Just so we’re clear, we at Commonplace Fun Facts have nothing but sympathy for victims of crime. We do not subscribe to any notion that it is ever the victim’s fault.

Having said that, there are some victims who garner less of our sympathy than others. After all, anyone can accidentally click on a phishing link in an email or lose a wallet to a pickpocket. But what about all those people who continue to send their money to a Nigerian prince who sends an email out of the blue? Can you really feel bad about anyone who would invest in a country that doesn’t exist?

That’s why we approach this tale with a mixture of outrage about a conman’s brazen lies and a healthy dose of bewilderment about the woman who knowingly sank a boatload of money into his outlandish con.

First, let’s tell you a bit about the conman. When Harold Jesse Berney sauntered out of Florida State Prison on December 15, 1945, he was not just any ex-con; he was a master of the criminal arts. His rap sheet started in 1917 and boasted a colorful array of misdeeds, from grand larceny and embezzlement to stock fraud and violations of federal postal regulations. In short, Berney was a career criminal, but even he was unlikely to foresee that his next venture would not only become his most lucrative but also earn him a place in the annals of bizarre cons.

Lest you think that his time in prison caused him to get a bit rusty, Berney was at the top of his game. You will want to hold on to your tin foil hats, as we tell you about his next big opportunity. Admittedly, it’s weird, but what’s truly mind-boggling is that anyone fell for his next scheme at all, considering it was so outrageously absurd that even the most imaginative sci-fi writer might blush.

The Birth of a Scam

It was 1952. Television, that newfangled contraption that had been put on hold during the war, was now the hottest technology around. Everyone wanted a piece of the action, and Berney was no exception. Residing in Washington, D.C., our crafty con artist decided to capitalize on the TV boom. He added the letter “A” to his surname, presenting himself as Harold Aberney. He founded the Aberney Corporation, a company supposedly dedicated to manufacturing television antennas.

As every con artist knows, you need a little starting capital to get things going. Enter Pauline E. Goebel, a Washington secretary whom Berney sweet-talked into investing $500 (roughly $5,700 in 2024 dollars) into his antenna venture. Pauline was appointed secretary and treasurer of the Aberney Corporation. Unbeknownst to Pauline, her real role was that of the unfortunate investor, or as Berney saw it, Ms. Moneybags.

Despite the lucrative business opportunities, the Aberney Corporation dissolved in March 1953. Berney pivoted to his next brilliant idea: the Telewand Corporation. Pauline, still not suspecting a thing, stayed on as the company’s supposed secretary and treasurer. If Berney had called it quits here, this would just be the tale of another failed business and a woman duped out of her savings. But Berney, ever the ambitious swindler, was just getting started.

A Vacation Like No Other

Summer 1953 rolled around, and Berney informed Pauline that he was heading off on a family vacation to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, with his wife and two children. Seems innocent enough, but this was no ordinary vacation. For Berney, it was a business trip with a twist. While at the beach, Berney befriended Pleasant McCarty and his wife, spinning a yarn about a miraculous patent he had just secured. This invention, he claimed, could draw endless energy from the atmosphere. He said that Westinghouse was interested in buying it.

Convinced they were on the brink of striking it rich, the McCarty couple handed over $10,000 (nearly $115,000 in 2024 dollars) of their hard-earned money to Berney. Not content with just one round of cash, Berney persuaded them to mortgage their business and invest another $10,000. By January, he managed to squeeze an additional $2,000 out of them to “cover business expenses.” Then, with the finesse of a great magician, he disappeared, along with the couple’s $22,000. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about $250,000 down the drain.

But wait, there’s more. Having quickly burned through the McCartys’ cash, Berney needed a new target. Who better than his old friend and investor, Pauline Goebel?

To Venus and Back

Here’s where Berney’s con took an intergalactic leap. Remember, this was the 1950s—a time when humanity hadn’t even launched a man into space, and the public’s imagination was ablaze with tales of UFOs, Martians, and otherworldly visitors. Berney spun a story so outlandish that it would make the wildest sci-fi plot seem tame.

According to Berney, that trip to Delaware in January wasn’t a simple beach getaway. Oh no, it was a top-secret mission of cosmic proportions. In strictest confidence, he told Pauline that he had been flown, along with Westinghouse officials, to a military base in Houston, Texas. There, they were led to an airstrip where they beheld something straight out of a B-movie: a massive bell-shaped flying saucer, about 100 feet in diameter and 30 to 40 feet tall.

As Pauline listened, eyes wide with wonder, Berney dropped yet another bombshell. Because of his stellar reputation with the federal government (insert eye roll here), Berney was asked to be the first to enter the saucer. Once inside, he heard a voice—a voice that claimed he had been chosen as Earth’s representative for the planet Venus. After a brief chat, the voice morphed into a glowing blue light, which then transformed into a human-like figure.

That’s how Berney met Prince Uccelles, the Venusian envoy, who informed Berney that Venus wanted to establish a relationship with the United States and share their superior technology. The only catch? It all had to remain top secret.

