The Capture of Charles Ponzi
As told to Boston Sunday Heraldreporter Lowell Ames Norris by the man in charge of the manhunt Police Inspector John F. Mitchell
Edited and additional material by GuyHadleigh
Charles Ponzi had escaped and was wanted by the police!
Back in 1919, everybody knew Charles Ponzi. His name was on the tongue of almost every man and woman in the United States. He had come to the USA to make money. He had peddled fruit, waited on tables, worked as a clerk - and, incidentally, which was not so widely known, had served time at Atlanta Federal Penitentiary for smuggling Chinamen no less!
Now he declared he had got hold of the “Big Idea,” and it was so vast and so audacious in conception that the financial world stood aghast. It seemed impossible - a mad figment of the imagination.
Having received a letter containing an International Reply Coupon (IRC - a voucher which can be for swapped another countries' priority airmail stamps), Ponzi immediately had the idea of making a profit by exchanging them for higher-priced stamps in other countries and then reselling them.
But this was not enough for Ponzi so he began advertising for investors promising them a return on their investment of 50% in just 45 days! He then paid them their promised profits using money from other investors – the “Ponzi Scheme” was born.
The news spread like wildfire.
Money poured in so fast that it had to be stored in waste baskets. Traffic on School Street was stopped for two days while investors, with fists full of money, fought to get into Ponzi’s office.
Police were called to keep the crowds in line.
By the mid-1920 it’s estimated that he had brought in something in the region of $20 million and had around 40,000 investors.
Charles Ponzi was riding on top of the world. He bought a magnificent house in Lexington, Massachusetts. He drove about in an expensive limousine. He installed a staff of servants at his home, and bought his wife magnificent jewels. Somebody named a five cent cigar after him. It was even intimated that he might run for the office of Governor of Massachusetts.
Then the Government grew suspicious. Investigations began. Investors who had mortgaged homes and automobiles to get in on this get rich quick scheme, grew alarmed. A “run” started, but the first notes presented for payment were promptly paid - surprising many and stopping the “run”.
More money poured into Ponzi’s coffers. Policeman who were called to quell a near riot, stayed and invested! Officials became frankly puzzled. Ponzi claimed he had agents stationed in all countries, buying International Reply Coupons by ways in which it would be impossible to trace.
Ponzi sent money to his contacts to purchase the IRC's and then they sent them back to him in the USA. Ponzi then exchanged them for more valuable stamps and then sold them again - reportedly making more than 400% profit on some transactions.
Foreign countries became worried. It looked as though existing financial standards and procedures might need to be amended. Investigators hesitated about calling Ponzi’s scheme fraudulent however. They honestly didn’t know for sure if he might really have discovered some “secret” way of manipulating the foreign exchange or not.
Patient investigation proved his operations to be fraudulent eventually - and the inevitable crash came. On August 12, 1920 he was arrested and, charged with 86 offences and convicted of using the mail to defraud, receiving a sentence of five years.
The Hanover Trust Company, and several other Boston banks, closed as a result of these wild speculations. Investors who had made enormous profits were forced to make restitution. Released from jail after 3 ½ years, he was rearrested on 22 Massachusetts State indictments for larceny. There were more trials and delays.
Ponzi went to Florida and announced to the world that he would sell house lots, at $10 a lot, to pay back his investors. Again money flowed in, and more trouble followed in its wake. He was ordered back to Massachusetts to stand trial and - mysteriously disappeared.
Dapper Italian financial wizard, Charles Ponzi had become a fugitive from justice.
Once again the “Wizard” occupied front-page space in all of the newspapers. There were plenty of rumors concerning his whereabouts. Most of them were carefully investigated. It was said he had been entertained at a roadhouse in New Hampshire. Later he had vanished in the direction of the Canadian border, driving an expensive, speedy roadster.
Others said he was in Florida. There were reports he had been seen in Paris, and one correspondent even insisted that he was in Rome. It began to look as though Charles Ponzi had escaped.
In Boston, disgruntled and disillusioned investors demanded action. Police Inspector John F. Mitchell was assigned to the case.
Meanwhile, down on the Gulf of Mexico the Sic Vos Non Vobis, a foreign ship flying the Italian flag, was leisurely making her way towards Galveston, the last port of call but two, before returning to Italy.
On board, disguised as a waiter, was Charles Ponzi, fugitive and man of mystery.
He had escaped the manhunt by a very clever scheme.
