Issue 13 | 23 August, 2023 | 10 minutes reading time
On a sunny morning in October 2018, I got conned in the streets of Paris.
My dad and I were in great moods, having just climbed down from the Eiffel Tower. We’d enjoyed gorgeous panoramic views of the city in its autumnal glory and were ready to spend the day walking its historic streets. Being the book nerd I am, top of my agenda was visiting Shakespeare and Co., one of Paris’ most famous bookshops.
As we exited the Eiffel Tower, I saw three people playing a simple game. (I’d later realise they were working together, but at the time they convincingly seemed like strangers).
One man, the conductor of the game, expertly switched a ball between three cups. After every round, participants had to bet which cup the ball was under. One participant stood ultra-focussed on the cups, not bothering to make eye contact as he placed his bets in each round. The second, a woman, seemed to be surveying the game before betting herself.
Here’s the quick version of what happened next: carried away by the morning’s joy, I walked up to them and placed a not-so-small bet. I lost and panicked at the realisation that I’d lost actual money. I became desperate to win it back. The woman surveying the game noticed this and pointed excitedly to a cup, encouraging me to bet on it in the next round. Not fully aware of my actions, I did as instructed. I lost again. My anxiety kicked into overdrive and, egged on by the woman once more, I bet and lost a third time. It all happened in the span of a minute.
Finally, I snapped out of that temporary insanity. Both my dad and I were left with disbelief on our faces. A hollow feeling spread across my chest and I felt like throwing up. Never before had I been tempted by the idea of gambling. Yet here, enticed by a cheap thrill, I became the willing subject of a con and lost 300 euros in the process.
This memory has been a source of shame to me, so I’ve kept it a closely guarded secret. What I did that morning was deeply unlike me. But in this issue of Multitudes, I’m trying to confront it, not just by telling its story but by trying to understand what happened in that minute.
So today, I’m turning to research and similar stories to break down the psychology of con. I hope you enjoy it.
In 1937, the Dutch art critic Abraham Bredius was brought an alleged rediscovered painting by the 17th-century artist Johannes Vermeer. Bredius was called “The Pope” because of the authority his opinions carried and he was considered the final word on Vermeer’s art. On this day, he was asked to certify the authenticity of a painting titled Christ and Disciples at Emmaus.
Bredius was ecstatic at the sight of the painting, though it wasn’t immediately clear why. The great critic said that it looked nothing like Vermeer’s other works, yet was “every inch a Vermeer” and perhaps even his finest.
Bredius had a pet theory that, in a particular period of his life, Vermeer painted Biblical scenes as a homage to the artist Caravaggio. This painting was his proof - no wonder he was overjoyed. He put his money where his mouth was, contributing to its purchase by a museum.
Except, as you might have guessed, it was a forgery.
The forgery was discovered in bizarre circumstances after World War 2. Hans van Meegeren, an art dealer, was arrested for selling another ‘lost’ Vermeer to Nazis during their occupation of the Netherlands. In a country trying to shed all ties with its brief Nazi past, van Meegeren’s acts were considered treason and grounds for execution.
The fear of death led van Meegeren to admit that he’d forged the works himself (the punishment for forgery was only jail time). In the subsequent trial, he then had to prove he was a forger, not a traitor.
Tim Harford, in an episode of Cautionary Tales, described van Meegeren’s masterful methods. He painted over other 17th-century artworks so that the canvas would be properly aged. He engineered his paints as well by adding polymers to them. Normal oil paints take decades to completely dry, so cotton swabs on recent paintings carry colour. The polymers he added hardened the paint, preventing this.
van Meegeren knew Bredius’ theory on Vermeer, so he used a Caravaggio-inspired theme but with minute elements apparently in keeping with Vermeer’s style, like the tiny white flecks on the bread. These were minute markers of authenticity that professional critics like Bredius would look for, and they were enough for him to ignore the glaring fact that the painting didn’t look anything like a Vermeer. It was a trap that only an expert would fall for, and fall the expert did.
But in addition to weaponizing Bredius’ expertise, van Meegeren also weaponised his desire to trust. And this is what Maria Konnikova, author of The Confidence Game, says is key to a good con.
