In March of the year after Ronald Mortvedt, on Harvey Rexroth’s instructions, had pulled off the widely publicized and never solved theft of the in-foal mare Donna Diane-and three years before Jack Doyle went to work at Willowdale-the mare produced a sprightly brown foal without a mark of white anywhere on him. The birth of this very plain-colored youngster took place on a section of Willowdale Farm known as the Annex, a piece of property that at the time housed only Donna Diane and an old gelding that had been placed there to keep her company.
As the birth of the bay foal represented, to Rexroth, a furtherance of his revenge, it also signaled the imminent demise of Donna Diane. The mare was simply too valuable, her unsolved theft still too fresh in the minds of Kentucky horse people, for her to remain alive and possibly be discovered. So Ronald Mortvedt was summoned from Louisiana. He found Donna Diane in her dark field one night and silently dispatched her with a fatal dose of pentobarbital supplied to him by a ruled-off New Orleans veterinarian named Karl Classen.
Unlike the insurance claim-driven horse deaths that were to come at Willowdale, Donna Diane’s demise was of course not reported. Instead, Mortvedt and Jud Repke winched Donna Diane’s carcass onto the back of a flatbed truck, covered it with a tarpaulin, and drove to the farthest reaches of the Willowdale property, an area once used as a dump before environmentalists hounded Rexroth into abandoning it. There, they buried the champion mare Donna Diane. Mortvedt drove back south that night, $10,000 richer even after he had paid Repke his share.
The orphaned brown foal, an avid eater, was placed with a nurse mare. The Willowdale groom Pedro Ramos was given as his assignment the full-time monitoring of and caring for this pair. One night that fall, the brown colt was ushered unobtrusively by Pedro into a field of other weanlings. Only Rexroth’s farm manager at the time, Bob Brokopp, was made aware of the fact that the weanling band at Willowdale had been enlarged by one. Other observant workers noted the presence of the newcomer, but were told by Brokopp that Rexroth had bought the youngster privately from a small breeder up in Maryland. Such purchases were not uncommon.
When Brokopp was given his walking papers, as well as a large cash settlement to his contract, direct knowledge of the brown colt’s background remained with Pedro Ramos. At Rexroth’s instructions, Pedros’ wage package had also undergone considerable enhancement, so much so that he was the proud owner of a new Jeep Cherokee, which made him the envy of his fellow grooms. “I won a big trifecta over at Keeneland,” Pedro said, explaining his newfound riches.
In the months immediately following the theft of Donna Diane, Rexroth had relished the situation purely from the revenge angle. The outrage and anguish evidenced by the Irish-English combine when Donna Diane was discovered missing from her paddock one morning gave Rexroth tremendous satisfaction. “Hear the howls from across the ocean?” he happily asked. When the mare remained undiscovered, at first her angry owners charged carelessness, if not malfeasance, on the part of the well-known Kentucky farm which had boarded her after her sale. Later, they accused area law enforcement officials, who had unearthed no hint of Donna Diane’s whereabouts, of gross inefficiency.
Rexroth chortled mightily at these developments, although only privately, or occasionally in the presence of Stoner and Kauffman. The dense bodyguard had no interest in the matter, other than the fact that it put the boss in good humor, but Stoner asked Rexroth, “What do you plan to eventually do with this colt?”
Leaning back in his chair at poolside, Rexroth paused to light one of his hefty cigars before replying.
“Keep him out of the hands of those goddam foreign raiders,” Rexroth said. “That’s satisfaction enough for me.
“If they’d just had the class, or courtesy-I’m talking amongst gentlemen, now-to offer to go partners with me on Donna Diane, they’d still have their six million dollar mare.
“But I’ve got her colt now, and I don’t care if he’s not worth a dime on anybody’s market. I’ve got him and those sons a bitches don’t.” Rexroth pounded his big fist on the desk for emphasis, his broad face aglow with the sheen of triumph.