When the news came that he was wanted back in Massachusetts, Ponzi was in Tampa, Florida. By luck he happened to meet an old friend of his from Boston, one Italian Joe. He explained his plight to him.
“I’ll do my best to help,” Joe promised him, “but I don’t know what that will be exactly. Lie low for a time, and see what I can do.”
A little later Joe sought Ponzi again - this time his face was wreathed in smiles.
“I think it can be arranged,” he said. “There’s an Italian ship in port, the
. She’s returning to Italy within several weeks. I think I can get you a job on board, as a waiter. Shall I try?”
“Yes, yes,” said Ponzi, “only hurry.”
Wires were pulled and Charles Ponzi found himself on board the Italian ship, heading eventually for his native land and freedom. Charles Ponzi, the foppish, smooth faced American Italian, had disappeared; in his place was “Andrea Luciana,” dressed in the rough clothing of an ordinary seaman. It was a good disguise.
Head and eyebrows were shaved; he wore long side whiskers and a moustache. “Luciana” was apparently what he represented himself to be - an ignorant foreigner who understood no English, and was not particularly bright.
The ship sailed from Tampa. Ponzi breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the shore recede in the distance. That night he became acquainted with the young wireless operator on board the ship. Day by day he cultivated a friendship with this native born Italian, until they were on intimate terms.
Night after night he “listened in” on the wireless, and heard the police searching for one Charles Ponzi. The Italian wireless operator said that the country seemed quite fascinated by this man Ponzi, and “Luciana” smiled.
He was safe. His scheme had worked. His exaltation grew as he learned he had been located first in one place, and then in another. The stupid American police had been completely fooled and he, Charles Ponzi, had done it. He was safe! Safe!
But Ponzi, who had so successfully shut tight all avenues of information for the time being, had overlooked the most important factor of all, which would make his escape a success or a failure. He had neglected to take his own egotism and conceit into consideration. As he saw safety within his grasp, and realized that once more he had outwitted the Massachusetts authorities, the egotistical part of his personality came more and more to the forefront.
This feeling grew more intense as the police messages became more urgent, and Ponzi relished the situation. Finally, he grew so pleased with himself that he was unable to keep his identity a secret any longer.
He was up in the wireless room and had just listened to a long message reporting his whereabouts in some mid-western city, and heard with delight the steps being taken to bring about his arrest.
“That chap Ponzi is giving the police a long chase,” said the operator as he removed the earphones from his head for a few moments. “He’s a bright chap.”
“You think so?” Ponzi glowed as he heard this praise of himself. “You really think so?”
Something in Ponzi’s tone made the operator turn.
“Of course I think so!” He replied emphatically. “He sure is one clever guy.”
“Listen,” Ponzi said softly, looking around to make sure they were not overheard. “If I tell you something very secret, will you promise to keep your mouth shut?”
The operator nodded. Ponzi bent still closer.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked. The operator smiled.
“Andrea Luciana, the waiter,” he said.
“Not at all. I am Charles Ponzi, the financial wizard.”
The operator started. A gleam of surprise and admiration came into his eyes.
“Not the Charles Ponzi the police are looking for?”
“The same,” replied Ponzi proudly - “but don’t you breathe a word of it to a soul.”
The operator swore by all he held sacred.
And then Ponzi talked.
Police Commissioner Edwin U. Curtis, of Boston, knew what he was doing in assigning Police Inspector John F. Mitchell to the State Attorney General’s office when the worldwide hunt for Ponzi started. Mitchell had a reputation of always “getting his man.”
It was Mitchell who uncovered the famous automobile ring which encircled New England. It was Mitchell who successfully solved several Boston blackmailing plots not so long ago.
When Ponzi refused to return to Massachusetts and serve his sentence, Inspector Mitchell set the wheels of justice in motion. It was all done very quietly; too much publicity would have defeated his purpose.
Ponzi had boasted he would never come back to Massachusetts to serve time; however Mitchell intended to see that Ponzi did indeed return to Massachusetts and serve his sentence.
The police officer was an experienced man hunter. He had run down and captured his quarry too often to be dismayed at Ponzi’s disappearance, and besides he knew Charles Ponzi’s weakness.
So Inspector Mitchell proceeded in leisurely fashion. In a conference with Attorney General J Benton and District Attorney Thomas C. O’Brien, he suggested that “wanted” circulars be sent out to police departments throughout the world.