Most people have an innate sense of trust built into them. This is by and large good. People who trust others tend to be healthier and smarter than those who don’t and societies with high levels of trust tend to be wealthier and have stronger institutions. Humans have been successful across the arc of history because they cooperate, and they cooperate because they can trust.
But people can also be blinded by the belief that good things should happen to them. This optimism coupled with their trust can be their downfall. So it was for Bredius, who believed he’d proven his theory, and so it was for me that morning in Paris.
It was partly a coincidence. If I’d been having a rotten day, I’d likely have ignored the game. But I was caught up in the romance of being in Paris and felt welcomed by the city. Surely its inhabitants wouldn’t take advantage of that?
Of course they would. The trio had set up at the base of the Eiffel Tower for a reason – to take advantage of naïve tourists happy to believe anything. Each played their part with just the right amount of confidence.
The conductor of the game knew how to make it seem like a ball was under a particular cup, only to slyly switch it out at the last minute.
The other man “playing” the game seemed to mind his own business, not making eye contact with the other two. He won some turns and lost others, making it seem like a real game of chance between strangers.
The lady “helping” me explicitly focussed on my trust (naivety), pointing excitedly at the cup even I suspected, knowing that I’d believe her kind and smiling face. She also provided the distraction for the ball to be switched at the last minute.
I was in an optimistic and trusting mood, and they exploited that to perfection.
Confident rogues have been the undoing of many, so it’s no surprise that the term ‘con man’ comes from ‘confidence man’. The perpetrator of a scam has to commit completely to their act; even a slight slip might arouse suspicion.
No one did this better than Wilhelm Voigt in 1906, as narrated in another episode of Cautionary Tales. He was a regular person in possession of an Army Captain’s uniform, but he knew how to use it to his advantage.
In 1906 in Berlin, Voigt was dressed in army garb and stopped a group of passing soldiers. He asked where they were going and then commanded them to follow him - he had orders straight from the Kaiser, he said. The soldiers, wanting to avoid trouble, obeyed.
While walking to the train station, they passed another group of soldiers. Voigt commanded them too to get in line. The new soldiers, seeing the ranks already behind the ‘Captain’, obeyed without question. At the station, he subjected them to a routine inspection and led them on a train to the nearby town of Kopenich.
In Kopenich, Voigt marched them straight to the Town Hall where he informed a rather astonished Mayor that the Kaiser had ordered for his arrest. The soldiers were to take the Mayor and his wife to a police station in Berlin, while the “Captain” himself would seize money in the vault for safekeeping. When the Mayor indignantly (but correctly) asked for a warrant, Voigt had a simple answer – “My warrant is the men I command.”
Everything went as Voigt planned. The soldiers led the Mayor and his wife to Berlin where the police knew nothing of orders for their arrest. Meanwhile, he’d slipped into a nearby bathroom in Kopenich and changed into civilian clothes. Having duped everyone involved, he escaped with the money.
But why was everyone duped so easily?
As Harford points out, it wasn’t because Germans naturally submit to loud men in military uniforms. It’s because one step at a time, Voigt got them to obey him without realising they had.
The first group of soldiers were stopped by a ‘superior officer’ who asked them where they were going. No harm in answering that, right? But Voigt now had a foot in the door and the soldiers recognised his superiority. They responded to his command and called him “Sir”.
So he took it a step further, commanding them to follow him under the Kaiser’s. Again, no inherent harm in just following a superior officer, especially on the Kaiser’s orders. The second troupe fell in line much easier, because they saw soldiers already marching behind Voigt.
If he’d told the soldiers early on that they’d be arresting a Mayor, they’d likely demand proof. Instead, he established authority through mundane tasks. By the time they reached Kopenick’s Town Hall, they were in the thick of the action. The time to ask questions was well past. Here was the moment to execute orders, which they did perfectly.
The only person to ask questions was the Mayor, though he couldn’t do much when confronted by a small army and a Captain claiming unflinching authority on behalf of the Kaiser.
That morning in Paris went similarly. One step at a time, with me only realising what happened after the fact.
The foot-in-the-door moment was me being fascinated enough to stop and watch the game. Happy as I was, I decided it would be harmless to bet just a few euros. I’d committed to playing now – one step deeper.
Having committed, it didn’t strike me as odd when the man running the game said small bets weren’t allowed. The only non-small note I had in my wallet was a 100 euro one, and I put it down without thought.
