The art of the confidence trick is a controversial craft that is as old as time itself. In the early years of civilization, unscrupulous folks bottled and peddled assortments of fake cures and potions. Snake oil salesmen aside, charlatans posed as mystical beings with supernatural powers, promising to end droughts and other misfortunes of the gullible with what were in reality parlor tricks and illusions.
Indeed, throughout history, unabashedly brazen characters managed to make careers out of deception. 17th century Britain, for instance, was terrorized by William Chaloner, the most infamous serial counterfeiter and con artist of his time before he was ultimately bested by Sir Isaac Newton himself. The British trickster posed as a quack doctor and a clairvoyant who dispensed false fortunes (most likely via an early form of cold reading) and bogus healing antidotes, but these were bush-league frauds in comparison to one of his most renowned claims to fame: he once bribed four Jacobite sympathizers to crank out pamphlets regarding King James II's denunciation of His Royal Highness William, and later double-crossed his co-conspirators by tipping off the cops and swiftly decamping with the 1,000 reward.
Confidence women were equally active players in such dirty, fixed games. Doris Payne was a professional pilferer of jewels whose unconventional vocation spanned six decades. Throughout all her hits across the United States, Europe, and Asia, Payne adhered to a simple, yet effective method of operation: she donned stylish, pricey clothes, singled out impressionable male shopkeepers and distracted them with flirtatious small talk, and secretly palmed jewelry with sleight-of-hand tricks. One of the most recent was Frank Abagnale, a career impersonator, former forger of bank checks turned FBI employee, and the subject of the 2002 film Catch Me If You Can.