The officer took his time; he intended to be thorough. It was decided that Europe, in particular, should be heavily circularized because of the belief that Ponzi had gone to one of the many countries there. For the first time since Ponzi’s disappearance, the arm of the law was slowly but surely getting closer to “the wizard.” Unknowingly, Ponzi had made another serious mistake. He had forgotten the fact that back in 1908 he had grown a moustache. But for that he might have bluffed his way to freedom.
Mitchell spent a lot of time and put a great deal of thought into that police circular. Several conferences were held on the best way to circularize Ponzi. Boston knew him as a clean shaven chap, but Inspector Mitchell recalled that back in 1908 when he was arrested in Montréal for check forgery, and had his “mug shot” taken for the Rogues Gallery, he had worn a moustache.
A moustache is a common disguise, and Inspector Mitchell acted upon the theory that Ponzi had forgotten all about this episode back in 1908. After much deliberation it was decided that the best and surest way to get Ponzi was to send out his description with the Montréal Rogues Gallery picture. However, unwilling to take chances, another circular, with a picture showing Ponzi smooth shaven was sent along with it.
The circulars went out, and Inspector Mitchell settled back to await developments.
One of the circulars, scattered to the four corners of the world, found its way eventually into the City Room of a Texas newspaper office.
Yet Ponzi’s luck still held.
Nothing happened at Galveston to arouse his suspicions. The police knew nothing - of that he was certain. After a brief stop at Houston, only one more port of call remained before the prow of the Italian ship would at last be turned towards Italy - and certain freedom.
Ponzi grew a trifle careless. He made still another mistake letting drop the fact that he understood English. The Captain, who happened to overhear a remark he made, subconsciously made a mental note of it. It might be useful to have an interpreter on board in case of trouble with the Customs. Not that he expected any trouble; but it was just as well to be prepared.
Day by day, as the chances of arrest grew less and less, Ponzi’s egotism grew more and more pronounced. To him, his freedom was assured.
“Those American police are fools,” Ponzi repeated time after time to the wireless operator, who was now his confidante. “I have nothing to fear now - absolutely nothing.”
The operator full heartedly agreed with him. He was proud of his compatriot, and even prouder of the confidence that Ponzi placed in him. He read the police messages, which he still occasionally intercepted, with much zest and amusement as he realized that he, and he alone, was aware of the identity and whereabouts of the man who had aroused the interest of police all over the world.
If only he had a confidante to whom he could have boasted at least a little about this knowledge, his contentment would have been complete. It was not often that a wireless operator was the bosom friend of such a famous man as Charles Ponzi! But, of course he would remain silent. After all, hadn’t he given his word?
The ship put into Houston, where it was scheduled to remain only a few hours. The wireless operator planned to do a little shopping onshore. Ponzi met him just as he left his stateroom.
“Remember,” he said in a low voice, “not a word!”
“Of course not!” the operator replied, a little hurt at this implied lack of confidence. “Haven’t I promised?”
And with that, Ponzi had to be content. He walked over to the gangplank and watched the operator out of sight. Then he turned away with a sigh. He would have liked to have gone ashore with him, but that was too risky with freedom so near, although he felt there was little chance of discovery by the police. They were stupid he knew, but it was just as well to take no chances. Reluctantly, he left the deck and went below.
The operator drew a deep sigh of relief as his feet touched solid ground, and he heard the din of traffic a few blocks in the distance. It was good to be on land again, even if it was in a strange city where he knew no one.
Then one of those inexplicable things happened that readers of fiction would call far-fetched, yet they occur frequently in real life. As the operator turned the corner, he bumped into an old acquaintance from Boston - John Smith, a former Customs officer from that city.
The wireless operator was overjoyed at the accidental meeting. He learned that Smith was now a resident of Houston, and was a ship chandler. His tongue began to wag. He felt extremely friendly to this one man whom he knew in the city. Without thinking, in a burst of over exuberance, he confided the secret he had promised never to reveal - Charles Ponzi was on his ship, disguised as a waiter.
Smith was apparently unimpressed. He dismissed the subject without comment, and turned to other topics. But Smith did some quick thinking as he carried on a light conversation with the unsuspecting operator. He knew Charles Ponzi was wanted by the police; he also knew there was little chance of extradition once he got to Italy.
“Can you meet me tonight for supper or a show?” Smith asked finally. The operators face clouded with disappointment. He was very sorry, but it would be impossible. The ship was sailing just as soon as they took their cargo on board - a matter of only an hour or two. Smith’s eyelids barely flickered at this intelligence. Another time perhaps….
