Robin Quinn | The Man Who Broke The Bank

The Man Who Broke The Bank - Cover Image


About the book

Essential reading for lovers of Victorian true-crime stories. The book takes readers on a roller-coaster ride through Britain, France and Monaco in the company of one of the greatest swindlers of the era as he pulls off one breath-taking coup after another. His amazing win at Monte Carlo is just one of many highlights in this true story, which reaches a climax when Wells is pursued across Europe in one of the biggest man-hunts of all time.

The Man Who Broke The Bank
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Newspaper clipping: MONTE CARLO WELLS was for the time the most famous man in Europe.  He eclipsed every other social notable.  His wealth was supposed to be immense, and everything he touched turned into gold.  He became the theme of every music hall and pantomime ditty.  No comedy of the day was complete without a reference to the man who broke the bank. [AUCKLAND STAR, 31 MARCH 1906]

FACTFILE: Charles Deville Wells aka ‘Monte Carlo Wells’ aka ‘The Man Who Broke The Bank At Monte Carlo’

Fact #1Fact #2Fact #3Fact #4
In 1891, during two visits to the Casino at Monte Carlo, Charles Deville Wells broke the bank several times and won £60,000 (equivalent to £6 million today). The present owners of the Casino admit that his success has never been satisfactorily explained. In ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’, author Robin Quinn sets out the possibilities .
The Casino at Monte Carlo
To ‘break the bank’ means to clean out the cash reserve of the gambling table in question. Each table was stocked with 100,000 francs in cash at the start of each day. If a player ‘broke the bank’, that table was temporarily closed and was covered with a black cloth.
The steam yacht Palais Royal, formerly Tycho Brahe
Soon after he broke the bank, Charles Deville Wells bought an old cargo ship, the Tycho Brahe, and converted her into a luxury yacht, re-naming her Palais Royal. At 291 feet in length, the vessel was one of the largest pleasure craft in the world. Even today, she would be in the top-50 of yachts in terms of size.
After Charles Wells broke the bank in 1891, his exploits inspired composer Fred Gilbert to write a song entitled – naturally – The Man Who broke the Bank at Monte Carlo. This became the hit song of a generation and remained popular for well over half a century. The singer most closely associated with it, Charles Coborn, made at least five separate records featuring the tune, and once said he had performed it on stage a quarter of a million times.

Blog: The Man Who Broke The Bank

  • On this day 125 years ago – 4 November 1891
    The "Salle Mauresque" (Moorish Room, so-called because of the style of decoration used).  In this room Charles Deville Wells broke the bank several times.
    The “Salle Mauresque” (Moorish Room), so-called because of the style of decoration. In this room Charles Deville Wells broke the bank several times.  (At the time of the illustration shown here, it was known as the “Salle Schmit”, after a later architect who worked on the décor)

    After a disastrous start, when he lost the equivalent of £400,000 in a day, Wells started over again on 4 November (see previous post).  This time, though, he placed bets of about £500 in today’s values – much smaller sums than previously.  Perhaps he was just being unusually cautious: but it’s possible that he really was down to his last few francs.   According to a report in The Times:

    Commencing yesterday with the modest sum of six louis*, and gradually increasing the amount, he in the course of the sitting won the sum of 98,000 francs [thus more or less recouping the sum he had lost earlier].  An excited crowd gathered round the tables in the Casino today to watch the successful player, and their expectations were not disappointed.  Mr. Wells made a vigorous attack on the bank, and at the close of play had amassed a pile of 70,000 f, bringing up the total of his winnings since his arrival in Monte Carlo to over 250,000 f [£1 million].

    Charles Deville Wells had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.  But would luck be on his side for the rest of his stay, or would the Casino win back everything he had won so far?

    To be continued.

    *The louis was a small gold coin with a face value of 20 francs [worth about £100 in present-day purchasing power].

    NOTE:  The news report quoted above was published in The Times of 6 November, 1891.  In that era a delay of a couple of days in reporting news from afar was not unusual.  I was fascinated to see how – over the following days – many smaller British papers shamelessly copied the Times article, often word-for-word.  Some credited The Times as their source, while others did not.  Some even had the audacity to use such phrases as ‘from our correspondent’ to make it appear that the piece was their own ‘scoop’.  In fact, it would have been prohibitively expensive for local and provincial newspapers to have overseas correspondents in all parts of the world to report such stories.

