughes. Well let's see these famous letters. Irving takes out the correspondence he's forged

from Howard Hughes. One of the letters contains an answer to the boss's first question, why Hughes was suddenly embracing publicity. It would not suit me to die without having certain misconceptions cleared up, and without having stated the truth about my life. That sounds plausible. Beverly lou seems less skeptical than perhaps she should be. This match is certain. These are from Hughes, he always writes on that yellow legal paper. It's a pattern we've seen time and again in cautionary tales.

If you want to believe, you'll find reasons to believe. Irving draws Beverly Loo further into his world of make believe. He tells her that Hughes told him to stay at a particular hotel in New York and await instructions. Those instructions have now come through. Irving must go to a certain American Express office, where he'll find that Howard Hughes has bought him a plane ticket to their first rendezvous. Would Beverly like to come along and see where he'll

be going? She certainly would They go to the American Express Office. Do they happen to have a ticket for mister Clifford Irving. Yes, it's to Wahaka in southern Mexico. Irving pretends to share Beverly's surprise. Of course, he bought that ticket himself, and not just one ticket. He's going to Wahaka with his long time mistress. Of course, Irving has a mistress. She's a Danish aristocrat and folk singer, once famous as part of her husband and wife duo,

now struggling to make a new solo career. The Baroness Nina von Palant. Irving has solemnly promised his wife Edith that he will never see his Danish lover again. Irving and Nina check into their Mexican hotel and go straight to bed. Listen, Nina, I want to tell you something. I need your word that this stays with you, that your lips are sealed. You have it. I'm not meeting Howard Hughes. It's all a lie, a hoax. The letters are forged, and I never spoke to the man in

my life. What's so funny? I think that you're quite quite mad, but the word is mad. So what's the bloody difference. When Irving gets back to New York from his Mexican vacation, he tells Beverly Loo all about his meeting with Howard Hughes. The more details he gives, he decides, the more believable his tale will be. He was woken at five am in his hotel by a phone call from a man called Pedro, who picks him up in a Volkswagen, then flies him in Assessna to a town

called to a Hantapeck. Howard is waiting for him in a little hotel and they drink orange juice together. The publishers are completely duped. They agree to Howard's fee five hundred thousand dollars and to his demands for secrecy. He wants to deal only with Irving McGraw hill draw up a contract and give it to Irving for him to

get Hughes to sign. This time, he flies to Puerto Rico and comes back with a story about driving with Hughes into the tropical rainforest, where the billionaire instructs him to buy a bunch of bananas, very fat, short, sweet bananas. Irving explained, I said, I thought that Puerto Rican bananas were the best art ever eaten, and then he got very friendly. He likes a man who appreciates a good banana. Irving presents them with the signed contract and leaves with

a check made out to H. R. Hughes. The eccentric old man insists on using his initials. Irving says. He takes the check home to a Beitha and gives it to Edith. She packs her bag for Zurich with her helga, hues wig and lipstick. She's nervous. She picks a bank at random and gives them the passport that Irving doctored. She steeled herself for awkward questions. They barely even look.

The money is deposited without a problem. Relieved and triumphant, Edith heads home to a Betha, where Irving has been with Nina von Palant, His mistress believes the island just in time. By summer, Irving and Suskind realize they have a problem. They've read every public document about Howard Hughes that they can lay their hands on. They have a lot of detail about some parts of his life, but

none at all about others. It's going to be difficult to keep up the pretense that Irving has interviewed Hughes. If they're gaping omissions from his life story, they start to think that they might have to pull the plug on the project. Hughes is known for his eccentricity. Irving can simply tell McGraw hill that Hughes has changed his

mind and returned the money he's received so far. They needn't know it was all a hoax in anyway, What if they did find out we haven't stolen anything, reasoned Irving, I've lied, that's all. What can they do to me? As long as they get their money back? The worst thing they can do is yell, and I have a feeling they won't yell too loud because they might look pretty foolish. Before they give up, Irving and Suskin decide to make one last trip to the States to see

what other information they can on earth. Driving past Palm Springs, Irving decides to call in on his aunt, and there they have a stroke of luck so ludicrous that you're going to believe Irving must have made it up, But he didn't. With the aunt, they see an old friend, a television producer who'd once encouraged the young Irving's ambitions as a writer. I might have a project for you, says the friend. Have you heard of someone called Noah Ditrick?

Irving certainly has. Noah Ditrick was Howard Hughes's right hand man for thirty two years. Well, he's written and tell all memoir that he's trying to get published. But he's not any luck. The writer he employed did a lousy job. He's asked for my advice. Maybe you could take a look at the manuscript and see how to improve it. I'll lend it to you, but keep it confidential, won't

you sure? Says Irving. Somehow, keeping a straight face, he and Suskin take the manuscript straight to the nearest Zerox shop. Jesus marveled Suskin. Could you imagine using a coincidence like this in a novel? The editor would laugh you out of his office. The manuscript has everything they needed, not just for the anecdotes, but for the insight into Howard Hughes's voice, the rhythms of his speech, his favorite expletives. Irving types up a list of recurring phrases and exclamations.