This situation, one that involved Rexroth playing dog in the manger with a stolen horse, remained unchanged until one day early in June, two years later, when the publishing tycoon received a phone call from Douglas Phillips, beleaguered editor of the Horse Racing Journal. Phillips, as had been the case ever since he had held his post, remained under intense pressure from Rexroth to produce sensational stories involving the “dark side” of racing.
“Mr. Rexroth,” Phillips said nervously, “I know you want to be kept informed of any major series that we might run in the paper. That’s why I’m calling. I think we’ve got a good one,” Phillips said nervously.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Rexroth growled.
After a brief period of silence, during which he took a hearty swig from the flask of Cutty Sark combined with Maalox that he kept in his desk, Phillips continued: “We’re thinking along the lines of a three-part series, based on a file of old clippings one of our librarians came across when she was doing research at the public library. She kind of stumbled on this packet of stories from 1909, all from Midwest newspapers and all having to do with a huge scandal involving racetrack fraud.”
“Nineteen hundred and nine?” Rexroth thundered. “The Horse Racing Journal isn’t an historical magazine, Phillips, it’s a racing daily. Have you forgotten that?”
Aided by another larrup of the Maalox-Cutty fortifier, Phillips stubbornly persisted. He said he thought the more than eighty-year-old case could be vividly recalled in a series to be authored by Clyde Senzell, one of Horse Racing Journal’s feature writers.
“Mr. Rexroth,” Phillips pleaded, “it’s a sensational story. Nobody on our staff had ever heard of this case. What these guys tried to get away with, well, we think it has real appeal. Racing’s Past Thieves, we could title it. And remember, Mr. Rexroth, the Racing Daily won’t have this.”
“All right,” Rexroth barked, “send Senzell out here with the clippings. I’ll go over the material with him before I decide if we’ll run this.” He hung up on the hapless Phillips without a goodbye.
Senzell arrived at Willowdale from his New York City base the next morning, having flown coach class, as he hastened to assure Rexroth. After Senzell, a very thin, tightly wound man of forty-five, had opened his briefcase and extracted a folder of fragile, faded clippings, Rexroth waved him away and began to read. Almost immediately, Rexroth found himself fascinated, intrigued, even somewhat jealous of the larceny and imagination that had been displayed decades previous by one John B. Cabray.
The first story in the file was dated Sept. 24, 1909. Like all the others, it bore a Council Bluffs, Iowa, dateline and the byline of Richard Lloyd-Brown, who was identified as staff reporter. Lloyd-Brown wrote:
DES MOINES, Iowa-John B. Cabray and eighty-four alleged associates were indicted by a federal grand jury here today in a case that is believed to involve one of the most gigantic swindles in the police annals of the country.
The indictments were for conspiring to defraud by illegal use of the mails, to wit, persuading people to send money through the postal system, money that was supposed to be bet on what Cabray and his far-flung ring of accomplices promised would be a “fixed” horse race, one with an outcome Cabray claimed had been determined in advance.
Unfortunately for the naive investors, Cabray arranged so that the actual outcome of the fix would be for all of them to lose their money because of an unexpected development leading to an “upset.”
When those duped began to communicate with each other in the days and weeks after the race, and after Cabray and his ring had gone to ground, the fraud victims went to law enforcement officials with their complaints. None of the money sent to Cabray to be “bet” has been recovered.
Enticed into this scheme by Cabray and his slick-talking confidence men were prominent businessmen and civic leaders all over the country. Victims in eighteen states, the territory of Alaska, and the Dominion of Canada are named, indicating the wide range of territories over which Cabray and his associates are alleged to have plied their vocation.
Although specific amounts are not mentioned in the indictment, the amounts lost by the alleged victims reportedly exceed one million dollars. The sums lost by individuals range from $1,500 to $30,000, the latter amount having been placed on the race by a Missouri bank owner named C. D. Arnett.
Harvey Rexroth placed the file of clippings down on his desk for a moment, shifted his glasses to his forehead, and began pondering these facts from eight decades ago. After a minute or two, he said aloud, “My God! A million dollars in 1909…what would that be worth today?”