  • On this day 125 years ago – 2 November 1891


    After he had broken the bank at Monte Carlo in late July to early August 1891, Charles Deville Wells had kept a low profile.  He had, however, placed anonymous classified advertisements in The Times and other newspapers requesting funding to the tune of £6,000 – equivalent to £600,000 today – to finance another trip to Monte Carlo.

    Thirty thousand pounds

    At least two replies were from people from whom he had already obtained large amounts of cash through one of his fraudulent schemes.  And this time he managed to extract another few thousand pounds from each of them.

    Wells reappeared at Monte Carlo’s famous casino on this day 125 years ago.*  His arrival was unexpected and went generally unreported.  He was, however, recognised by the local Reuter’s correspondent, who hurriedly dispatched a brief telegram to London — so brief, in fact, that all but the most observant readers would have missed it.

    Mr Wells, the English gentleman who had the good fortune to win a sum of £32,000 some months ago at the gaming-tables at Monte Carlo, has returned, and is once more playing heavily.  So far, however, his luck has failed him, and he has opened the campaign by losing £4,000. [The Scotsman]

    It was beginning to look as if Wells’ intention to return and break the bank had failed.  Had his famous gambling system let him down?  Had the casino found some way to thwart his plans?  Or was it just that his luck had run out?  The next few days would be decisive.

    To be continued.

    9780750961776*In The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, I state that he returned “on 4 November, or thereabouts” (p. 83).  Information which has come to light since the book’s publication suggests that he revisited the casino on 2 November.

  • Partners in Crime (4)
    Jeannette Pairis
    Jeannette Pairis wearing clothes with a nautical theme – possibly for trips on one of Wells’ yachts
    (Picture credit: Pairis family collection)

    In recent posts I’ve shown how – on rare occasions – Charles Deville Wells took other people into his confidence as partners in crime, only to be let down by them most of the time.  The only accomplice he could really trust was his long-term girlfriend.

    It was around 1890 – a year or so before his famous bank-breaking exploit at Monte Carlo.  Wells had separated from his wife, and began a relationship with Jeannette Pairis, a young French woman from Alsace.  At the time he was fifty years old and she was twenty.  Not only was he old enough to be her father – he actually was a little older than her father.  (And, for the record, Jeannette was a few years younger than Wells’ own daughter!)

    Up to this time Jeannette had had a particularly unhappy life: she was ten when her mother died.  Her father remarried barely a year later, and he and his new bride sent Jeannette and her seven brothers and sisters away to live with various families in different areas.  It seems to me – reading between the lines – that they became little more than servants.  Jeannette finally escaped this situation by leaving France and travelling to England.  In letters to her family back home she claimed that she had been engaged to marry an English lord; but her husband-to-be had died shortly before the wedding, and his family had shunned her.

    The truth, however, was that she had begun a new life with Wells in about 1890.  He already had a criminal record for fraud in France, and was in the process of acquiring one in Britain, too, by fleecing investors in an elaborate scam involving patents.

    Soon after they met, Wells abandoned the patent scam and started planning his first visit to Monte Carlo.  This took place in mid-summer 1891, when he won the equivalent of £4 million.  There is no proof that it was Jeannette who dreamed up the Monte Carlo exploit, but I feel sure that she provided the impetus for it.  Wells was strongly influenced by her, and wanted to please her.  In fact, on a much later occasion, he was overheard to say that all he wanted was ‘to make his little doll happy.’

    He already owned a number of yachts (see my blog post of 1 October 2016, below).  Now he purchased a colossal ship, and converted it into the world’s seventh-largest yacht, the Palais Royal.  The vessel had a ballroom capable of holding 50 party-goers, and was equipped with a piano and an organ.  With these instruments Wells – an accomplished musician – could entertain the guests.  The accommodation was finished to sumptuous standards.  Since Wells himself was (to quote a Scotland Yard document), ‘an exceptionally reserved man, frugal and simple in his habits’, it seems probable that the purpose of all of this extravagance was to please and impress Jeannette.

    Over the years it must have been fairly obvious that Jeannette played some part in Wells’ crimes, but the authorities – perhaps feeling that it would be difficult to prove that she had been an accomplice – did not put her on trial.  Wells served several prison sentences in Britain and in France and on each occasion Jeannette was waiting for him when he was released.

