“Failure to recognize the hidden talent in his peers is the ruin of many a man,” I said. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Brody, it strikes me that your gifts are by no means limited to baseball. I can see you have potential.”
“You think so, Mr. Cloke, do you?” he said, with a touch of his earlier aggression. “And what potential”—he attempted, unsuccessfully, to mimic my English accent—“would that be?”
I smiled, drew him closer toward me than was strictly necessary, and spoke in the most confidential of whispers. “Tell me this, Mr. Brody … or Oscar if I may … could I interest you in a spot of pilfery when we reach Chicago?” I winked.
With the help of Old Jake and the concoction of a few fanciful “confessions” of my own to balance the books, Oscar was soon spilling the beans about his association with a local kingpin of repute known as “King Mike” McDonald. King Mike, it appeared, was an upstanding citizen of influence, a gentleman under whose protection ordinary Chicago folk could live and work in peace. Of course, such tranquillity comes at a price, and it was Oscar’s duty to ensure that the requisite sums were paid.
At this moment he paused, as if fearing he had already said too much. I, though, detected another rich seam of information worth mining. As the next few miles of prairie trundled by, I would extract an excellent confession. Was it any fault of Oscar’s that six months ago a cussed “Squarehead” storekeeper (he seemed to harbor a particular antipathy for former denizens of Sweden) didn’t pay his dues? Was it any fault of his that this same Squarehead drew a knife on him, when Oscar roughed him up? Was it any fault of his that, while acting in self-defense, the tip of that knife happened to breach the Squarehead’s throat and find entrance to his jugular vein? No, I assured him, it most certainly was not. And what was the name of this Squarehead, I inquired gently, and where was his store, and when was this punishment meted out?
“It was his own d____d fault,” said Oscar proudly. “And remember this, Mr. Cloke. Nobody won’t never try that again with Oscar Brody.” There was a pause. His brow creased, he took a long swig of Old Jake, and aired first one damp armpit and then the other. Perhaps the value of the information thus freely shared was beginning to dawn on him, for he suddenly showed me a resurgent fist. “And that includes your d____d English newspaper.”
Well! Until he reminded me, I had almost forgotten who I’d said I was. But what an excellent opportunity this presented for a spot of lighthearted recreation. King Mike, after all, sounded like a crook worth knowing. Only someone with genuine clout could disappear a man guilty of a capital offense, and bring him back a mere six months later. And Oscar’s fist might come in useful too, as long as it was being wielded in my behalf. I began by pointing out that as a reporter of principle I had a duty to report what he had told me in The Thunderer. In which case, I hardly needed to add, there would soon be a noose around his neck. His caddish response was, I am pleased to say, exactly what I had hoped for. Dare to write down a single word of what he had told me, and I would find myself decorating a tree before a single word reached the printer. That’s the spirit! I promised him that, speaking personally, I did not condemn him for what he had done. In fact, I congratulated him. There’s no worse affliction to society, I said, than a Squarehead who comes over here and thinks he doesn’t have to play by the rules. “You think so too?” Most certainly, said I. “Then you won’t write nothing?” I confirmed that, notwithstanding the damage it would do to my own career and reputation, on this occasion I was prepared to waive the rules so as to save his skin. After all, we were friends now, weren’t we?
I was aware that my tale had turned into an overegged pudding by this stage of the proceedings, but I still held out the hope that, sooner or later, he would see through me. The circumstances surrounding the death of the Squarehead would be our little secret, I continued, but I hoped that in return for my silence he might afford me an introduction to King Mike, for he sounded a fine fellow. Oscar observed me through eyes that were now well and truly glazed by Old Jake. After engaging in an extended bout of cogitation, that involved whipping the cap off his skull and mopping his brow with an unpleasantly soiled handkerchief, he finally bared those veterans of many a skirmish—his incisors, canines, molars, wisdoms, et al.—in a magnificently raucous guffaw. “Yerra, as my father Mochta would have said, you’re worse than an English landlord.” He slapped my knee in an unnecessarily familiar fashion. “You nearly fooled me there, Mr. Cloke, with that newspaper baloney.”
