Editor’s Note: This post is part of our ongoing initiative to revisit and thoroughly explore stories we first told back in the early, carefree days of Commonplace Fun Facts. Originally posted in 2014 as a quick nod to the audacity of a man who sold the Eiffel Tower, this version dives deeper into the gloriously bonkers life of Victor Lustig. Keep a firm grip on your wallet and resist any urges to buy priceless landmarks as you join us as we survey a swindler’s sensational swipes.

The Con Artist’s Resume of Dreams

Victor Lustig wasn’t just a con artist. He was the Picasso of pretense, the Mozart of misdirection, the Beyoncé of bamboozling. Born in 1890 in what is now the Czech Republic, he possessed two qualities — absurd charm and absolutely no scruples. This giftedness made him uniquely qualified to thrive in either crime or politics. He chose the one that would cause harm to the smallest number of victims.

Fluent in five languages and dressed like he just stepped out of a Savile Row fitting room, Lustig cut the figure of a diplomat or aristocrat. And if you asked him, he was. Or a count. Or a banker. Or a government official. Or, if he was feeling particularly ambitious, the deputy director of the French Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs. He was prepared to play any role at the drop of a well-tailored hat.

The Eiffel Tower Affair: Or, How to Sell a National Monument for Fun and Profit

In 1925, Lustig read a newspaper article about the Eiffel Tower needing expensive repairs. Where most people would see a government infrastructure project, he saw a business opportunity.

He created counterfeit government stationery, forged credentials, and invited scrap metal dealers to a private meeting at a swanky hotel. There, posing as a high-level government official, he explained—very confidentially, of course—that the government was looking to quietly sell the Eiffel Tower for scrap. Due to public outrage risk, it had to be hush-hush, of course.

One dealer, André Poisson, fell for the con. Hook, line, and très embarrassant sinker. Poisson handed over a small fortune and some bribe money for good measure. Lustig skipped town with the cash before anyone realized the Eiffel Tower was, in fact, not for sale. Or being dismantled. Or in any way involved in this caper except as an unwitting prop.

And then? He attempted to pull off the whole scam again just a few weeks later. If there’s one certain thing in the world, it is this: there’s no shortage of gullible people. The accounts vary, with some saying that he successfully sold the tower a second time and others saying that he got spooked when the authorities started to investigate. Either way, you’ve got to admit that he had guts.

The Man, the Myth, the Master of Fake Identities

Victor Lustig wasn’t just good at pretending to be someone he wasn’t—he practically turned it into an Olympic sport. Over the course of his career, Lustig used at least 47 different aliases and carried around a deck of fake passports like a magician’s card trick. Depending on the day, he could be a count, a diplomat, a banking official, or—on a particularly bold afternoon—the deputy director of the French Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs. His real background? Less glamorous. While Lustig liked to claim he was the son of a mayor back in Hostinné, prison records suggest he grew up in a stone house as the child of impoverished peasants. But hey, when you can talk scrap dealers into buying the Eiffel Tower, why let pesky things like facts get in the way?

The Ten Commandments of the Con

In addition to guts, the guy had a code. Admittedly, it was a code centered around immorality, but it was a code nonetheless. He wrote his Ten Commandments of the Con, and they are still used today by would-be con artists:

1. Be a patient listener (it is this, not fast talking, that gets a con-man his coups).
2. Never look bored.
3. Wait for the other person to reveal any political opinions, then agree with them.
4. Let the other person reveal religious views, then have the same ones.
5. Hint at sex talk, but don’t follow it up unless the other fellow shows a strong interest.
6. Never discuss illness, unless some special concern is shown.
7. Never pry into a person’s personal circumstances (they’ll tell you all eventually).
8. Never boast. Just let your importance be quietly obvious.
9. Never be untidy.
10. Never get drunk.

Victor Lustig vs. Al Capone (A.K.A. A Bad Idea That Somehow Worked)

Speaking of having guts, let’s talk about that time Victor Lustig ran a con on Al Capone. Yes, that Al Capone. Scarface. The guy whose business negotiations usually involved a baseball bat.

Lustig approached Capone with a pitch: he could double a $50,000 investment in just 60 days. Capone, intrigued but cautious (and presumably not yet holding a bat), handed over the money. Lustig… did nothing. No scam, no fake investment—he simply tucked the money away in a safe for two months and then returned it, saying the deal had fallen through.

Capone was shocked. A man who didn’t try to swindle him? That was practically a unicorn wrapped in a leprechaun holding a four-leaf clover. Impressed by Lustig’s apparent honesty, Capone rewarded him with $5,000 “for being a straight shooter.”

Allegedly, Lustig took the five grand and walked away. That was the con. The entire thing. He conned the most dangerous man in America by being… honest. Just for a little bit. That takes either genius-level confidence or a total lack of self-preservation instincts. Probably both.

We qualified the prior paragraph with “allegedly.” The story has been told and retold countless times, but some historians have cast doubt on it. Understandably, no one would want to boast too loudly about having made a fool out of Scarface. If Capone had been successfully conned, it’s doubtful he would have been too eager to let the word get out, either. What we’re left with is a story that could be true and is certainly within Lustig’s character and modus operandi.

As we pointed out in this article, Lustig was not the only con man to pull a fast one on Al Capone and get away with it. That’s not to suggest that we think it’s a good idea for you to try to con a mafia crime boss.

The Rube Goldberg of Grift: The Money Box Scam

One of Lustig’s greatest hits was a device he called the “Rumanian Box.” This contraption, roughly the size of a suitcase, allegedly printed genuine $100 bills. It was a miracle of modern (nonexistent) technology!

These were not like the shoddy work of “Mr. 880,” the world’s worst counterfeiter. They were, in fact, genuine articles. The box had a hidden compartment where Lustig would preload a few real bills. After a dramatic six-hour “duplication” process (to build suspense and authenticity, obviously), out would pop a $100 bill. The buyer was amazed, paid thousands for the device, and then went home to print their own fortune. They usually discovered the scam several hours later—just enough time for Lustig to be halfway to another state, sipping champagne and probably drafting blueprints for his next con.

The Long Arm of the Law (Eventually)

Lustig’s criminal career finally ran out of steam when the Secret Service nabbed him in 1935. Even his arrest was a masterclass in absurdity. He escaped custody once by fashioning a rope out of bedsheets and climbing out a hotel window. The man lived his life like he was being constantly auditioned for a reboot of The Sting.

The Final Curtain Call

Eventually, his luck ran out. Lustig was convicted of counterfeiting and was sentenced to 20 years in Alcatraz, where he would eventually die in 1947 of complications from pneumonia.Even in death, he kept the act alive: his occupation on his death certificate was listed simply as “apprentice salesman and counterfeiter.” Honestly? We’d expect nothing less.

The Legacy of a Legend

Victor Lustig was a criminal, yes. But he was a criminal with flair. A swindler with style. A huckster with high standards. He left behind no monument, no business empire, and certainly no inheritance—but he did leave behind a legacy of legendary lies that still make us marvel today.

So the next time someone tries to sell you a bridge, a landmark, or the moon, ask yourself: “Is this a con?” And then ask the more important question: “Would Victor Lustig be proud?”

For more about the life of Victor Lustig, read Victor Lustig: The Man Who Conned the World by Christopher Sandford.

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