Smith was no longer interested in the operator. He had learned what he wanted, and there was little time in which to act. He glanced at his watch, pleading a previous engagement. The two men chatted a few seconds longer, and then parted. Smith waited until the Italian was out of sight, and then he hurried to the Sheriff’s office.
“Charles Ponzi is on board an Italian ship in the harbor,” he said, as he burst into the Sheriff’s office.
“Is that so?” said the sheriff, “and who is Charles Ponzi?”
Smith explained as best he could, but the sheriff took little interest, and refused to take any action. He was sure it was a case of mistaken identity; he also doubted his authority to board a foreign vessel in any case.
“I don’t reckon there’s anything we can do Smith,” he said at last. “We’d best keep out of it. Let Massachusetts get her own criminals. We have enough right here to keep us busy.”
Undismayed, Smith took his leave and started for the newspaper offices. Time was growing short. At the Houston Press he met City Editor Webb C. Artz, in whom he found an interested listener. He told him the entire story.
“Sure, I know about Ponzi,” said Artz, fumbling among some papers on his littered desk.
“Here’s the police circular that the Attorney General’s office sent me some time ago.”
“Ponzi is on that boat,” said Smith earnestly. “I’m certain of that.”
“If he is, we’re going to nab him,” promised Artz - “foreign ship, or no foreign ship. If it’s really Ponzi, it’s a whale of a story, and one that every newspaper from coast to coast will play up in banner headlines. And you say the boat is only here for a short time? Let’s go!”
Smith and Artz returned to the sheriff’s office. This time Artz did the talking, tersely and to the point. He used very few words, and those few he did use were eloquent,
The Sheriff listened, as Artz supplemented Smith’s information and threatened immediate action if help was not forthcoming.
“Well,” said the sheriff, after Artz had finished and stood waiting, watch in hand, “I ain’t got no time to go out on any sech wild goose chase, but I’ll let you have my deputy sheriff. Lacy!” He called.
“Artz thinks there is a crook on board that forren ship at the docks. Run down there with him, and see what you-all can find out.”
“Whatever is done has got to be done in a hurry,” warned Smith.
“Come on Lacy!” cried Artz, “every second counts!”
The door closed behind them….
More difficulties soon presented themselves though. The streets were crowded. Traffic was heavy in the vicinity of the docks. The car stalled. A truck broke down ahead, halting the stream of slowly moving vehicles. Then, at last a clear stretch of space. It looked as though they were going to make it. The speedometer rose to 35 miles – 40 – 45 - then 50. Traffic was snarling up again so the car wove in and out overtaking stationary vehicles in an attempt to reach their destination as quickly as possible. A shrill whistle rang out above the din of traffic, and a police officer, springing from nowhere, blocked their passage with an uplifted hand.
“Damn!” growled Artz, as the screeching brakes brought the car to a sudden stop.
A deep throated boat whistle sounded from the docks, still some distance ahead.
“Tell that fool to get out of the way!” Artz demanded. “That may be the boat!”
But the police officer had already recognized them, standing aside and waving them forward as the car accelerated away again.
A few moments later the car drew up beside the wharf where the ship had docked a few hours before.
Her berth was empty!
The ship had sailed.
“Damn!” said Artz again, to no one in particular.
“Now what?” asked Lacy a few moments later, as Artz bustled around, questioning some of the stevedores and longshoremen.
“The boat’s been gone some time. There was less cargo to take on than they thought. That was probably the boat we heard while we were tied up in traffic. Anyway, she’s gone.”
“Perhaps it was a wild goose chase after all,” suggested Lacy. “We might just as well go back.”
“We’ll go back,” agreed Artz. “There’s nothing further to be done here, but I’m not giving up - I’m going to follow that boat. I found that she makes one more stop at New Orleans.”
Back at the Sheriff’s Office, an hour or so afterwards, they found the Sheriff holding a telegram just received from the Attorney General’s office, in response to a request for Ponzi’s description.
“That may have been Ponzi at that,” admitted the sheriff ruefully. “It sure sounds like him.”
“Of course it’s Ponzi,” snapped Artz - “and furthermore, I’m going to follow that ship by land to New Orleans if it breaks me. I’m not going to let a story like that slip through my fingers. I want you to let Lacy go with me.”
But the Sheriff hesitated.