His little epiphany was not before time but, to be fair, he had by now drained the bourbon bottle single-handedly. I shook him warmly by the paw and let him sleep it off. Later, I brought out my deck of cards, fleeced him within an hour for all the cash he had—a little over $30—which I then returned to him. “I like you, Oscar,” said I, “but you can’t gamble worth a cent. Don’t do it again until I’ve taught you how.”
By the time we caught our first sight of the distant smudge in the sky that was Chicago, rising like a genie from its bottle, Oscar Brody was, so to speak, in my pocket.
* * *
Chicago is the fastest and most frantic and most higgledy-piggledy upside-down bridge-swinging town it has ever been my good fortune to step foot in. And one should be cautious, by the way, about exactly how one dispatches the said foot because many of the houses and streets stand at different heights. Doubt me not. I tend to speak the truth, and almost nothing but the truth, so help me God. There was, I would discover, an unexpected boon to these anomalies of elevation. Time one’s walk, and in some places an upward gaze would reveal a lady’s underdrawers passing overhead, exposed to best effect beneath a crinoline. I have no shame. Nor, I was pleased to observe, did my friend Mr. Brody.
I took him to the best hotel in Chicago. A magnificent establishment on no less than seven floors, The Palmer House was rebuilt after the Fire of ’71, its spacious bedrooms adorned with mantels of Italian marble, thick-piled carpets from England, and glossy French landscapes on every wall, from which the paint almost continued to drip. There were speaking tubes and damask curtains lined with silk, rosewood chairs in the parlors, drinking fountains in the halls and, best of all, a bulletin board in the lobby with “tickers” in perpetual motion, tap tap tapping numbers direct from the Board of Trade that represented (I would soon discover) the most important information a man with a penchant for the odds, who happens to be in the midst of a lucky streak, could ever desire. For here, in common ink worth more than its weight in gold, were displayed moment to moment, grade by grade, from the markets of London to Philadelphia, from Boston to New York, the most recent prices for pork and spring wheat.
My first act on arrival was to lead my wide-eyed companion into the mahogany splendor of the banqueting hall, lit by two dozen French chandeliers, and treat him to a cocktail—I forget whether I plied him with a Claret do or Ne plus ultra or Tippe na Pecco—selected from a list as long as a dictionary. I had taken a shine to the strapping and impressionable young Oscar Brody. He was more cunning than he looked, and I saw the potential in him for a useful accomplice. I may have peddled with the idea of going off the crook altogether on my arrival in Chicago, but the truth is that—unlike the great unwashed—I am of that breed who remain true to their calling. And I cannot deny I was titillated by the prospect of an introduction to King Mike.
Oscar could hide neither his awkwardness of manners nor his delight at being accommodated in such plush surroundings. While he disappeared into the hinterland beyond downtown to report his good fortune to King Mike, I began as one must always begin, by making myself look respectable. First, I called in at the hotel barbershop in the basement, a gloriously equipped establishment, its black and white floor tiles embedded with silver dollars. I emerged, an hour or so later, feeling splendid. My hair had been cut and curled and combed and dipped in the best bay rum, and my sideburns and spade beard were as neatly pruned as a picket fence. It was now time to dress for the part too. I made some inquiries and ascertained
that Field & Leiter was the store at which a gentleman could sample the very best tailoring. How true that was. By sunset I was in possession of some ready-mades, an elegant claw-hammer coat and a black bowler hat, as well as a go-to-meeting outfit for the daylight hours.
Though playing the odds has always been my passion, I like to spread my risks. Hence, a sideline in pilfery. Pilfery, for the record, is a world away from highway robbery, sandbagging or blowing a safe. When practiced skillfully on those in high society who really should know better, I consider it a perfectly legitimate extension of my professional skills. I started that same evening after dinner in the private saloon bar on the second floor of the Palmer House, having briefed my new accomplice, and having dressed him in an ill-fitting shirt, a rude coat and a flat cap. He was to play the yokel, unused to the ways of a grand hotel in the big city. While he kept to the shadows, I stood drinks to a likely looking group and was soon being furnished with an address on Wells Street where a respectable man might engage in a spot of faro and craps. The next recommendation was a house with a high-class supply of day ladies or “outside boarders,” as they are sometimes known. Friendly folk in Chicago, I thought. Helpful. Full of the joys of life.
