Catch Me If You Can

by Frank W. Abagnale

  The scam went off flawlessly. The girls clustered in a group in the lobby, in view of the cashier, and I presented the nine fake checks in payment for our lodging and other charges. The cashier raised the only question.

  “Oh, these are rather high, Captain, I’m not sure I have enough American dollars to make change,” she said, inspecting her cash drawer. “In fact, I don’t. You’re going to have to take pounds in change, I’m afraid.”

  I acted miffed, but accepted the decision, knowing the cashier would probably make a profit, or thought she would. The pounds she gave me, however, were real. The Pan Am checks weren’t.

  We flew to Rome that afternoon, where, over the next three days, the procedure was repeated. The hotel cashier in Rome, too, questioned the amount of the expense checks, but was satisfied with my explanation.

  “Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said. “But we’re on an eighteen-day tour of Italy, and, of course, you can give me change in lira if you like.”

  He liked, since it meant a personal profit of some fifty American dollars for him.

  I decided against jaunting around Europe by air, not because of the expense but because it would have exposed the girls constantly to other airline crews. That was my biggest problem in implementing my scheme-shielding the girls from other airline people. As I previously pointed out, airline people like to talk shop, especially if they work for the same carrier.

  There was, naturally, some unavoidable contact with other flight crews, since the success of my check-cashing scam demanded we stay at hotels which catered to airline personnel. There was always the risk that one of the girls, while in uniform, would encounter another, actual, Pan Am stewardess, and a disastrous dialogue would ensue.

  Actual stew: “Hi, I’m Mary Alice, out of L. A. Where are you based?”

  My girl: “Oh, I’m not based anywhere. I’m just over here on a P.R. thing.”

  Actual stew: “You’re not a stewardess?”

  My girl: “Not really. There’re eight of us, and we’re doing some photographic modeling for promotion and advertising purposes.”

  Actual stew (to herself): “Like hell. I’ve been with Pan Am for five years and I never heard of any such work. I’d better report this to the chief and see if these people are for real.”

  I wanted to avoid any such scenario, so I would frequently reinforce my instructions to the girls with repeat lectures. “Look, when you’re out in civilian clothes and you meet a Pan Am flight attendant in uniform, don’t say you fly for Pan Am, too, because you don’t,” I’d warn them.

  “If you’re in uniform and you encounter another Pan Am stewardess, just say you’re here on vacation if your status is questioned. You may feel that’s being deceptive, and it is, but we have a reason. We don’t want other airlines to find out about this venture, because they’d most likely, with some justification, put the word out in the industry that Pan Am isn’t using real stewardesses in our travel ads or promotional brochures. And we don’t really want our line stewardesses to know, as I’ve told you, because it would likely cause dissension. For a working stewardess, this would really be a choice assignment.”

  The girls cooperated splendidly in that respect. And I rented a comfortable, almost luxurious Volkswagen bus for our meandering around Europe. At times my scheme seemed more like a leisurely vacation than a felonious venture, for we often spent days, sometimes a week or more, in colorful little out-of-the-way spots in this country or that one and during such detours I curbed my crooked activities. It was not part of my plan to shaft the peasants.

  But my scam got back on the track in major cities. Before entering such a metropolis, we’d stop and change into our airline uniforms, and, on our arrival at the hotel of my choosing, the scheme would pick up steam and begin operating again.

  Every two weeks I paid the girls with a counterfeit payroll check, then had them endorse the checks over to me in return for cash. Since I was paying all their expenses (although each thought Pan Am was picking up the tab), most of them purchased money orders and sent them home to their parents or their bank.

  The girls were entirely guiltless, of course. Not one, during the summer, ever had an inkling she was involved in a criminal venture. Each thought she was legitimately employed by Pan Am. They were completely duped by my con.

  Mine was an idyllic intrigue, but often hectic and taxing. Riding herd on eight lovely, vivacious, exuberant, energetic girls is akin to a cowboy riding herd on a bunch of wild steers while mounted on a lame horse-damned near impossible. I had determined at the outset of the scheme that there would be no personal involvement with any of the girls, but my resolve was endangered a score of times during the course of the summer. Each of them was an outrageous flirt, and I, of course, was a prince of philanderers, and when one of the girls was inclined to make a sexual advance (and each of them did on several occasions), I was hardly prone to fend her off. But I always managed.

