America's story is that of millions of stories, from thousands of places, coming together to tell the tale of a land of freedom and opportunity. It even affords the opportunity to tell stories freely--whether or not they happen to be true--and to buy and sell almost literally anything. But what happens when a story leads to an impossible sale? And what if that story is itself seemingly impossible?
This is the Forgotten History of the Man Who Sold the White House.
Arthur Furguson was a born salesman. Always impeccably dressed and brimming with confidence, he was the sort of man who could and did sell anything and everything...even if it didn't belong to him. During a visit to Trafalgar Square in Central London in 1923, Furguson noticed a man staring up at the majestic Nelson's Column.
Here, the consummate salesman thought, was an opportunity. He sauntered up to the man, who it turned out was a wealthy tourist from Iowa, and introduced himself. Furguson was the official government guide to Trafalgar Square--a title he invented for himself on the spot--and he would tell the man everything there was to know about Nelson's Column.
It was named for Admiral Lord Nelson, whose statue stood atop it, and it was the pride of Trafalgar Square. Nelson, you see, had died in the Battle of Trafalgar and was one of England's greatest heroes. It was a shame, then, that the government had to sell his column.
The man couldn't quite believe what he was hearing: The British Government was going to sell Nelson's Column? Oh yes, Furguson explained. The Government was running short on cash and it was secretly selling a number of its monuments to cover its debts. The price? Just 6,000 pounds and, as luck would have it, the government had entrusted Furguson himself to sell the monument to a worthy buyer.
But it couldn't be just anyone; it had to be someone who would respect the monument and take care of it. Oh, and also make a fortune selling tours of it. All for just the low, low price of 6,000 pounds. The tourist, who happened to be very wealthy, suggested that he could buy it himself. No, no, Furguson replied. There were also a number of potential buyers. What if the man wrote a check right there and then? Furguson said he would have to contact the Prime Minister for the official okay. After walking off and chuckling to himself at his own skill (and his mark's gullibility), Furguson returned with good news: If the man wrote him a check for 6,000 pounds (because the deal had to be done so secretly, of course), Nelson's Column would be his.
Amazingly, the man did, and Furguson raced to a bank to cash the check before he caught on. When the man started soliciting bids to make upgrades to his new purchase, however, the contractors he contacted called Scotland Yard, who told the man that he was not, in fact, the rightful owner of Nelson's Column.
Emboldened by his first major con, Furguson pulled several more--selling Big Ben for just $1,000 down, Buckingham Palace for just $2,000 down, and even the Eiffel Tower in Paris for a bargain basement price. Scotland Yard was hot on his heels, though, and he knew he needed to leave Europe. Where better to go than the place that his marks all seemed to come from: The United States?
He boarded a ship bound for America and in 1925 headed to Washington, DC for his biggest score ever. While touring the White House grounds, he convinced a wealthy cattle rancher from Texas that the U.S. Government was in the process of leasing the grounds while it prepared to move the President to an even more luxurious residence. Again, this was all hush-hush and the deal had to be completed quickly, but the rancher had the good fortune of talking to the very man the government had put in charge of leasing the White House.
It was soon to be a valuable historical landmark, and the rancher could easily make back the lease by selling tours. It was practically a steal: a 99-year lease at just $100,000 a year. All Furguson needed was the first year's lease as a down payment, but the rancher would make that back in a few months.
The rancher rushed to the bank and gave Furguson a $100,000 check. Of course, Furguson promptly cashed it and disappeared. With the law hot on his heels on two continents, the world's greatest salesman would have been wise to stay hidden, but he resurfaced in New York a few months later trying to sell the Statue of Liberty to an Australian tourist.
Unlike his previous marks, though, this one was immediately suspicious and called police. At long last, the law had caught up with Arthur Furguson.
He was sentenced to five years in prison and upon his release, the world's greatest salesman--and conman--retired to Los Angeles, where he died in 1938.
At least, that's how the story goes. But was any of it true? For years, historians have tried to find contemporary evidence of the legend of Arthur Furguson, but couldn't: Not a single newspaper article about his exploits, no record of his arrest, conviction or jail time, or even a record of his death or burial in Los Angeles.
In fact, the first mention of him seems to be in the 1960s. So was the man who sold the White House actually real? Or was the man--like the stories he told to sell his monuments--simply a tall tale? Was the story of the great conman itself a con?
Ultimately, it seems, the truth is whatever one is willing to believe.
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