    However, this routine changed when, in 1910-11, Wells perpetrated a colossal fraud in Paris, promising to pay investors one per cent per day interest on their deposits.  This netted him a sum approaching £5 million in today’s values.  With a suitcase full of cash and gold, he made weekly trips to London, where Jeannette placed the funds in various safe investments.  Experience with his previous associates had proved to him that no-one else was to be trusted – especially with such large amounts of money.

    But this time the significance of Jeannette’s role in the scheme couldn’t be overlooked.  She had not just known about her lover’s misdeeds, but had actually taken part in the scheme.  Eventually they were both arrested on Wells’ yacht, Shanklin, and brought before a court in Paris.

    falmouth harbour man who broke bank at monte carlo
    The yacht, Shanklin, property of Charles Wells.

    A somewhat unflattering description of Jeannette – who was now in her early 40s – stated that she had ‘the look of a little housemaid who has hit the big-time.  She loudly protests her innocence.’  Intent on proving that she had been an accessory, the prosecutor asked her how she accounted for Wells having become rich overnight.  She merely replied that she was not at all surprised that he was poor in 1910 and a millionaire in 1911.

    (Wells himself had given a similar answer when it was put to him that he could not possibly have sustained interest payments of one per cent per day to his clients: ‘To promise a return of one per cent, monsieur le président, is not an enormous promise.  In business if one were to earn one franc on a capital of 100 francs it would hardly be worth mentioning.  If what I promised was impossible to achieve, how is it that people start off with nothing, and then become millionaires?’)

    Wells was found guilty of fraud and misuse of funds, and received a prison sentence of five years and a 3,000 franc fine.  Jeannette was found guilty of complicity, given a thirteen-month jail sentence, and fined 1,000 francs.  The judge implied that he would have imposed a stiffer sentence if the law had allowed him to do so.

    After they completed their respective sentences there is nothing to suggest that they broke the law again.  They spent the rest of their lives together, and Jeannette was with Charles when he died in the 1920s.

    Postscript:  recently I spent a most enjoyable evening in the company of Jeannette’s great nephew and his wife.  We had already been in contact for some time by email and phone, but it was an exciting moment for me actually to meet one of Jeannette’s relatives.  He was very interested to hear about her later life – an episode which seems to have been swept under the carpet within the family!  And for my part I learned a lot more about the Pairis family in general.

    Incidentally, there are no living descendants of Charles Wells himself – a fact which many financial institutions might well be thankful for.  However a fairly substantial number of his more distant relatives are alive, many of them in Australia.  I hope one day to make contact with some of them.


  • Partners in Crime (3) – The Rev. Vyvyan Henry Moyle
    £1 a Day
    Wells and Moyle placed this advertisement in a number of provincial and national newspapers. This example is from the Daily Mirror of 17 July, 1905.

    In 1905 two men were imprisoned for selling shares in a bogus company – the improbably-named South and South-West Coast Steam Trawling and Fishing Syndicate.  They had promised would-be investors that all funds would be fully secured against a ‘first-class vessel’, the Shanklin.  In fact this boat was worthless.  It had not left its berth for many a month, and had sunk at its moorings on the River Mersey.

    Victims of the scam included a high-ranking official of the City of London, and a Viscount with connections to the royal family.  Even so, the case attracted only slight media attention at first; scams of this kind were not at all uncommon.  But a media frenzy erupted when it was revealed that one of the fraudsters, who went under the name “William Davenport” was in fact none other than Charles Deville Wells – better known as “Monte Carlo Wells”, the man who had broken the bank at Monte Carlo some 14 years previously.

    His accomplice was the Reverend Vyvyan Henry Moyle – a clergyman with a most unusual background.  Some 40 years earlier he had been appointed vicar of a Yorkshire parish.  It quickly became apparent that Moyle had begun to enjoy an unusually high standard of living for a clergyman.  One visitor was amazed when Moyle sent a smart carriage and a liveried footman to meet him at the station.  To account for his lavish lifestyle, Moyle hinted that he had come into a substantial inheritance.  In fact the reason for his new-found wealth was that he had forged a substantial number of share certificates and netted the present-day equivalent of around £1.7 million.  After serving a 7-year prison sentence he had been pardoned by his superiors and allowed to continue as a priest.  Then, around 1904, he had met “Davenport” and between them they had cooked up another fraudulent scheme.

    However, investors began to have doubts about the two smooth-talking confidence tricksters.  When police finally arrested Moyle on a charge of conspiring to obtain money by fraud, he immediately tried to shift all the blame on to Wells: ‘I haven’t conspired with anyone,’ he protested.  ‘I don’t know what Davenport has done.  Why don’t you arrest him?  He’s the head of the concern.’