With dinner over, the lighting was discreet in the saloon bar, the cigar smoke thick and its patrons full of well-being and bourbon. A sense of privileged camaraderie prevailed, even among virtual strangers, that was excellent at breeding carelessness. I gave the prearranged signal to Oscar—a casual scratch above the left ear—while being subjected to the blusterations of a pig-eyed owner of a steel business in St. Louis who, when he fell for the line that I was the Special (oh, what glamour that word adds) Correspondent for The Times, began to snuffle with pride at the prospect of seeing his name in the pages of that illustrious journal. To his credit, Oscar reacted at once from the corner where he lurked. There was an immense shattering of glass and crockery as he tripped over his chair and swept a flailing arm across the table in an attempt to keep his balance. A series of loud and colorful rustic oaths accompanied his collision with the floor. My stall, with this bravura performance, rose yet farther in my esteem. The distraction was complete. Twenty braying bigwigs nearly swallowed their cigars at the commotion, and with what ease did I proceed to appropriate the steel man’s fattened purse.
Back in our suite, I congratulated Oscar and rewarded him with a generous cut from the takings. He chose to go directly to a bagnio located in King Mike’s domain but when my luck is in, I don’t like to stop. I decided to mix celebration with a few more pilferies. I sallied forth to McVicker’s Theater and watched an abominable play called The Hero of Fort Dearborn, set way back in the Middle Ages when Chicago was still a snoozy one-horse town. A tale was told of how the founder Mr. Kinzie failed to save some blockheaded soldiers from obliteration at the hands of bloodthirsty redskins. There was a moral in there as subtle as a herd of buffaloes so I ignored it, determined to enjoy myself regardless and applauded heartily. In the first intermission, I whisked (for almost $50) a man who must have been a politician, given the crowd that was pressed around him, before lifting a lady’s purse in the second intermission while we climbed the stairs in tandem to go to our respective boxes. This pretty silk pouch contained a brooch worth $15, a diamond ring that would bring $35 and some loose bills that I donated to the theater’s collection in aid of supplying needy citizens with winter clothing.
The next day, I checked us out of the Palmer House and took some commodious rooms on Wabash Avenue. Within a week, King Mike and J. Patrick O’Cloke (touting exclusively, of course, his Irish accent) were business partners, and within a month the “Brody Elevator Co.” opened for business. King Mike and I were equal partners in the enterprise but we both shy away from unnecessary publicity. Oscar was only too pleased to step into the breach.
King Mike may have been interested in a quotidian business confined to the receiving, grading and shipping of grain, but I was not. This is not to imply that an elevator is anything other than an admirably profitable entity, especially under the management of Oscar and the Irish associate he recruited (called Dermot Something-or-other). Should any farmer be rash enough to object to the unorthodox grading of, say, top-quality Spring Wheat No. 1 as the considerably less valuable Spring Wheat No. 2, the way Oscar cursed and glowered would soon persuade even the most hardened of them to accept his terms, or pay the requisite backhander. Yes, it was a profitable business.
Curiosity: Where is the thrill? Where are the odds? How, with an elevator, can one experience the dizzy pleasure of bringing one’s opponent—or indeed oneself—to the brink of ruin? What point is there in life if we do not, from time to time, stake everything we own on the cards in our hand? For James P. Cloke, alias J. Patrick O’Cloke, the elevator was but a stepping-stone into the futures market and its “corners.” I decided to take Oscar under my wing in this enterprise too. His healthy appetite for wrongdoing, combined with naked greed, deserved nurturing. Besides, one needs a pliant stall should things go wrong. Did I not hold information on the young man’s past that would serve as excellent insurance, if needs be? We gamblers are, in the end, lone wolves.
1877
EDITORIAL: CHICAGO DAILY TRIBUNE
From the desk of the editor, Mr. Joseph Medill:
A case heard at the Board of Trade this morning brought into public view a deplorable practice that has been tolerated for far too long in Exchange Hall. I speak of that iniquitous construct—the “corner.” For those readers unfamiliar with the workings of the futures market, let me begin by furnishing an introduction to this arcane institution. Not so long ago, a wheat farmer had to drive his loaded wagon along dangerous dugways to reach Chicago. He would then search for a buyer and negotiate a price. This was a risky, arduous procedure that—just fifteen or twenty years on—already sounds antiquated. In the modern world, a farmer simply loads his sacks of grain into a railroad wagon and, on arrival in Chicago, delivers them to one of the elevator companies. There, the grain is graded, shunted to the top of the hopper, weighed and sorted, and dispatched down an iron chute into the appropriate bin. That bin is emptied directly into the hold of a ship waiting at the quay—an efficient system that, managed honestly, would seem to be in everyone’s best interests.