  I did not lead a celibate life during the summer. I had ample opportunities to engage in side liaisons with the girls of whatever localities we were frequenting, and I took advantage of each and every opportunity.

  Monique was not one of the liaisons. When we visited Paris and I sought her out, she informed me our relationship was finished. “I’ll still be your friend, Frank, and I hope you’ll still help Papa in his business, but I want to settle down and you don’t,” she said. “I’ve met another man, a pilot for Air France, and we’re pretty serious about our future.”

  I assured her of my understanding and, in fact, was somewhat relieved. I also affirmed that her father would continue to get “Pan Am business,” although that statement was a lie. I was beginning to feel some guilt concerning my duplicitous use of Papa Lavalier, and had opted to release him as a pawn in my scurrilous game. Anyway, he’d already provided me with enough supplies to drain a dozen bank vaults if I used them all.

  The girls and I ended our tour of Europe in Copenhagen, where I put them on a plane for Arizona. I dispatched them back to the States with their arms laden with roses and a flowery speech designed to allay any suspicions that might arise in their minds in coming weeks.

  “Keep your uniforms, keep your ID cards and keep your check stubs [I’d always returned a check stub when I cashed a check],” I instructed them. “If the company wants the uniforms and IDs returned, you’ll be contacted. As far as employment goes, just return to school, because we’re not going to hire you on a permanent basis until you graduate, and then you’ll be contacted by a company representative. It probably won’t be me, because I’ve been ordered back to flight duty. But I hope you’ll all end up as part of my crew again, for I’ve had a wonderful time with you this summer.”

  I had had a wonderful time, all things considered. If the girls put a lot of gray strands in my hair, they also, unwittingly, put a lot of green stuff in my pockets. Something like $300,000 in all.

  The girls did hear from Pan Am, as a matter of fact. After three months of a steady stream of photographs, from dozens of European cities and all showing the same eight girls in Pan Am stewardess costumes, advertising executives of Pan Am launched an investigation. Eventually the entire matter ended up in O’Riley’s hands and he deftly sorted it out and put it into focus for the carrier’s officers and also for the girls.

  I understand all eight of them took it gracefully, if with some vivid and descriptive language.

  I stayed in Europe for several weeks after parting with the girls, then returned to the States, where I wandered around like a gypsy for several weeks, never staying in one place for more than two or three days. I was becoming moody again, nervous and edgy, and the knowledge that I would probably always be a man on the move, a fox perpetually hunted by the hounds, was beginning to weigh on my conscience, affecting my conscious life.

  I virtually ceased my check-swindling activities, fearful the hounds were close enough and reluctant to create additional spoor. Only rarely was I challenged to display my creative criminality.


  One such time was in a large midwestern city. I was sitting in the airport restaurant after arrival, enjoying lunch, when I became interested in the conversation in the adjoining booth, an exchange between an elderly, stern-faced man and a very young, servile companion, apparently an employee. I gathered from the conversation that the older man was a banker, en route to a convention in San Francisco, and from the remarks he made to the young man it was clear he expected his bank to make money in his absence. He was cool, crusty, arrogant and obviously proud of his lofty status, and when he was paged on the airport intercom I learned his name. Jasper P. Cashman.

  That afternoon I did some discreet digging into Jasper P. Cashman’s background, utilizing a local newspaper’s library. J. P. Cashman was a prominent man in his community, a self-made tycoon. He’d started as a teller in his bank when the financial house had assets of less than $5 million. He was president now and the bank’s assets exceeded $100 million.

  I scouted the bank the following day. It was a new building, still boasting its expansion motto on the large front window. The interior was roomy and pleasing. Tellers on one side, junior officers scattered across an opposite wall. Senior officers in airy, glassed-in offices. Cashman’s offices on the third floor. J. P. Cashman didn’t believe in close contact with the underlings.