He and Suskin learn it by heart. Then they write the book by interviewing each other taking turns to play the role of Hughes. Where they don't know a detail, they simply make it up. Their fictional hues. For example, traces his germophobia to a time his mother told him he could catch leprosy from cornbread. What about his first sexual experience, They make that up too, at the age of fifteen with his father's mistress, not knowing that his

father drunk was watching. You know, said Irving, I have the feeling I know more about this man than anyone else in the world. Don't get carried away by all this, Launce Suskind. It's fiction. He made it up. Don't forget that. In December, a year after his wild idea, Irving is putting the finishing touches to his manuscript. He's on yet another Caribbean island with yet another woman, not his wife, supposedly conducting his final meeting with Howard Hughes. Back in

New York. Meanwhile, McGraw hill make the official announcement they will be publishing the autobiography of Howard Hughes. This is the story of my life in my own words, says the press release, quoting someone claiming to be Hughes. This Hughes then pays fulsome tribute to his co author, Clifford Irving for his discernment, discretion, and integrity as a human being. It doesn't take long for Irving to get a nasty shock.

Howard Hughes. His company puts out a statement there is no such book, and Hughes himself will speak to the press to confirm that cautionary tales will return soon. In her book The Confidence Game, the psychologist Maria Konokova analyzes what's happening at each stage of a contrick. It's a step by step process. The con artist must carefully choose their victim, sucker them in, make them believe, and keep ratcheting up their commitment. Up to now, Irving has done

a textbook job. The final stage of the con she calls the blowoff. That's when the victim realizes they've been had and the con artist needs to avoid any unpleasant consequences. In this way, cons are no different to many other risky ventures starting a business, say, or a war. They make sense to think about an exit strategy. If this doesn't go to plan, how do I get out with minimal damage? The blowoff is often easier than we might think, says Connakova, Many victims of cons don't make a fuss

because they don't want a reputation as a schmuck. If everyone knows you were taken in by a con artist, you'll be seen as an easy touch. Other people will try to fool you. You might decide it's better to keep silent, swallow your loss, and preserve your reputation. As Connakova puts it, we ourselves are the grifter's best chance of a successful blowoff. We don't want anyone to know we've been duped. Like all good con artists, Clifford Irving

instinctively understood the importance of reputation to his victim. Remember what it'd said to Dick Suskind when they'd fretted that McGraw hill might find out about the hoax. The worst thing they can do is yell, and I have a feeling they won't yell too loud because they might look pretty foolish. That might have been true if they'd discovered Irving's con before the book was public knowledge, But once mc graw hill had made their announcement, keeping quiet was

no longer an option. That left the other exit route Irving could say help, I've been hoaxed by someone pretending to be Howard Hughes. In other words, he could get off the hook by sacrificing his own reputation. But whenever you start a risky venture with an exit strategy in mind, there's a danger you can get so caught up in chasing success that you forget what your plan to do in case of failure. With every detail he'd improvised to make his meetings with Hughes seem more believable to mc

graw hill, Irving had closed off his escape route. The impostor Hughes would have needed an accomplice called Pedro who could fly, assessner, that's a lot of trouble to go to. Irving had even that in one clandestine meeting, Hughes had introduced him to the Vice President of the United States, Spiro Agnew, another impostor. Just how stupid would Irving have to say he'd been. It would never work. Clifford Irving had blown his blowoff. His only hope now was that

Howard Hughes wouldn't go public after all. On the seventh of January nineteen seventy two, seven journalists sat around a semicircular table in a conference room in a Los Angeles hotel, surrounded by cameras and facing a telephone on loudspeaker. They had been carefully selected by Howard Hughes's representatives. Most had known Hughes back in the day. If anyone could vouch for the voice that was about to come through the

phone line, they could. I only wish I was still in the movie business, because I don't remember any as wild or as stretching the imagination as this yarn has turned out to be. I take it, sir, you do not know a man named Clifford Irving, then I don't know him. I never saw him. I've never heard of him until a matter of days ago when this thing first came to my attention. The air conditioning in the room was too loud, so the hotel had turned it off.

