Gypsies never had it better. Most of them don’t bother to buy licenses. As this was being written, a gypsy fortune-teller was under indictment charged with using such props as torn diapers, a red candle and a department store ladies’ room, to skin three Washington housewives of $450. Police said Julia Nichols would show up at a woman’s home, announce she was a church-worker, then tell the housewife she was hexed. She would ask for money, a handkerchief or diaper. She would tear the cloth in half, fold the money in it and depart to have it “blessed.” And blessed if she would return!
Rituals were involved, the police said. In one case Miss Nichols allegedly placed a silver dollar in a glass of water and told her victim to park the tumbler in a bureau drawer. In another, she allegedly enclosed the money in a diaper, with flour, salt, and a length of the housewife’s hair. In a third case, police said, the gypsy led a victim from her home to a department store rest-room before taking her money. In another, she allegedly left a housewife’s apartment with the currency after giving her a red candle to light and telling her to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
C. Free Loaders
A shrewdie can live here forever on the cuff. A gate-crasher, if well-dressed, can be choosy about eating and drinking gratis. Every day there’s a profusion of breakfasts, lunches, cocktail parties, dinners and late suppers thrown by lobbyists, corporations, officials, pressure groups, embassies and social climbers.
Admission is by invitation, but bids are sent out broadside. Organizations and lobbyists exchange mailing lists, even take names out of directories. Almost anyone who cares to get on such a roster can. Once on, his name makes all others. If he isn’t entered, it is simple to mooch an invitation from someone who has one, because few use them. Few large affairs are well guarded. It takes little ingenuity to walk in nonchalantly and act like a belonger.
The gate-crashers turn up in the unlikeliest places, maybe breakfasting at a press conference given by ladies of the W.C.T.U., lunching at a radio salesmen’s convention and dining, in tails and white tie, at a debutante’s ball.
Beds, and what goes with them—gals—can be stiffed, too. Those who make the lobbyists’ lists are invited to the wild parties in the hotels and mansions, where all that is on the house.
A friend of ours, a Congressman, told us this story. He was walking down Connecticut Avenue, past the Mayflower Hotel, on his way to dine at Harvey’s. He bumped into an acquaintance, a press agent from New York, who insisted the Congressman eat with him. “I’m going up to a swell private party at the Mayflower,” he said. The Congressman went along, had a wonderful meal, with wine and cigars, and soon pretty blondes began to mix. The satisfied legislator turned to his friend and said, “Gee, this is a swell party. I’d like to thank the host. Who is he?” The press agent said, “Damned if I know. I’ve been trying to find out all night.”