The Trail of Bad Checks Continued (Part 2 of Ross Raymond’s Story)
Pretending To Be Edison
As you’ll remember, the year was 1882 when our last episode left off. And swindler Ross Raymond had been jaunting around the country . . . leaving a trail of bad checks behind him.
Surprisingly enough, Raymond was still trying to grab newspaper scoops, too. And as always, truth was still no object. When ex-president Rutherford B. Hayes declined his request for an interview, Raymond wrote up the story anyway — using made-up quotes from the former president and inventing fictitious details about his family.
By mid-1882, things on this side of the Atlantic had become a bit too hot for comfort. Raymond skedaddled to Egypt, “blossoming out” as a war correspondent and confidant of a local official known as the Khedive. It was an exciting and dangerous time to be in North Africa; British war ships bombed Alexandria on July 11th – and Raymond was right there, in the thick of things.
The following September, he cabled a detailed firsthand account of the battle of Tel-el Kebir to his former editor at the Chicago Daily News. This was big news — a decisive battle in which British forces captured Cairo, and the paper was incredibly grateful for the scoop. Raymond’s goal this time may have been simply notoriety; for once, he didn’t request compensation for that story. Even in North Africa, however, he couldn’t resist pulling scams. Falsely claiming to be a correspondent for a London paper, he “borrowed” money from the local khedive’s officers before (as one account put it) “vamoos[ing] the ranch.”
Next, he headed for Lower China (northern Vietnam), hoping to “report on the Tonquin war.” But a French general barred journalists from reporting on the conflict, so Raymond took up residence in Calcutta instead.
There he became “press agent” for an international exhibition opening in Calcutta in late 1883. After raking in what he later would claim to be astonishing $1,700 a week salary for that engagement, he was hired by the Raja of Burdwan to catalog that dignitary’s extensive zoological collection. This was “probably the finest in the world,” Raymond boasted, “embracing every known animal, among them 70 or 80 tigers and 15 or 20 elephants, with a large number of enormous serpents, rare and curious monkeys,” and his final report became “a fine catalogue of some 60 closely-printed pages.”
While working for the rajah in India, Raymond was permitted full use of the prince’s staff and stables, essentially living like a rajah himself. He would later regale listeners with his account of being whisked along the 43-mile trip to Calcutta in an imperial carriage pulled by rare Arabian horses, with barefoot natives running ahead crying “Make way!” As if that wasn’t enough, he also claimed to have served as an editor for the Pioneer in Allahabad, the same English-language paper that would later employ Rudyard Kipling.
Although the timeline doesn’t quite add up, Raymond would say that he returned to Egypt about the time Khartoum fell during the Mahdist Uprising, a dramatic and violent period when Britain’s General Gordon was killed in a massacre. But that didn’t happen until January, 1885. And he seems to have been elsewhere months earlier; news reports put him in Paris in March, 1884 – pulling off a pair of his most impressive scams.
Masquerading as Thomas Edison, Raymond was “lavishly entertained” by French politician Marie Francois Sadi Carnot, an important government minister at the time and later president of France, though whether the ruse produced further “loans” is unclear.
Next, trading on his familiarity with Egyptian titles and culture, Raymond presented himself at the luxurious Parisian Hotel Splendide as the “Bey of Tunis,” secretary to the khedive. At least superficially, this tale seemed believable to hotel staff; news reports had already confirmed that the now-deposed khedive was indeed making his way toward Paris.
This time, Raymond’s elaborate scam unfolded over several days. First, he sent a telegram requesting that the hotel reserve an entire floor of rooms for the khedive and his entourage; then showed up himself with an air of authority and a fake but convincing accent.
The khedive’s birthday was approaching, Raymond informed hotel staff, ordering them to prepare an elaborate dinner the following day for 24 persons. He gave “the most minute directions” for the khedive’s arrival, instructing that Oriental perfumes be burned in the hotel’s hallways and stairs in preparation.
Raymond then explained to the hotel manager that it was the khedive’s practice to present gifts to his staff on his birthday, and requested that an assortment of rare gems be brought to his room. Selecting 30 or 40 of the finest, Raymond asked that they be stored in the hotel safe. As an aside, claiming to have missed the bank’s closing time, he borrowed five hundred francs from the proprietor. The khedive, after all, would be arriving “tomorrow” and would happily settle the bill then.
That same evening, Raymond asked for the gemstones to be sent to his room so he could properly “wrap” them as gifts. Then, pocketing the precious gems, Raymond simply slipped quietly out a side door of the hotel and boarded a train.
He made his way back to Britain, but not before executing a few more quick swindles. Pretending to be the son of newspaper magnate Henry J. Raymond, he “borrowed” substantial sums from the U.S. consul at Marseilles and Lyons. Then, after reaching Britain, he faked a title as “chief of European correspondents” for a large New York paper, creating a splash for himself as a distinguished newspaperman and rubbing shoulders with celebrated stage actor Henry Irving and other notables.