The television lights were sweltering. The journalists began to wilt, but on the other end of the line, Hughes seemed to be having fun. He reminisced about the technical details of aircraft he had designed for two and a half hours. Har'd be happy to talk to you all just as long as you want, Irving and Suskind watched the press conference on TV, and hearing the voice of Howard Hughes was a shock. It wasn't just that they'd bet on

him staying silent. They were shocked to remember he actually existed. They've got so used to thinking of Howard Hughes as their own fictional creation. But with no way out of the hoax, Irving had to double down. If he couldn't claim that his Howard Hughes had been an impostor, he'd have to insist that this one was instead. That's not him, said Irving. It's a damn good imitation of what he might have sounded like a few years ago when he

was healthy. But it's not him. A disembodied voice on a speaker phone is one thing, Irving reasoned, A flesh and blood Howard Hughes in a courtroom was another thing altogether. If only he could keep some doubt alive, he might force Hughes to sue him, and maybe Hughes wouldn't go through with that. It was a desperate throw of the dice, and it convinced hardly anyone. Most people thought it really had been Howard Hughes on the phone, but they also

doubted what Howard Hughes had said. One journalist summed up the consensus view, it's entirely consistent with the personality of Howard Hughes to dictate his autobiography and then deny it. McGraw hill continued to insist that their book was genuine and they'd publish it as planned. The boss held a

press conference despite his denial. Today McGraw hill has in its possession a tremendous amount of documentation which, in our opinion indicates beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this is the authentic autobiography and that we have the authorization to publish it. They weren't just taking Clifford Irving's word for it. They'd sent the letters from Howard Hughes to a firm of handwriting analysts. Irving surprise, the well respected firm confidently declared the odds of a forgery to be

a million to one. At his press conference, the boss of McGraw hill brandished some of that tremendous amount of documentation, including fact similars of checks that h. R. Hughes had countersigned. The checks revealed at which bank they had been paid in. That was a crucial piece of information. Hughes on the phone had zeroed in on the key question, this money didn't enter any of my bank accounts. Where is it again? Irving hadn't thought things through the Howard Hughes he imagined

so vividly. The fictional Howard Hughes might ponder legal action, but would then shy away, made helpless by his fear of appearing in public. But the actual, real life Howard Hughes, the billionaire Howard Hughes, had plenty of other options. For example, he could instruct a private detective to assemble evidence for the police, and he did. Thanks to those images of checks,

the private detective had a lead. The detective did some digging at the Swiss bank and soon discovered that the Hr Hughes who paid in the checks was a woman in her mid thirties, five ft three and German that sounded remarkably like Clifford Irving's wife. The detective sourced some photos of Edith and showed them to the cashier who dealt with Helga Hughes. She looked at them. The hair wasn't right, but yes, the face looked very close to what she remembered when the law got involved. The end

came quickly. Irving's trial was a media circus, and there was no doubt about its star performer, The Baroness Nina von paaland the beautiful charismatic mistress captivated the public. She was on magazine front pages and TV chat shows. Edith meanwhile got two years in prison in Switzerland forgery and fraud. Later she got a divorce. Clifford Irving was given a similar sentence in New York. He promptly wrote a memoir about the hoax, in which he seems to struggle with

the thought that he really did anything wrong. He talks about his magnificent shape and how it had a certain grandeur, a reckless and artistic splendor in the oppressed, middle class world of America, where so few men try to do anything other than cut along the dotted line. Could the failure itself of a bold and lunatic scheme be the image of ultimate success. It's one way of looking at it.

Although perhaps the person who got most success from this bold and lunatic scheme was a once famous Danish folk singer with a career to rebuild bookings flooded in and parts in Hollywood movies. The publicity said Nina's manager was earth as much as an Academy award. The story of the fake autobiography has a coda. In two thousand and six, thirty five years after The Hoax, Clifford Irving's memoir was turned into a film. It was called The Hoax. Clifford

Irving was played by Richard gear. Irving hated the film. He complained that it portrayed him as a sleazy, money grubbing low life. That wasn't true at all. He said his motives weren't base, they were noble. Having thought of the hoax, he simply had to do it like a mountaineer has to climb a mountain because it's there. Irving made clear that the film was nothing to do with him. He didn't want people to think that this fictional version

of himself was who he really was. Perhaps at last he'd come to understand how Howard Hughes must have felt. For a full list of our sources, please see the show notes at Tim Harford dot com. Portionary Tales is written by me Tim Harford with Andrew Wright. It's produced by Ryan Dilley with support from Courtney Guarino and Emily Vaughan. The sound design and original music is the work of Pascal Wise. It features the voice talents of Ben Crow,

Melanie Gutridge, Stella Harford, and rufus Wright. The show also wouldn't have been possible without the work of Mia La Belle, Jacob Weisberg, Heather Fane, John Schnas, Julia Barton, Karlie mcgliori, Eric's Royston, Basserve, Maggie Taylor, Nicole Mrano, Danielle Lakhan, and Maya Kanig. Cautionary Tales is a production of Pushkin Industries. If you like the show, please remember to share, rate and review, tell a friend, tell two friends, and if you want to hear the show, adds free and listen

to four exclusive Cautionary Tales shorts. Then sign up for Pushkin Plus on the show page in Apple Podcasts or at pushkin dot fm, slash plus