When I lost the first time, I didn’t step back. I panicked and, like many gamblers before me, tried to double down to undo my mistake. Another hundred euros. When I lost that, I put down my final hundred and lost that as well.
All of this happened in the span of a minute. The shuffle of the cups, the encouragement of the woman, the disastrous bets. My dad, caught up in his own shock at what was happening, finally helped me snap out of it after the third round.
By then, though, it was too late. The money was lost and the trio, at the sight of patrolling cops, made a quick getaway.
It’s taken me five years to talk about this publicly, which highlights another feature of cons – their victims often stay silent out of embarrassment. Their silence ironically helps scams perpetuate because fewer people become aware of them.
Their embarrassment doesn’t come from losing money, and the research bears it out. A survey by the European Commission found that 79% of scam victims reported suffering emotional damage, while only 24% complained about suffering financial damage.
Had I been mugged, I’d feel very differently. I’d still hate losing the money, but at least I wouldn’t have actively participated in my downfall. But scams are built around active participation. Like I said earlier, they weaponise your trust and optimism, leaving you in a tumultuous lurch once they’re done.
So far, I’ve told you what happened. But the story isn’t complete without explaining why my sense of self felt shattered that morning.
I grew up in a household that was no doubt well-off, but where frugality was valued. My parents were more than willing to spend on a good education and for us to experience new places through travel, but I don’t recall my childhood filled with luxury or extravagance. When my brother and I were getting our first cell phones, for example, their rule was simple – you’re allowed to get (a simple) one, but you’ve got to save up for it yourself. They encouraged us to invest from an early age and were religious about doing so themselves.
These values hold strong in me to date. I’m frequently spending on travel, but if I’ve got to go anywhere in a 4 km radius I’d rather walk instead of spending on an auto. Add to this my deep-rooted risk aversion and you’ve got someone who loathes wasting money on games of chance.
Looking back, I realise it wasn’t a life-changing amount of money, but it was far from pocket change. Throughout that trip, I couldn’t stop thinking about how my parents were counting every penny when they first travelled to Europe with my brother in 1995 (a few months before I was born). They lived on a tight budget, eating fast food and staying at youth hostels. Because of this, one of my father’s dreams for our 2018 trip was to eat at a nice café in Paris, an unaffordable luxury earlier.
I remember my dad saying that family trips abroad always hurt a little because no matter how much you spent, you always felt poor when spending in euros or dollars. No transaction was made before converting prices to rupees multiple times over.
This trip was the first time where he seemed genuinely comfortable spending and even indulging. He was a year into retirement and was enjoying the fruits of 40 years of work. In that moment of recklessness, I felt like I’d insulted that and the values I’d been raised with.
Five years on, that moment is still hard to talk about. Every time I’ve sat down to write this piece, my heart rate has shot up and I’ve felt a weight settle in my chest. I accept this discomfort as a reminder of my values and a guide for the future. All I hope is that I’m smarter now, less likely to fall prey to impulse and better able to stand by my beliefs.
That day hasn’t made me less trusting of people. If anything, my faith in humanity has grown because of the kindness that family, friends and even strangers have shown me in the time since.
That kindness started that very day with my father, when he forgave me without an ounce of anger. Again, in front of his eyes, I’d betrayed his values in that moment of recklessness. But I think he saw it as just that – a moment of recklessness. He was deeply upset by what I’d done but found the kindness to move past it.
Neither of us knew what to say to each other for a while. So we walked about in a silent daze past the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe, unsure of what to do.
When we finally made it to Shakespeare and Co., he insisted I buy myself a book. I didn’t feel I deserved it and felt sick at the thought of spending money. But he knew what it meant to me to visit a place like this.
I’ll never be able to forget the terrible mistake I made that day and the people who took advantage of my naivety. But thanks to him, I’ll also always remember it for the kindness that humans can show each other, even in the face of deep anguish.
Okay, that’s it for this issue. I hope you liked what I wrote and, more importantly, learnt from my mistakes. I’d highly suggest that you listen to both episodes of Cautionary Tales I linked above. There are dramatic twists to both stories I couldn’t capture here, but they’re well worth knowing.
If you think someone else might like what I wrote, do share it with them. It would mean a lot. If you’re new here and want my writing to come directly to your inbox, sigh up below.
See you next month,
Shantanu