It entailed the expenditure of considerable money, with the possibility of failure. Artz, guessing what was going through the Sheriff’s mind however, offered to finance the trip out of his own pocket.
An offer which was quickly accepted!
Artz and Lacy arrived in New Orleans considerably ahead of the steamer. At the Customs House they disclosed their identities, and voiced their suspicions. A plan was discussed to get the ‘Italian waiter’ on shore.
The boat came into port, and was boarded in the usual manner by the Customs officials. Learning that Andrea Luciana was the only man according to the Captain, who spoke English, the Customs official ordered that someone would have to go ashore and report to the Customs House with the necessary shipping documents. ‘Andrea’ was given the mission.
Meanwhile the two Texans were pacing the dock impatiently. Would the subterfuge work? Would Ponzi leave the ship under any circumstances? Now that Artz and Lacy had gone this far, they were determined to see it through. Just as the two were getting anxious, Lacy touched Artz on the arm.
“There’s somebody coming off the ship now,” he said. “Is that our man?”
The two approached the rough-looking foreigner who had reached the dock, and had started toward town with some official looking documents under his arm.
“What’s the name of that ship?” Artz asked, pointing to the Sic Vos Non Vobis.
The man stared at him stupidly, and shrugged his shoulders.
““Mio non cabish!” he said, and began to move on.
Artz had already recognized him by the moustache. He held him by the arm.
“Come on,” he said harshly. “You can’t fool us like that!”
“Yes cut it out!” ordered Lacy drawing closer. “We know who you are. You’re Charles Ponzi.” Ponzi started imperceptibly as the officer pulled the “Wanted” circulars from his pocket.
“It’s him all right,” said Artz.
“Mio Andrea Luciana,” protested Ponzi. “Mio non cabish Engleesh.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Lacy, now sure of his ground. “We’ve got you good. It was too bad you pulled that job in Montréal back in 1908, and let them mug shot you with a moustache. “It’s a dead giveaway.” Ponzi remain silent. “Come on now,” threatened Lacy, showing his badge. “Come clean! Either you come across, or else we’ll let you stay in a town that hates your kind and eats ‘em alive. What do you say?”
Reluctantly, Ponzi finally got into a taxi cab with them and they all went to a hotel to talk the situation over. Lacy admitted that he had no authority to take him back to Texas, and told Ponzi that Italians were rather unwelcome in New Orleans, owing to some trouble they had had in the Italian Quarter recently.
“All in all, Ponzi,” concluded Lacy, “you stand a much better chance under Governor ‘Ma’ Ferguson than you do here.”
They discussed and argued at length, and after several hours Ponzi decided to go back to Texas with them.
As soon as they returned to Houston, the Sheriff of Harris County put in a long distance telephone call to Boston Police Headquarters, asking if inspector Mitchell wanted Ponzi.
Mitchell wired to hold him, and received confirmation that Ponzi was safely under lock and key.
Ponzi had been captured at last, but he was still 2000 miles away from Massachusetts, the state to which he had boasted he would never return.
The telephone rang shrilly in Inspector Mitchell’s office in the State House on Beacon Hill, Boston, as he sat patiently waiting for a reply to his telegram asking where Charles Ponzi had been confined.
It rang again and Inspector Mitchell leaned over his desk and lifted the receiver from its hook.
“Hello!” he said.
It was the State House operator who spoke.
“Will you pay for a toll call from Texas?”
Mitchell replied that he would.
There was a low hum on the line as he waited for the connection to be made, broken by a series of clicks as operators over the 2000 mile circuit kept the line open. Then a receiver clicked.
“Hello!” a voice said. “Is this Inspector Mitchell?”
“It is,” replied Mitchell.
“This is Charles Ponzi,” the voice continued. “Will you let me come back to Massachusetts in the custody of the Sheriff here?”
Mitchell paused before answering.
He saw that Ponzi was up to his old tricks still. He was positive that just as soon as he got outside the State of Texas, it would be “goodbye, Ponzi.”
“Hello,” said Ponzi. “Are you still there? Will you agree to that?”
“Nothing doing, Charlie,” Mitchell told him. “You’ve pulled your last stunt with us.”
“Is that so?” said Ponzi. “Well then,” he taunted, “you’ll have to come down and get me. I won’t come back. I’ll fight first!”
“All right, Charlie,” said Mitchell, good naturedly – we’ll fight.”
The Inspector hung up. Hostilities between Charles Ponzi and Inspector Mitchell had been renewed
Ponzi put up a stiff fight to remain in Texas.