  I rented a car, drove to a modest city 175 miles distant and opened a checking account for $10,000 with a counterfeit cashier’s check. Then I returned to Cashman’s town and the next day called at his bank. I wasn’t really interested in the money involved in my swindle. Cashman’s manner had irked me, and I simply wanted to sting him.

  I was the picture of the affluent businessman when I entered the bank. Gray three-piece suit. Alligators, luster-shined. Countess Mara tie. A leather brief-case, slim and elegant.

  Cashman’s companion at the airport was one of the junior officers. His desk was neat and tidy. His nameplate sparkled with newness. He obviously was newly promoted. I dropped into the chair in front of his desk.

  “Yes, sir, can I help you?” he asked, patently impressed by my dress and bearing.

  “Yes, you can, as a matter of fact,” I said easily. “I’m Robert Leeman from Junction, and I need to cash a check, a rather large one. I’ve all the proper identification and you can call my bank for verification, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. J. P. Cashman knows me, and he’ll verify the check. You can call him. No, I’ll do it myself, since I need to talk to him anyway.”

  Before he could react, I reached over, picked up his telephone and dialed Cashman’s correct extension. Cash-man’s secretary answered.

  “Yes, Mr. Cashman, please… He isn’t… Oh, yes, he mentioned that last week and it slipped my mind. Well, listen, would you tell him when he returns that Bob Leeman dropped by, and tell him Jean and I are looking forward to seeing him and Mildred in Junction for the hunt. He’ll know what I mean… Yes, thank you.”

  I replaced the telephone and stood up, grimacing. “Doesn’t look like my day,” I said ruefully. “I needed the cash, too. I can’t get to Junction and back in time for this deal. Well, good day, sir.“

  I started to turn and the young officer stopped me. “Uh, how big is the check you wanted to cash, Mr. Leeman?”

  “Pretty good sized,” I said. “I need $7,500. Do you think you can take care of it? I can give you the number of my bank in Junction.” Without waiting for a reply, I dropped back into the chair, briskly wrote out a check for $7,500 and handed it to him. As I figured, he didn’t call the bank in Junction. He stood up and turned toward one of the glassed-in offices. “Sir, I’ll have to have Mr. James, the vice president, okay this, which I’m sure he will. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He walked into James’s office and said (as I later learned) exactly what I’d conditioned him to say. “Sir, there’s a Mr. Leeman here from Junction and he needs to cash this rather large check. He’s a personal friend of Mr. Cashman, and he wanted to see Mr. Cashman, but as you know Mr. Cashman’s in San Francisco.”

  “A personal friend of the old man’s?”

  “Yes, sir, business and social, I understand.”

  “Cash it. We sure as hell don’t want to irritate any of the old man’s associates.”

  A minute later the young officer was handing the phony check to a teller. “Cash this for the gentleman, please. Mr. Leeman, I’m glad I could help you.”

  I wasn’t too well pleased with the Pavlov’s-dog swindle. In fact, I didn’t enjoy it at all. I left town that day and several days later stopped in a remote Vermont village to do some meditating. Mine were gloomy cogitations. I was no longer living, I decided, I was merely surviving. I had accumulated a fortune with my nefarious impersonations, swindles and felonies, but I wasn’t enjoying the fruits of my libidinous labors. I concluded it was time to retire, to go to earth like a fox in a remote and secure lair where I could relax and commence building a new and crime-free life.

  I reviewed the places I had been on the atlas of my mind. I was mildly astonished at the extensiveness of my travels, recalling my journeys of the past few years. I had crisscrossed the globe from Singapore to Stockholm, from Tahiti to Trieste, from Baltimore to the Baltics, and to other places I had forgotten I’d visited.

  But one place I hadn’t forgotten. And its name kept popping into my thoughts as I sought a safe haven. Montpellier, France.

  Montpellier. That was my safe haven, I finally decided. And having made the decision, I didn’t give it a second thought.

  I should have.

  CHAPTER NINE. Does This Tab Include the Tip?

