It’s interesting to speculate as to how many ways there are to turn a dishonest dollar. There must be as many variations to the old shell game as there are operators, and B.C. has known its share of these shady types.

Almost a century ago, Jacob Jacobsen (if that was his real name) earned his niche in provincial criminal lore when, under the alias John Hellsing, he worked a novel dodge on a Victoria realtor. His was, as a newspaper reported put it, a “smooth scheme,” and one not without its charm if something less than original.

B.C jails had their own versions of the ball and chain brigade, shown here in an American state. —*Wikipedia*

But running afoul of the law in those pioneer days could be harsh, especially if one were sentenced to hard labour.

* * * * *

To start at the beginning: "Hellsing " first appeared at the BC information agency office of Alfred T. Abbey and introduced himself as a recent arrival from Bremerton, where he’d sold some land, the proceeds of which he hoped to invest in local real estate. Victoria was a beautiful city, he gushed, and he had such unbounded faith in its potential that he just couldn't pass through without purchasing a share in the future.

This, of course, was music to realtor Abbey's ears, and when the visitor drew forth two cheques drawn upon the State Bank of Bremerton “purporting to be made out by John Jacobson in favour of John Helsing for $1,000,” payment for the Bremerton property, he wasted no time in showing him the first likely prospect, near the corner of Vancouver and Richardson streets.

To Abbey's joy, Helsing was enchanted with the house—so much so, that he asked to buy a second, similar home next door as well.

As he was agent for both properties, Abbey was, to say the least, delighted, the combined sale amounting to a healthy $7,000. Upon returning to the agent’s office Helsing gave him one of the cheques, already endorsed, and the realtor wrote a receipt and drew up a contract outlining the terms of sale and payment of the balance owing.

When Helsing took his leave, Abbey routinely deposited the cheque in his business account and turned to other matters. It can only be concluded that Helsing was something of a charmer, for Abbey, although no newcomer to the business, hadn't given a thought to the fact that Helsing had handed him a cheque that was already endorsed, rather than having signed it over to him in his presence as is customary.

The next day, who should appear at Abbey's office but the pleasant Mr. Helsing, with a tale of woe.

It seems that he’d been expecting another advance which hadn't come through. Would Mr. Abbey advance him $200 in the meantime if he gave him the second endorsed cheque from Mr. Jacobson as security?

At this, Mr. Abbey began to have second thoughts—fast second thoughts.

Stalling for time, and trying not to arouse Helsing's suspicions, he suggested that the latter leave the cheque with him and call back that afternoon. The instant Helsing left his office, Abbey raced to his bank to put a tracer on the Bremerton account of John Jacobson. He soon learned that the institution had never heard of either Messrs. Jacobson or Helsing.

When Helsing appeared at his office as arranged, Abbey faced him with this damaging development. Helsing was not only embarrassed, but outraged, protesting that he obviously had been taken in by the dastardly Mr. Jacobson with a worthless cheque!

He then left and Abbey hurried to inform the police.

The next day, officers learned that Helsing had originally registered at the Brunswick Hotel under the name of Jabinson. As it turned out, they traced him to the corner of Vancouver and Richardson streets where he’d taken possession of "his" house, having informed the tenants that he’d purchased the property but would accept room and board in lieu of rent!

When detective O'Leary did put his hand on the facile fraud’s shoulder, he was boarding a steamer for Seattle. Although he surrendered without a struggle, Hellsing did attempt to dispose of a crumpled slip of paper which the alert O’Leary rescued for justice; it was the cheque on which he’d attempted to raise $200 from realtor Abbey.

Thus, the next day, the appearance in Police Court of Mr. Jacobson or Helsing or Jabison, or whoever he was, charged with intent to defraud.

At least it could be said that he’d demonstrated some finesse. Such couldn't be said for either Charley Fisher or James Fitzgerald.

“Whisky seller,” they called Charley Fisher, more than a century and a half ago. For over a period of 10 years the industrious Charley was in and out of jail because of his nefarious calling. Time and again newspaper reporters made light of his latest fall from grace; such as on the historic date of Nov. 18th,1861 when Charlie took his first recorded tumble.

“Charley Fisher, a well-known whisky trader, was arrested by the police last night while selling tangle-leg to a number of Indians near Shoal Point. He was accommodated with comfortable quarters at this Station House for the night. He will attend Mr. Pemberton's levee this morning, at 11:00.”

Despite the seriousness of the charge, although it was one too often reported upon over the years, the unknown scribe was no less amused when Charley was fined 50 pounds or to a six-month-long “pleasure trip to the chain gang”.

When, five years later, Charley, by then a veteran of the trade, again faced the bench, it was to experience the further indignity of having his name misspelled. The Colonist report was written with the usual smirk that seemed to accompany reports of petty and small crime:

“William [sic] Fisher, a regular boarder at the Hotel de Pemberton [a reference to the longtime city magistrate], was charged yesterday in the Police Court by Officer Tennlet with supplying spirits to an Indian and was fined $50 or four months in the chain gang.”

As a seaman before the mast, Murphy had known the The Hotel de Pemberton aka the Bastion Square Police Barracks, Victoria’s combined jail and police court, in which Charley Fisher was a frequent if reluctant guest. —*BC Archives* tea clippers. However, upon reaching Australia, he’d been bitten by the gold bug. —*www.publicdomainpictures.net*

Another five years passed without Charlie seeing the light. By then, even the press failed to find humour in his degradation and tersely reported that his most recent bout with the law had cost them $200 or six months’ hard labour.

Three months later, Charley made his last stand before the judgment of history, the newspaper noting his “black history” of seven bootlegging convictions in a decade. In 10 years, Charley had been fined a total of $1,550 and sentenced to an unknown number of months in the chain gang in default.

Alas, whether this was Charley Fisher's last joust with the law I can’t say, for here the public record appears to end.

No less an amateur was James Fitzgerald, who was charged in October 1862 with having stolen the watch and broach from a lady of the evening, “Slap Jack Johnny”. Mary Sheldon, as she was correctly known, accused James of having removed the valuables from “beneath her downy pillow while she slumbered in the arms of Morpheus”.

In court, she also demonstrated a swollen lip which, she said, was the result of “contact with Fitzgerald's fist”. Police testified that they’d found the watch and broach on Fitzgerald when he was arrested;

Remanded a day, Fitzgerald again took his place in the dock, only to have the charge dismissed, the complainant having failed to appear.

As we’ve seen, crime was a constant in the so-called good old days, too. Some of the crimes may have changed slightly over the decades—Indigenous people were finally accorded legal access to alcohol—and new digital aids have enhanced criminal opportunities. But, alas, those out to connive and to cheat are still with us.

At least journalists no longer make light of their court appearances—progress, of sorts, I suppose..

Any Which Way But Honest