Senzell, who had been goggle-eyed for the past few minutes as Deirdre skated through her paces wearing nothing but a serious expression, came to attention at the question. He’d done his homework. “In the neighborhood of thiry million, Mr. Rexroth.”
Rexroth shook his head admiringly as he considered the scope of Cabray’s larceny. “What a nice neighborhood!” he said. He then resumed reading from the file.
Cabray is in custody here, along with three of his associates: Harlan Kornkven, James Draeger, and Stafford Appleby. The names of the other eighty-one people indicted were not made public. It was stated, however, that the list includes many persons known in the criminal annals in all parts of the country, and that nearly every such name is followed by from one to four aliases.
Each of these alleged confederates apparently had a coded number by which they were referred to in Cabray’s complicated file of records, recovered by U.S. Marshall Marcus Gordon from Cabray’s temporary headquarters in Altoona, Iowa.
It is expected that the trials will begin in Des Moines during the November term of court. Patrick Rafferty, special assistant to the Attorney General of the United States, at the insistence of the Department of Justice, is taking part in the prosecution and will doubtless have entire charge of the case when it comes to trial.
That concluded Richard Lloyd-Brown’s first report. Examining it more closely, Rexroth said, “Senzell, where’s the rest of this? Part of this last page has been torn off. Goddamit, man, I want to know what kind of fix went on? How did Cabray pull this off?”
Senzell ventured a small, nervous smile. He was beginning to sense that he had the boss hooked on doing this series.
“The bottom part of Brown’s first story is missing, Mr. Rexroth,” Senzell said, “but keep on reading. Not all of Brown’s coverage was retained for the file. Or else parts of it were lost, or stolen, over the years. But the sequence is solid enough to paint the picture. It all becomes clear-how Cabray did it.”
Senzell sat back in his chair, keeping one eye on the circling Deirdre, the other on his engrossed employer.
DES MOINES, Iowa-As the date draws near for trial of people accused in one of the most gigantic and sensational frauds in the nation’s recent history, more details have emerged regarding the case.
The million-dollar swindle of numerous prominent citizens, allegedly masterminded by John B. Cabray, was spread over at least eighteen states.
Cabray and his associates are alleged to have used as bases of operation such towns as Council Bluffs, Burlington and Davenport, Iowa; St. Louis, Little Rock, Seattle, Denver and New Orleans, to which sites many victims were either taken by Cabray’s numerous “steerers” to deliver their betting money, or to which places they were instructed to mail their funds.
All were assured that their promised “profits” could either be picked up in those towns, or would be mailed to them if they so chose. No profits, of course, were ever delivered to the duped investors in this so-called “fixed” race that took place at a track in the eastern part of the country.
Included in the court documents are copies of many sensational letters alleged to have been exchanged between Cabray and his associates, missives that refer to alleged “deals” and specify various sums of money as having changed hands as the result of the operations of those mentioned in the indictment.
One of these letters is dated from a New York City hotel and invites “Friend John,” who, it is alleged, is Cabray himself, to go to New York, declaring “I have a town right across the river in New Jersey, a swell track, and absolute protection. The sheriff and prosecutor and police will be absolutely right on the job for us during our working hours.”
In a letter written four days later, the same man informs “Friend John” that the race “fixing” can be done “for $750, which will cover everything-that is, the sheriff, his brother-in-law the police chief, and the prosecuting attorney.”
Rexroth leapt from his chair. “Seven hundred and fifty dollars!” Rexroth shouted. “This man Cabray was a genius!” With a thump of his fist on the desk, Rexroth said, “Senzell, now here was a man who understood how to keep down overhead-something I’ve been trying to get across to you Horse Racing Journal buffoons for years!”
As the dog Winston began to snore, Rexroth plunked himself back down in his chair and resumed reading.
DES MOINES, Iowa-The eagerness of criminal mastermind John C. Cabray’s victims became evident in federal court here Monday when some of their letters were read into the record. This was over the objections of Cabray’s attorney, Charles McStone of Chicago, objections denied by presiding Judge George H. Stevens.