Mr. Oscar Brody, the proprietor of the Brody Elevator Co., was summoned before the Board, accused of running the notorious corner that readers will remember brought the Exchange to a standstill at the end of June. I ask for patience from those readers who may find the following details dull, but they are essential if one is to understand the inherent corruption in the system. To put the puzzle into context, we must note two developments now taken for granted: the “ticker” reports up-to-the-minute grain prices from across the world, and a standardized grading system means that No. 2 Spring Wheat is always No. 2 Spring Wheat, whether it comes from Illinois, Kansas, Iowa or Indiana. The only lacuna in this process is the time and cost of delivering the grain from, say, the Brody Elevator Co. in Chicago to a buyer in, say, New York. Hence, the appearance of the futures market and “to arrive” contracts. These contracts fix a price today for the delivery of grain at a specified date in the future.
When the price of grain shifts, the speculator has his chance. Hence the division at the Exchange between the so-called Bulls who bet on the price going up, and the Bears who bet on it going down. Whichever way it does go, one of them will make a profit, the other one a loss. What benefit their wager brings to anyone else in society, I have yet to discover.
In mid-May, it was alleged, Mr. Brody—with as-yet unidentified “accomplices”—hatched a plan to buy, as gradually and discreetly as possible, futures contracts on No. 2 Spring Wheat for delivery on June 30. At the same time, the Brody Elevator Co. kept off the market the substantial stockpiles of No. 2 Spring Wheat held in its own warehouses. The inevitable duly happened. The price of wheat when Brody began to buy those contracts was $1.75 a bushel. By mid-June, when the market first suspected there might be a shortage,
the price was up to $1.95. On June 30, when the contracts came due, the scarcity of the grain had pushed the price to $2.15. Brody and his associates made a profit, the Board was told, of over $100,000. Meanwhile, many unsophisticated small-scale traders went bankrupt and an even greater number of gullible farmers, persuaded by sharp-talking dealers to play the market, were ruined.
If this were the first time such a corner had been created, one might be more forgiving of the Board of Trade’s lackluster response. But this has been going on for years. In the case of Mr. Brody, the Board has once again decided that the reputation of the Exchange would be harmed more by the publicity attending a full-blown court case than by a quiet reprimand. The deciding factor in their pusillanimous behavior was the silver-tongued eloquence of an English barrister-at-law hired by Mr. Brody—a man who styles himself “The Honorable James Percival Cloke”—who argued that his client had simply enjoyed a run of good luck. On this occasion, although fluctuating prices happened to go in his client’s favor, they might just as well have gone the other way. In short, the Board had no right to cast aspersions on the conduct of Mr. Brody unless they could produce compelling evidence that a corner had indeed been created. This is a fiendishly difficult thing to do in hindsight, when the market has moved on.
In a blatant ploy to divert the attention of the Board, Cloke focused his argument not on the corner but on some “alleged misdemeanors” that had also been presented to the Board concerning one of Mr. Brody’s grain inspectors, a Mr. Dermot O’Leary. Mr. O’Leary himself was not present to defend himself. But under friendly questioning from his barrister, Mr. Brody conceded that his grain inspector “very occasionally, Honorable Cloke, if at all,” might have categorized No. 1 Spring Wheat as the less valuable No. 2 Spring Wheat. “I don’t doubt it would have been an honest mistake,” claimed Mr. Brody. “As the elevator owner,” proceeded the sly English advocate, “you might therefore agree to accept responsibility for an occasional lack of oversight, and promise the Board this will never happen again?” “I do,” said Mr. Brody, with not a hint of apology or remorse. The Honorable Cloke paused, and regarded his client with a steely eye. “But I would also like to point out to the Board,” added Mr. Brody hastily, “that I cannot be everywhere at once.” The Honorable Cloke smiled. He turned to the Board. “Of course, we cannot expect him to be everywhere at once, gentlemen, can we? He is only human!”
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