Pretty soon, of course, the Europeans caught on, and back to the States he went. In Delaware, Raymond impersonated an assistant at the Annapolis Naval Academy, calling upon locals who had sons at the Academy and being entertained “in a manner befitting his (supposed) rank.” But a chance encounter with someone he’d met in Egypt blew Raymond’s cover, and he was off again – this time to Philadelphia.
There, pretending to be a correspondent for the famous New York Herald, his “fine conversational qualities and polished manner” won him entrée to private clubs and exclusive social circles where, thanks to his “rattling game of poker” and apparent familiarity with Naval Academy affairs, he was able to negotiate several more “loans.”
He moved on to Delaware, then to Chester, Pennsylvania, now claiming to be a correspondent with the London Times. Once again, his “very suave manner . . . won the good opinion of everybody;” as one newspaper put it, he “seemed to be a walking encyclopedia of general information.” Authorities were soon on his heels as his checks kept bouncing. And so he was off on a trip through Illinois – cut short when yet another former acquaintance recognized him.
It was August, 1886 when the State of New York finally brought his wandering ways to a halt. Raymond had passed a pair of bad checks to the Hotel Belvidere totaling $74.50, and wound up pleading guilty to second-degree grand larceny. But . . . his luck hadn’t quite run out. Raymond’s chequered history somehow escaped notice. Even the prosecutor seemed swayed by his refined manners and recommended leniency, telling the sentencing judge Raymond had “never been accused of crime before, and was not a professional criminal.” The judge agreed, and imposed the lowest penalty. Raymond got off with just two more years in Sing Sing.
An acquaintance who visited him there in September, 1887 found Raymond working in the prison library. Despite having exchanged his expensive finery for a dreary gray prison uniform with black, horizontal stripes, Raymond retained both his “handsome looks” and polished manner. He had managed to elevate himself to posts as both assistant librarian of the prison and an aide to the chaplain, the visitor noted, suggesting that “even within the prison walls he has successfully practiced his confidence game.”
By 1889 Raymond was a free man again, and quickly made use of the opportunity to remove himself to England. But nothing else had changed. Newspapers soon began reporting that he was donning wigs, false beards, and glasses to alter his appearance. But his modus operandi — pretending to be someone important — remained largely the same.
In Birmingham, Raymond presented himself as a nephew of George W. Childs, a noted philanthropist who had donated a fountain to the city. After “inspecting the fountain with great care,” Raymond passed another flurry of bad cheques, making off with several hundred British pounds.
Under the fictitious identity of an “orchid farmer” from New Jersey, he called on statesman Joseph Chamberlain, helpfully sharing cultivation tips for the man’s favorite flower before swindling the family to the tune of £50.
Bearing a forged letter of introduction from Harvard professor (and celebrated poet) James Russell Lowell, Raymond paid a call on actor/playwright Wilson Barrett of Nottingham, graciously offering him a (nonexistent) lecturing position at the Massachusetts university. Luckily for the intended swindlee, the penmanship purporting to be Lowell’s was swiftly outed as a fraud. A hasty swing through the Continent may have followed; Raymond was implicated in a 13,000-franc jewel swindle in Paris under the name ‘Van Dyke,’ and an unsuccessful attempt “of a similar character” in Berlin.
By January, 1889, Raymond was back in England, now using the persona of “Major General Ernest Neville Rolfe.” Claiming he’d been tasked with purchasing horses for the Egyptian Army, Raymond paid for four “splendid animals” with a forged check for £500, and departed with the four horses – plus another £45 in change.
But his luck finally ran out the following month. Using the name Bennett Burleigh (a famous war correspondent), Raymond passed a forged check for £21, purportedly written by celebrated journalist George Augustus Sala, at the recently-opened Winter Gardens in the seaside resort of Blackpool.
Raymond was swiftly arrested. And this time, there would be no leniency. He was sentenced to ten years at hard labor in a British prison. Back in America, his wife Elizabeth was reportedly forced to seek refuge with relatives in Nevada. (Her married sister lived in Carson City; their father had once lived there, too, though he had passed away in November, 1885, and is buried at Lone Mountain Cemetery).
Ten difficult prison years lay ahead for Raymond. And it truly was “hard time.” This time, he didn’t get a cushy librarian’s post.
Inside the British prison, Raymond was set to “picking oakum.” That meant long hours of mind-numbing, dirty work, painfully unraveling strands of tarry hemp rope so the fibers could be reused as packing for pipe joints or caulking for wooden ships. One reporter would say he performed the task uncomplainingly.
And amazingly enough, Ross Raymond’s story still wasn’t quite over.
Stay tuned for Part 3 of his story!
_______________
The graves of Ross Raymond and his wife Elizabeth are among several hundred at Lone Mountain Cemetery that lack permanent headstones. Like to help a devoted group of cemeterians add permanent markers to these sadly unmarked graves? Donations for this important headstone project can be made payable to the “Foundation for Carson City Parks and Recreation,” P.O. Box 3266, Carson City NV 89702. Be sure to add a notation that the gift is intended for the Lone Mountain Headstone Project. The Foundation is a 501(c ) (3) public charity, EIN 47-4750761. Donations are tax-deductible.