#19. Monument for Sale!

 

This is the story of a German count who came into an astonishing inheritance, or perhaps of Robert V. Miller, a promising lawyer whose career was derailed by the Great War. Or maybe it begins in 1890 Bohemia, with a gifted student fluent in five languages and an eye for opportunity. The truth is, all three were purported to be the same man. Over the years, he would pose as an aristocrat, a diplomat, a scientist, even a government official. He changed names as easily as suits, collecting more than forty aliases along the way. But beneath each disguise lay dazzling intelligence, a mastery of languages, a demeanor as smooth as velveteen, and an unrivaled talent for deception. His name—at least, the one history remembers—is Victor Lustig.

He was born in 1890 in Hostinné, Bohemia, a small town tucked into the foothills of what is now the Czech Republic. Little is known about his childhood, though sources say he was bright, well-educated, and fluent in several languages, including English, French, and German. By his early twenties, Victor appeared to be a member of Parisian high society, frequenting gambling halls and luxury hotels. He dressed the part, spoke the part, and most importantly, was mistaken for the part. It was here that Victor first cut his teeth on the art of illusion.

This was a time when a clever man could turn tin into gold, but more often, it was the greedy who turned their gold into regret. Europe was still finding its balance after the Great War, and fortunes were as fragile as reputations. It was in this atmosphere of ambition and uncertainty that Victor unveiled his first great invention: a small mahogany contraption he called the Rumanian Money Box. He claimed it could duplicate any banknote placed inside by means of a mysterious chemical process known only to him. To prove it worked, Victor would insert a real bill, feed in blank paper, and wait just long enough for anticipation to build before producing a perfect duplicate. The secret was simple but effective: the box contained a hidden compartment preloaded with genuine bills, allowing Victor to stage his demonstrations, collect his fortune, and disappear into the next city. By the time his marks realized the trick, the magician was long gone, taking with him their money, their pride, and the miraculous machine that had made them believe in alchemy.

Flush with cash and confidence, Victor took his talents on the road. He refined his scams on ocean liners and in luxury hotels, charming industrialists, investors, and anyone with more ambition than caution. Each con grew bolder, and each success confirmed what Victor already knew—no illusion was too grand when the audience wanted to believe. Before long, he was ready to attempt something greater: a con so audacious it would quite literally be monumental.

The Eiffel Tower, once hailed as a marvel of modern engineering, had grown unpopular among Parisians who saw it as a rusting eyesore from another era. Maintenance was costly, and a newspaper article speculating on its removal gave Victor the inspiration he’d been waiting for. He posed as a government official from the Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs, complete with forged stationery and a silver tongue, and invited five of Paris’s most prominent scrap-metal dealers to a confidential meeting at the Hôtel de Crillon. There, he explained that the government intended to dismantle the tower and sell it for parts, but discretion was essential to avoid public backlash. With charm and authority, he convinced one bidder, André Poisson, that the contract was his—provided a small “assurance fee” was paid to the official overseeing the sale. By the time Poisson realized the truth, Victor was gone, already on a train to Vienna.

Flush with triumph, Victor couldn’t resist returning to Paris a few months later to attempt the same scheme again. This time, one skeptical dealer alerted the police, and though Lustig escaped, the legend of “the man who sold the Eiffel Tower” was born. He spent the following decade drifting between continents, fortunes, and false identities—scamming bankers in New York, conning Al Capone out of five thousand dollars, and eventually counterfeiting U.S. currency so convincingly that the Secret Service made him a priority case. In 1935, betrayed by a jealous lover, he was arrested and sentenced to twenty years in Alcatraz. For a man who once sold the Eiffel Tower, it was a quiet end—no audience, no applause, just the echo of a life built on belief. In the end, perhaps belief was the only true thing that Victor Lustig ever sold.