“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
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.”