A letter from Moline, Ill., signed by Oscar Farley, said “am inclosing $3,000 to apply to our deal, pending. I am looking forward to a fine, and prompt, result and return.”
Another letter, this one from Eugene S. Hunter of Antigo, Wisc., said: “I have made my check on the bank here for $7,500. My father-in-law is the president of the bank, to which proceeds may be forwarded. We are looking forward to their arrival.”
Rexroth flipped through a few more reports from Richard Lloyd-Brown before he found the one he was seeking. Brow furrowed, jaw clenched, he read it through twice. Then he threw his head back and erupted in laughter, a cascade of sound that startled Deirdre, Senzell and the dozing Winston.
Reaching for the intercom on his desk, Rexroth ordered champagne. Next, he buzzed for his executive secretary. When Stoner had emerged from his office, nodded at Senzell, and taken a chair, Rexroth slid most of the clippings across the desk to him. Stoner began reading. Rexroth poured champagne for himself as Stoner perused the material. After several minutes, Stoner looked up, a puzzled look on his face.
“I grasp the situation,” Stoner said, “but only up to a point. A sharp con man puts together a dishonest scheme to clip some of the nation’s greediest burghers. You could call it the Rape of the Rotarians, except I’m not sure the Rotary Club existed back then.”
“Or, Clipping the Kiwanians,” Rexroth said with another booming laugh. “Mauling the Masons in their pocketbooks. Eviscerating the Elks. Oh, yes, W. C. Fields had it right, you can’t cheat an honest man. But as Cabray knew, that left plenty of material to work with. He knew there were suckers mooning in pools all over the country, primed and ready to make what they thought was a dishonest fortune.
“Here, let me read to you about one of these pillars of the community,” Rexroth said. He searched the folder of clippings until he found the one he wanted. “I’m quoting from Lloyd-Brown’s story,” he said.
Millionaire banker W. T. Baillew, of Jefferson City, Mo., the star witness in the case against John C. Cabray, was on the stand all day Thursday detailing the manner in which he lost the money.
Baillew acknowledged that, although he believed the race had been “fixed” and that he and his friends thought they were sure to win their bets, he considered it “legitimate” that he had bet on the outcome of the race.
Baillew said he had been approached by a man named Martin, who brought a letter of introduction from Cabray. After much discussion, it was agreed that Baillew should travel to St. Louis and make a bet for Martin on the supposedly fixed race. Baillew was to bring $30,000 of his own money to show that he was a “man of affairs.”
After Baillew had bet many thousands of dollars of Martin’s money, he grew excited, he said, and put up his own cash as well.
After he’d finished reading from the clipping, Rexroth took another gulp of champagne. As was his custom, he was drinking out of a beer stein in order to save time on replenishing. Stoner had seen the man quaff quarts of the stuff in an afternoon before beginning his cocktail hour. He must have a liver the size of a bowling ball, Stoner thought. Rexroth interrupted this reverie when he said, “But Stoner, that’s not the point of interest here. It’s not so much who Cabray conned, as it is how he conned them. Therein lies the beauty of this.”
Rexroth reached across the desk and took the file of clippings from Stoner. “You don’t have to read the rest of them,” he said, “I’ll sum this up for you. Listen, and marvel at Cabray’s chicanery.
“After getting all those boobs to send him their money,” Rexroth began, “money he and his people have convinced them will be at least tripled as the result of the race, Cabray goes to New Jersey and sets things up.
“Now, with all these prominent people on the hook, he’s got to put on some kind of race or they’ll be pursuing him all over the country. He can’t just disappear with the loot without going through his illegal motions. That would be too crude for this artiste.
“So, Cabray arranges for this match race to be held on a July afternoon at the track in New Jersey. He tells the investors that all their money is going on a horse named Bradford Baron, a horse that Cabray has shipped east from Chicago in order to take advantage of the arrogant, provincial Easterners who traditionally look down their noses at Midwest talent. This long-prevalent attitude, he tells his backers, will boost the price they get on Bradford Baron.
“Cabray tells them that he owns Bradford Baron, which is true, and assures them that the Baron will beat his rival, a horse named Rex of Racine, which could never happen.