  Quantitatively, the vineyards of Bas Languedoc produce more wine than the other three great French wine departments combined. Qualitatively, with one or two exceptions, the wine of Languedoc has all the bouquet, body and taste of flat root beer. The considerate host serves an ordinary Languedoc wine only with leftover meat loaf, and preferably to guests whom he’d rather not see again.

  It is, in the main, really bad juice.

  Fortunately for France, the vintners, grape pickers, bottlers and the vast majority of the rest of the population consume the bulk of Languedoc ’s wines. France exports only its great wines from the vineyards of Burgundy, Bordeaux and Champagne, which are justly famous for quality and excellence.

  I learned all about viniculture in Montpellier. The first thing I learned was not to drink the local vins du pays.

  I was probably the only water drinker in town. However, I didn’t go to Montpellier for either the wine or the water. I was there to hide. Permanently, I hoped. I had reached the pinnacle of a criminal mountain and the view wasn’t that great. Now I wanted an honest valley to shelter me in its hollow.

  I had passed through Montpellier, driving from Marseille to Barcelona, during one of my first bad-check forays through Europe. Outside of town I had parked beneath a huge olive tree and picnicked on cheese, bread, sausages and soft drinks I’d picked up in the city. Close at hand, pickers swarmed like ants through a vast grape orchard and far away the snow-tipped peaks of the Pyrenees glistened in the sun. I felt comfortable, at ease, almost happy. As if I were home.

  In a sense, I was. This part of southern France was my mother’s native land. She had been born here and after she married my father, and following the breakout of guerrilla warfare in Algiers, her parents had returned here with their other children. My maternal grandparents, several uncles and aunts and a covey of cousins still lived within an hour’s drive of the olive tree. I quelled an impulse to turn aside and visit my mother’s people and drove on to Spain.

  I had never forgotten that tranquil, enjoyable interlude near Montpellier. And when, at the ripe old age of twenty, I decided to retire from my life as a counterfeit person, dealing in counterfeit wares, I chose Montpellier as my retreat. I was not happy that I had to return there behind yet another counterfeit identity, but I had no choice.

  Montpellier, in many ways, was ideal for my purpose. It was not a tourist attraction. It was situated too
far inland from the Mediterranean to lure the Riviera set, yet close enough that a seashore outing was available at the end of a short drive.

  It was large enough (80,000 population) that an American taking up residence would not excite undue curiosity, yet too small to command a major airport or to entice large hotel operators. There were no Hiltons or Sheratons in Montpellier and its tiny air facility served only light aircraft. The lack of air service or swank hotels weighed in my favor. There was very little chance of my encountering a pilot, a stewardess or a hotel employee who might recognize me.

  I presented myself in Montpellier as Robert Monjo, a successful author and screenwriter from Los Angeles, “successful” in order to explain the sizable account I opened in one of the local banks. At that, I didn’t deposit all the moneys I took with me to Montpellier. Had I done so, it might have aroused some curiosity as to my actual livelihood. I retained treble the amount in cash, hidden away in my luggage. As a matter of fact, the people of Montpellier were not prone to pry. I was asked only the necessary and perfunctory questions as I went about the business of becoming an expatriate citizen of the town.

  I bought a small cottage, a charming and gracious little house with a tiny back yard shielded by a high board fence, where the previous owner had cultivated a minuscule garden. The operator of the store where I bought furnishings for the house lent me the services of his wife, a skilled interior decorator, in selecting the proper furniture and arranging the decor. I fixed up one room as a study and library, reinforcing my image as a writer engaged in research and literary creation.

  I bought a Renault, one of the more comfortable models but not luxurious enough to attract attention. Within two weeks I felt at home, secure and content in my new surroundings.

  And if God had shorted the Mediterranean Languedoc on good grapes, He made up for it in the people. They were a sturdy, amiable, courteous and gregarious populace in the main, quick to smile and to offer any assistance. The housewives in my neighborhood were always knocking on my door with gifts of pastry, fresh baked bread or a serving from their dinner pots. My immediate neighbor, Armand Perigueux, was my favorite. He was a huge, gnarled man of seventy-five and he still worked as an overseer in a vineyard, commuting to and from work on a bicycle.