EXECUTING A GOOD CON IS AN ART.

JAMES MORTON RECOUNTS HIS CLOSE ENCOUNTERS WITH THE COLOURFUL CHARACTERS WHO POSSESSED STREET-WISE CUNNING IN ABUNDANCE

In a curious way there is something to admire about conmen.

Not the sort of swindler like Robert Maxwell who shifts paper around a desk, nor the mean cheat who pretends to collect for charity or pretends to be from the gas board; but the bare-faced conman who will go face to face with his potential victim and through sheer force of personality will persuade him that black is white.

I suppose the best of them during my time was Sri Lankan-born Charles da Silva, whom I met and who associated with a number of my clients, but whom I never defended.

It was said of him that he could have been Omar Sharif's better looking brother.

He could pose as an Arab prince - and frequently did so.

He arrived in England in 1947 and from then on worked both long and short cons.

He first fell foul of the courts in 1951 when he was prosecuted over the sale of non-existent nylon stockings, then a rare post-War commodity to London shops.

One particular con of Da Silva's, which did not require much in the way of equipment, was a syndicate he established in 1961 to buy and then sell arms to the Falangists to overthrow the Franco government in Spain.

Shares in it were 20,000 or 30,000-a-time, depending on how much profit the dupe thought he could make.

That didn't really need anything more than an office and his contacts.

But he was regarded as being able to work a short con just as well.

According to underworld legend, 1961 was something of a vintage year for him, for it was then he is credited one day with selling a Grimsby fishing fleet sight unseen to a man whom he met in the first- class breakfast compartment on the Hull-to-Kings Cross train.

The non-existent trawlers were meant to be coming from Sweden and going to Ceylon.

Da Silva was regarded as extremely good hearted and money seems to have meant nothing to him.

In his heyday, he had his chauffeur drive him in a Rolls-Royce down the King's Road to a caf where he was very partial to the bubble and squeak.

Unfortunately, for much of his working life he was in the hands of Charles Mitchell, one of the Kray's henchmen, who took 75% of his earnings and of whom he was mortally afraid.

For a time the twins took Da Silva away from Mitchell and protected him, but when they were convicted in 1969, Mitchell, who had turned Queen's evidence against them and had been acquitted, resumed control.

What was left, Da Silva frittered away in gaming clubs.

Da Silva died in a hotel when he was awaiting trial at the Old Bailey for yet another fraud.

The official verdict was suicide but some people, including the crime writer Derek Raymond, who for a time acted as his chauffeur, suggest that he was killed to prevent him talking to the police.

If this is correct it would not be the first time such a thing has happened.

In support of the theory, Da Silva was a devout Catholic who used to go to mass in Mayfair every Sunday when he was out of prison and not working.

Not in the same league but one conman I fell foul of during my early days in practice led me a merry dance as, without money on account, I was drawn further and further into litigation on his behalf and was swimming further and further out of my depth.

One afternoon, I saw him in my office and obtained assurances of funds when half an hour later I received a call from a smart boutique firm in the City to say he had now instructed solicitors there.

I sent in a large bill and by return received a visit from the partner.

No, he would not pay the bill.

He would pay all the disbursements and give me a token few hundred pounds.

In return, there would be no claim for negligence.

It was a deal, I happily accepted.

The man gave me some advice: 'You're young and you were over matched,' he said.

'Don't get involved with clients and cases that are well beyond your experience.' I never forgot his advice and I was always grateful.

It was ironic that a couple of years later I received a letter saying he was being sued by the same client who had again moved on and was there anything I could do to help him.

On a happier note, I cannot now be sure how I acquired a particular Irish conman as a client.

He was forever asking me to apply for variations in his bail so that when the one surety of 100,000 - guaranteed to appear within five minutes - failed to materialise after a week as did the two of 50,000 and the four of 25,000, I gave up.

When it came to it he had a decent result, something he must have mentioned to his mother in Ireland, who wrote me a nice letter of thanks.

She also included a ticket for the Irish Sweepstakes, which in the days before the National Lottery was a big draw.

She added that she hoped God would look kindly on both me and the ticket.

Unfortunately, it was a question of like son like mother.

On inspection, the ticket was for the draw made the previous year.

James Morton is a former criminal law specialist solicitor and now a freelance journalist