Ponzi's Scheme_ The True Story of a Financial Legend - Mitchell Zuckoff [61]
Beyond the grand piano was the entrance to the light-filled sun parlor, a circular room filled with wicker chairs and a round wicker table, with three wire birdcages for decoration. On the other side of the foyer was another small parlor leading to the large dining room, with light gray walls and a walnut table and chairs upholstered in black cloth. At the center of the table stood an impressive cut-glass vase filled with fresh flowers. A butler’s pantry at the far end of the entrance hall led to a modern kitchen, which Ponzi had equipped with gas. That alone had cost five thousand dollars, and Rose’s purchases at Paine Furniture set him back another fifteen thousand.
Halfway up a curving staircase an alcove housed a tall French clock. At the top of the stairs was a sitting area with a window seat looking out to the street. Four comfortable bedrooms were filled with fine enamel furniture and beds covered by hand-embroidered bedspreads. One room was outfitted with a desk for when Ponzi brought work home at night. Two more bedrooms on the third floor were servants’ quarters. It was not as grand as Curley’s mansion, but it was close enough. The Ponzi family had arrived.
The Slocum Road house provided Ponzi with a respite from the cataracts of cash and the emergence of new threats raining down on him at 27 School Street.
The money spigot opened wider starting on June 9, when Ponzi received his first notice of sorts in a Boston newspaper. The story on the front page of the Boston Traveler was headlined DEAR OLD ‘GET RICH QUICK’ POPS OUT OF POSTAL GUIDE.
“You pay us your money, any amount does the trick,” the story quoted an unidentified “salesman” as saying. The paper said he appeared at the door of the office with a postal guide under his arm and proceeded with a quick explanation of International Reply Coupons and monetary exchange rates, then outlined how a globe-hopping agent could buy coupons in Romania, exchange them in Switzerland, and capitalize further on the strength of the United States dollar to spin profits from stamps. Then, printed in all capital letters, was the salesman’s claim: “WE GUARANTEE YOU 50 PERCENT PROFIT IN 45 DAYS!”
The Traveler reporter inquired about the company to a ranking postal inspector, whose answers further excited potential investors. “We, of course, investigated the thing—for months—but there seems to be no violation of law here,” the inspector said. “We haven’t figured out how they make their enormous profit, but they seem confident of their ability to do so. And I guess they can keep on so far as the law goes.”
Overall, the story provided a vague but fair representation of what Ponzi and the Securities Exchange Company promised. But in a remarkable feat of flawed journalism, the story did not name Ponzi or his business, and it failed to tell readers where they might go to share in the good fortune. Still, enough Bostonians tracked Ponzi’s agents down to swell his income exponentially.
On the other side of the ledger, Cassullo remained as constant a pain as Ponzi’s festering ulcer. Ponzi’s purchase of a new home only whetted his ex-cellmate’s greed. Ponzi mollified Cassullo, at least momentarily, by buying him and his wife, Theodoria, a fine home in the coastal town of Winthrop, directly opposite the Winthrop Arms Hotel. Ponzi paid fourteen thousand dollars for the newly renovated Dutch Colonial, whose best feature was a glassed-in sun