Elaborate deceptions carried out with a straight face.

The one person on earth who knew Garrett Morgan's 1914 smoke hood really worked was Garrett Morgan, inside it, in disguise as a Native American assistant to a white man selling it as his own.

In April 1817 a woman in a black turban walked into a Gloucestershire village speaking a language no one recognised; within weeks Oxford scholars had studied her script, a Portuguese sailor had translated her backstory of pirates and peacock palanquins, and Bath had thrown her a ball.

What do you do after selling the Eiffel Tower to a scrap dealer and getting away with it?

How did a blonde Frenchman convince 1700s London he was from Formosa?

He painted a sign over the back door reading THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, and patrons walked through it expecting a beast.

What does a Soho safecracker have to do to get personally decorated by the Nazis?

A woman in a Manhattan parlor convinced the nineteenth century that Tibetan Masters were mailing her letters through the ceiling, and somehow we are all still speaking her language.

What does a royal surgeon do after publishing a forty-page pamphlet certifying that a clothier's wife gave birth to rabbits, four days before she confesses?

What happens when a wanted gem thief decides he's the right person to publish someone else's tall tales?

What happens when a man Stravinsky called Britain's best composer places a classified ad selling elephants he doesn't own — and names the buyers?

He translated the hieroglyphics on a famous Roman fountain. They are complete nonsense, chiseled in stone, and tourists photograph them every day.