“Rex is actually a pretty decent little stakes horse, and he figures to leave Bradford Baron in his dust. Cabray knows that, all right, but his investors don’t.
“Cabray has also gone so far as to assure all the suckers that the race is fixed. He tells them Bradford Baron is a cinch, because the connections of Rex of Racine are in on the deal. This is not true, either. Actually, Rex of Racine’s owner was an honest gent named Garson Carleton, who thought they’d been invited into an easy spot to pick up a little purse between stakes engagements. According to his later deposition, Carleton privately told friends he thought Cabray was crazy to challenge Rex of Racine. He considered Cabray to be a pigeon!”
Throwing back his head, Rexroth let loose another barrage of laughter. He drained his stein of champagne. After refilling it-still failing to offer any to Stoner or Senzell-he resumed his description of the coup.
“The day of the match race arrives. Cabray’s got everybody in that town paid off, from the DA on down. Riding Bradford Baron is an old drunken jock on his last legs named Bobby Mitchell that Cabray has resurrected for this race.
“They lift the barrier-there was no starting gate in those days-and Rex of Racine scoots into a big lead. This should be no surprise, since he’s a stakes-class horse facing a little old allowance runner.
“When Rex of Racine starts pulling farther away, Bobby Mitchell takes a nice little gymnast’s tumble off Bradford Baron near the far turn and lies on the track, still as a silver dollar. The screaming crowd suddenly goes silent. Rex of Racine zips down the stretch and crosses the finish line as the easy winner.
“Now, there are other bettors on hand besides Cabray and his boys, bettors who out of honest stupidity have wagered on Bradford Baron. They begin to voice their suspicions regarding the gentle tumble taken by Bobby Mitchell. Their voices grew louder, and according to one of the stories in the file it was ‘feared that unruly elements might burn down the grandstand in their furor over the outcome.’
“But Cabray-oh, what a blue ribbon rascal-is ahead of them here. All of a sudden a so-called doctor, medicine satchel in hand, rushes from out of the crowd onto the track. The doctor pushes aside the attendants that are peering at Bobby Mitchell, who is face down in the loam and hasn’t moved a muscle.
“The doctor, of course, is another guy Cabray has hired, a down and out New York actor named Ned Robinson. Robinson does a terrific job. He examines the still prostrate Bobby Mitchell, shakes his head sadly, gets to his feet, and loudly proclaims, ‘This man is dead. A heart attack apparently caused him to fall from his horse. Please, gentlemen, step away from the body.’
“At this point the crowd, even the clucks who have lost money on Bradford Baron, fall silent. They leave the track talking about the terrible tragedy they have witnessed. Cabray’s suckers, some of whom have traveled to Jersey all the way from Cow Flop, Iowa, or whatever, were the most dumbfounded by this turn of events. They trooped out of the track in various stages of dejection.
“Bobby Mitchell’s ‘body’ is transported to the county morgue by the paid-off sheriff. When the wagon nears the steps of the building, Bobby Mitchell suddenly springs to life and enters a waiting coach. Cabray is in that one, holding Mitchell’s payoff, and they drive away, never again to be seen in that part of Jersey.
“The next day-and you can imagine what kind of night Cabray’s losers must have gone through-a couple of the brighter lights inquired as to the funeral plans for the dead jockey. ‘No dead jockey ever was brought in here,’ says the coroner, and shoos them away.
“‘What about the doctor who pronounced him dead on the racetrack?’
“‘Nobody around here like that,’ said the district attorney.
“Finally, a couple of days later, after the sheriff and police chief have told them to haul their asses out of town, these fellows returned to the Midwest and West. Some of them then found a sympathetic prosecutor in Des Moines. Later, the Attorney General’s office gets interested. And, two years after the race, the indictments are handed down for Cabray and his pals.