    At their trial the judge remarked that Moyle was not the originator of the scheme and was to be imprisoned for eighteen months. Wells – ‘a man of very considerable ability’, according to the judge – was sentenced to three years penal servitude, a relatively light punishment, in the hope that he would reform when he came out of prison.

    As readers may by now have guessed, Wells certainly did not reform when he came out of prison.  In fact, his most spectacular crime of all was yet to come.  If this affair was to teach him anything at all it was that there is no honour among thieves, and in future he would work alone.  There would be no more accomplices – except for the love of his life, his long-term mistress, Jeannette Pairis.

    (From The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo – Charles Wells, gambler and fraudster extraordinaire by Robin Quinn).

    Jeannette Pairis, pictured around the time when her lover, Charles Wells broke the bank at Monte Carlo
    Jeannette Pairis, pictured around 1891 when her lover, Charles Wells broke the bank at Monte Carlo. (The National Archives)
  • Partners in Crime (2) – Lizzie Ritchie
    Skipping Rope
    Part of the patent application for the Musical Skipping Rope jointly invented by Charles Deville Wells and Lizzie Ritchie.

    In the mid-1880s, Charles Deville Wells began to dream up a series of inventions including an improved ship’s anchor; a new type of parasol; and even a ‘Combination Fire Extinguishing Grenade with Lamp and Chandelier’.  Few, if any, of these brainwaves met with financial success, but a glimmer of hope came along in late 1887 when he patented a musical skipping rope and sold it for £5,000 in today’s money.

    The British patent – number 16,711 – was jointly in his name and that of a Lizzie Ritchie, whose true identity has never been established.  (A United States patent was also granted: US403556A.  This can be viewed online at Google Patents).   On some occasions Wells described Lizzie as his niece or as his business partner; at other times he claimed to be her guardian.  In any event, her name crops up several times in his story.

    A few years later he was quizzed by officials about his exploits at Monte Carlo, where he had reportedly won the equivalent of £6 million.  Wells said at first that ‘an American gentleman’ had put up the capital for his gambling, but he later changed his story and said that Lizzie Ritchie had been his backer.  Under his agreement with her, he had paid her a significant proportion of his winnings.  She could not come forward to back up this claim because, he said, she had married a Polish gentleman and was, to the best of his knowledge, living somewhere in Poland.

    But when Wells later found himself inconveniently detained in prison, it was Lizzie Ritchie who wrote a grovelling letter to Her Majesty Queen Victoria in the hope of gaining Wells’ release.  Was this really from his “niece”?  Or had Wells arranged for it to be written and then posted abroad?  The address at the head of the letter is in Vienna, Austria, and appears to be a genuine one.

    At the National Archives – where the document is kept today – I inspected it closely.  The envelope is missing, so I could not check the stamp or postmark.  The paper has no visible watermark, or other clue to its manufacture, but when I measured the page I found that it was of a size commonly used at the time in Britain, but not in Continental Europe.

    charles deville wells lizzie ritchie
    Part of a letter addressed to Queen Victoria and signed “Lizzie Ritchie”. (The National Archives).


    According to Wells’ family tree he had no nieces, as only one of his siblings had children, and they were all males.  I attempted to locate a match for Lizzie Ritchie in the usual records, including census and birth-marriage-death data, and other sources.  There were quite a few individuals of that name and – with no further details to go on – it was impossible to say whether any one of them was the person I was looking for.

    But one intriguing clue did emerge.  As we have seen, Lizzie Ritchie had been named as Wells’ co-applicant in the patent for the musical skipping rope.  Eleven years later, in 1898, a Lizzie Ritchie of Patchogue, New York, took out a patent for a washboard (Patent No. US603410A, which can be seen at Google Patents.)  At the time of the skipping rope patent, Lizzie had been described as a British subject, whereas now she is stated to be a US citizen.  However, this discrepancy could be explained by her having given incorrect information on her nationality – or she could have become an American citizen in the interval between the two patents.

    So was Lizzie Ritchie a real person?  Or was she just a creation of Wells’ vivid imagination, whose presence he could magically invoke – like the genie of the lamp – whenever the need arose?  As with most of Wells’ associates, it is unlikely that the truth will ever be known.


    [Detail from patent application added 21 January 2017]