The entire State seemed to have fallen under his hypnotic influence, and it was his boast he would never go back to Massachusetts as long as Governor ‘Ma’ Ferguson was in power.
But the Massachusetts authorities persisted and as Ponzi felt the long arm of the Attorney Gen’s office reaching out for him, he dispatched telegram after telegram to Governor Alvin T. Fuller of Massachusetts, asking for clemency. His pleas fell on deaf ears, and so he appealed to his native country, asking Mussolini himself to intercede.
Inspector Mitchell was not finding the job quite as easy as he had anticipated.
It looked, for a while as though Ponzi would make good his boast. The Boston police officers were thwarted at every twist and turn; they were asked to defend a case whose merits had already been decided by a Massachusetts court. At the first hearing, held on July 10, 1926, much to the surprise of Assistant Attorney General A. R. Shrigley, of Massachusetts, the proceedings took on the color of a court trial.
Action was postponed until after the Democratic election late in July. It was alleged that this was done to save the Italian vote. From then, until Ponzi lost his last appeal in January, 1927, his attorneys did all in their power to prevent his extradition to Massachusetts.
But Ponzi lost, and Inspector Mitchell arrived in Houston to take the former financial wizard back to Boston.
He arrived not an instant too soon as Ponzi was still planning to defeat the forces of law and order.
The jail was under construction, and there was Ponzi, with 26 other prisoners, confined in a single cell. Arriving unobserved, Mitchell watched while a group of them, including Ponzi, gathered together talking in low tones amongst themselves.
“All right, Charlie,” said Mitchell, “we are all set to go. Get your stuff ready.”
But Ponzi played for time.
“Let’s wait a few days more,” he hedged, “- and go back by boat.”
“Nothing doing,” replied Mitchell. “We’re going out on the 11.30 train”.
It was then already just after 11 o’clock.
“I’m not going back with you,” said Ponzi, still stalling for time. “If you try to take me back to Massachusetts, I will commit suicide. I’m never going back to Boston alive.”
“All right, Charlie,” returned Mitchell, not at all disturbed by the threat. “You can suit yourself. It’s nothing to me. My papers state I’m here for the body of one Charles Ponzi – dead or alive! I’m going to take you back to Boston, but if you decide to bump yourself off, - well, that’s your business.”
Ponzi looked thoughtful.
“Only don’t forget, Charlie, if you do that you go back in a box in the baggage car, while I ride in the Pullman, eating three square meals a day and knowing that you won’t be going anywhere”.
Ponzi, with less than half an hour before train time, had other objections which Mitchell overrode in more or less peremptory fashion. Fearful that writs might still be served in an attempt to delay and even prevent them leaving, the police officer took him to the railroad station, at the same time secretly holding a fast car in readiness, filled with gasoline and oil in which he planned to kidnap Ponzi, should it be impossible to leave the city by train.
However, the financial wizard had played his last card it turned out, but still remained defiant even when a gun and some hundred cartridges were found concealed in the lining of his travelling bag, which had remained hidden since 1920. Later he confessed that a jail breakout had been planned for that very night, in which the prisoners planned to overpower the guards when they answered a sick call from the cell. Once the door was open, the rest of the getaway would have been easy. But Mitchell’s sudden arrival had prevented the plan from being carried out.
They went back to Boston by train, locked in a compartment where they remained until they reached St. Louis. Here they changed trains and stayed locked in a compartment again until the train passed over the New York – Massachusetts boundary line. But Ponzi had admitted defeat long before that.
He turned to Inspector Mitchell just after they left Texas behind.
“You’ve beaten me, Inspector,” he said simply.
“I told you I would,” replied Mitchell, without rancor. “I told you so the day you telephoned me in Boston. You insulted the United States; you insulted the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and you got just what any man gets who tries to beat the law. It can’t be done Charlie, there is no such thing as a perfect crime.”
Foot note:
Charles Ponzi served another seven years behind bars and, despite an appeal to the Governor;
he was eventually deported to Italy. Over the next few years he went from failed scheme to failed scheme and was eventually hired to work in Brazil for the Italian state airline. He spent the last few years of his life fighting failing health and living in poverty, eventually dying on January 15, 1949 in a Rio de Janeiro charity hospital aged 66. Most of the millions of dollars that went through his hands were never accounted for or traced by Government
officials; despite their best efforts to untangle the web woven by the “financial wizard”.
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