“Cabray was arrested in Hot Springs, Arkansas. The only reason the authorities ever located him was that he had gotten in touch with one of the original pigeons, an Oklahoma oil tycoon named Prentice O’Bannon. Cabray wrote O’Bannon a long letter, apologizing for what he described as the ‘mix-up’ in New Jersey, but promising that he would make up for it with a better, tremendously more profitable fixed race at the track in Hot Springs that fall. Cabray had either blown his ill-gotten gains, or lost his marbles, or had the biggest set of balls in the U. S. Whatever, he tried to go back to this well once too often, and the oil tycoon went to the cops. That’s how they came to nab Cabray.”
Stoner sat forward in his chair. “All right. They had the trial. Cabray and three of his cohorts were present. That’s what one of the first stories in the file said. What happened?”
Rexroth reached into the glistening ice bucket for the second bottle of champagne. He smiled broadly as he carefully filled his stein to the brim.
“What happened was that John B. Cabray and his three associates on hand were found guilty. By a jury of what obviously could not have been their peers, I might add, since I don’t think they produce world-class con men by the dozen in the Hawkeye State. Anyway, they were sentenced to fifteen years in prison and ordered to make restitution.
“Found guilty in absentia were the eighty Cabray accomplices not in custody but named in the indictments. The shitkicker judge there in Des Moines permitted Mr. Cabray and his buddies to post bond. Can you imagine? Bond was set at $5,000 per man. Out there in the corn belt, the judge must have thought that was major money.
“But it wasn’t for these lads, of course. Naturally, Cabray and his boys soon departed Des Moines, Iowa, never to be seen again. For them, $5,000 in bond money was an incidental expense. None of the money bet by the greedy Babbits of the Midwest and other regions was ever recovered.”
Rexroth swirled the champagne in his stein, looking pensive. “John B. Cabray,” he said softly. “Oh, how I would have liked to have known that man.”
After a few minutes of silence, Rexroth put his stein down on the desk. Senzell looked expectantly at his employer.
Rexroth gazed benignly back at Clyde Senzell. He said, “This is excellent stuff. Should make a terrific series. Go to it, Senzell, give it your best. We’ll publish this over the weekend of July Fourth. Tell Phillips to promo it heavily in advance.
“And,” Rexroth added, “tell Phillips to give that librarian a good pinch on the ass for finding this material.”
After Senzell had gone, Rexroth sat without speaking for several minutes. Stoner busied himself reading that day’s RexCom financial summaries which he’d retrieved from the nearby fax machine. As usual, the figures looked good.
Rexroth leaned back in his chair, his right hand, with its Ivy League Squash Champion ring gleaming in the light, resting lightly on Winston’s cranium. As Rexroth ruminated, the slumbering bulldog silently passed some powerful gas, something that only Stoner seemed to notice.
Finally, Rexroth looked at Stoner and said, “I can’t get over this Cabray story. What an achievement it was to pull off a caper like that! He was brazen, and bold, and thoroughly dishonest and, best of all, he got away with it! He took their money and got away with it!”
Rexroth realized that nothing in his already privileged life would please him more, bring him more satisfaction, than to somehow emulate Cabray in some strikingly larcenous way. He poured the last of the second bottle of what he called “Donny P” into his stein.
It was then that Rexroth’s thoughts turned to the royally bred son of Donna Diane, grazing these days in total obscurity in one of the far Willowdale pastures.
Rexroth had originally orchestrated the theft of Donna Diane only to exact revenge on his hated foreign rivals. It had been, up to then, simply a matter having the mare’s offspring for himself, and fuck those Micks and Brits. Now, with Cabray’s caper fresh in his consciousness, Rexroth’s mind fastened upon the plain bay yearling.
And then the Grand Plan suddenly arrived full-blown in the devious mind of Harvey Rexroth, a criminal epiphany that caused him suddenly to leap to his feet and thrust his thick arms into the air.
“Ah…fucking…hah!” Rexroth shouted, loud enough to cause the surprised Stoner to drop the sheaf of financial reports, to startle the bulldog Winston, who awakened with another vicious fart, and to cause Randy Kauffman to turn away from the television screen whereon a group of dwarf transvestites of different races were embroiled in a scuffle that had carried them, along with the talk show host, into the front rows of the studio audience.