Now, if you’re thinking this sounds like the ravings of a man who’s spent too much time with his head in the clouds, you would be correct. As for poor Pauline, however, she was sucked in faster than a space tourist who thinks the “airlock exit” is the door to the bathroom. (We know… the space tourist would get sucked out of the spaceship, not sucked in, but cut us a little slack, ok? It’s hard to be come up with anything that is sillier than the real-life stuff we are describing.)

Telewand Corporation: Earthly Scams with a Cosmic Twist

Berney, with his newfound extraterrestrial connections, convinced Pauline to invest even more money into the Telewand Corporation. For every $100 she invested, she received a stock certificate representing one share in the company. Berney, ever the diligent businessman, soon embarked on another of his mysterious “business trips.”

Fast forward to April 5, 1955. Pauline received a phone call from a stranger in Texas, who introduced himself as none other than Prince Uccelles. He had dire news: Berney was gravely ill. The next day, another call came in, this time to inform Pauline that Berney had died… on Venus.

Now, one might question why a being capable of transforming into light and teleporting across galaxies would need to make a phone call to deliver such news. But Pauline? Her understanding of such matters was such that she probably thought the Milky Way was made out of actual milk. She bought it—hook, line, and sinker. She even attempted to contact President Eisenhower to alert him to this Venusian tragedy. Despite her best efforts, she was unable to reach the Commander-in-Chief.

Things only got stranger. About a week later, a handwritten letter appeared on Pauline’s desk, purportedly from Uccelles, requesting $3,000 to cover Berney’s “small bills.” Pauline, still not smelling the rat, sent the money.

Five months later, another letter arrived, this time asking for $4,500. Once again, Pauline obliged. Then, on October 4, she received a third letter informing her that Berney had “passed through a complete process of regeneration” and was on his way back to Texas from Venus. Regenerated and excited about the opportunities, Berney was back in business.

The Cosmic Grand Finale

When Berney finally returned to Washington that fall, he regaled Pauline with tales of his Venusian adventure. Everything on Venus was bigger, better, and shinier. Buildings towered higher than the Washington Monument, gold was so plentiful it was used for bathroom fixtures. As for crime? It was practically nonexistent, and when it did happen, the punishment included exile to another planet. If Berney had visited Venus, this last part of his story would have been true. Berney would have been the only criminal on the planet, and since he was telling Pauline the story from Earth, the exile part seemed to pan out.

Inspired by his cosmic escapades, Berney began penning a manuscript titled Two Weeks on Venus, with Pauline’s secretarial assistance, of course. Sadly, the book was never completed. We’re serious about our sorrow — it sounds like a real page-turner.

By the summer of 1956, Berney was called away on yet another business trip, this time to Pittsburgh. Upon his return, he claimed that technical problems with the “modulator”—a machine allegedly capable of doing everything from lifting millions of tons to propelling spaceships at the speed of light—had been solved. However, Berney needed to incentivize the Westinghouse executives working on the project. He promised them a $1,000 bonus each if they could meet a deadline. Where would he get the money? You guessed it: Pauline.

Faithful as ever, Pauline sent him a check for $10,000. But when Berney returned to Washington, it would be the last time Pauline would see him in a business capacity.

The Long Arm of the Law

In November 1956, a package arrived at the Berney residence, addressed to Berney’s wife. Inside were Harold’s wallet, $300 in cash, his credentials, a camera, his watch, and a tie pin and cuff links bearing the initials HB. The most significant item, however, was a note written on parchment, informing Mrs. Berney that her husband had died and was lying in state on Venus. It was signed by—who else?—Prince Uccelles.

Unlike Pauline, Mrs. Berney wasn’t buying it. She suspected that her husband had simply deserted her and their children. The authorities were contacted, and by February 1957, the FBI was on the case. They soon discovered there was no modulator, no Westinghouse deal, no trips to Venus, and no Prince Uccelles. And as for Harold J. Berney? He was nowhere to be found.

The FBI had one crucial lead: Berney’s real profession. He was a sign painter by trade, and after checking out of his Pittsburgh hotel, they discovered he had purchased $600 worth of sign-painting supplies. Knowing Berney’s tendency to head south for the winter, the FBI focused their search on southern states.

On March 21,1957, an FBI agent in Mobile, Alabama, discovered that a 1955 Oldsmobile had been registered in the name of one Hal Berney. Agents quickly located his home in Pritchard, where they found that a newly established sign painting business was in operation.

Although Berney wasn’t home at the time, a neighbor identified him as the occupant and suggested he might be at his fiancée’s house. The agents headed over, and on the way, they spotted Berney driving his Oldsmobile. They pulled him over, and Berney was arrested. When questioned, he quipped, “Trip to Venus? Why, that’s ridiculous!”

Ridiculous or not, the evidence against him was overwhelming. Berney pleaded guilty, and in December 1957, he was sentenced to between 20 months and five years in prison. According to the Social Security Death Index, Harold Jesse Berney passed away in 1967 at the age of 69. Pauline E. Goebel, who was defrauded of an estimated $40,000 (over $450,000 in 2024 dollars), lived until the ripe old age of 94, passing away in 1997.

When all was said and done, Berney’s cosmic con raked in well over half a million of today’s dollars. He may not have made it to Venus, but in the world of con artists, he was a shining star.

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