From legendary short seller to god of American capital

Chapter 406: A Winter Glimpse of Four People on Wall Street (The End)

Thursday, November 3, New York, James Keane's office.

The old butler stood by the door, his hands clasped in front of his lower abdomen, his silver hair neatly combed.

He had served here for sixteen years, witnessing his master go bankrupt and rise again twice, but he had never seen such silence—a deathly silence, a silence so profound that even the ticking of the clock seemed jarring.

In November, it was nearly dusk at 5 p.m. in New York. The dim light slanted in through the tall, arched windows, casting long shadows on the oak floors.

Keane stood by the window with his back to the door. He was still wearing that custom-made dark gray double-breasted suit, but the shoulder line was slightly droopy.

Outside the window, Wall Street had just finished its day's hustle and bustle, and brokers were pouring out of the exchange, excitedly discussing the day's market trends.

No one looked up at the office on the third floor, as if it had disappeared from the coordinate system of this world.

"Sir," the old butler began, his voice as steady as possible, "Mr. Morgan's men will arrive in half an hour. They invite you—to join Morgan Bank."

Keane didn't turn around, but nodded almost imperceptibly, as if to say he understood.

"Furthermore," the old butler hesitated, as if speaking of a topic he couldn't avoid, "Barkley, Stephenson, and your oldest trader Quincy—they all submitted job applications to other companies this morning. Quincy also took a copy of the trading manuscripts you compiled last year."

This time, Keane slowly turned around.

The 54-year-old Wall Street Duke had no expression on his face at this moment. There was no anger, no pain, not even the dejection of defeat. The face that once struck fear into the hearts of countless bulls was now like a meticulously sculpted marble statue—perfect, cold, and lifeless.

Only the old butler could tell that Mr. Keane's right hand was clenched into a fist in his trouser pocket.

"What are Morgan's conditions?" Keane's voice was a little hoarse.

"They said they were willing to help you keep your office and reputation, as long as you agreed to join Morgan Bank—but you didn't actually need to start working there."

You are merely Mr. Morgan's full-time agent in the public markets on Wall Street. They may need you to manage the consolidation of American railroad and steel companies in the future.

Keane sneered. "I see. My trader Quincy left me. Now, I've become Mr. J.P. Morgan's Quincy."

"But this is your only chance to stay in the Wutong Club." The old butler couldn't bear to look at Keane's face now, but he had to tell him the best solution. "With Mr. Morgan as your guarantor, your position is very secure—Mr. Keane, we both know your abilities—as long as you can calm down, even with just a little bit of capital, you can still make a comeback."

Keane nodded slowly. "What specific position did Morgan give me?"

"consultant!"

"Advisor?" Gene repeated the word, a strange smile curving his lips. "So I'm going to become that fat guy's advisor—to submit myself to him."

The old butler remained silent.

Keane continued, "You know what? Why do I only want to be a stock trader on Wall Street? It's because I hate being a tool in their hands. I want freedom—but now, I have to do it—otherwise, the next day, the whole of Wall Street will know—that I've gone bankrupt in this futures trading."

"Mr. Morgan believes that your experience in the secondary market is highly valuable to his future integration efforts. Rather than an advisor, you should be understood as a strategic partner." The old steward tried to choose a neutral statement.

Keane was silent for a moment, then suddenly asked, "How much money do I still owe?"

"Approximately $56 million."

"Let them come and take this office back—I also have a property in New Jersey, I'll give that to them too." Keane looked around the office he'd spent seven years in. "—If you're going to become Mr. Morgan's advisor, what are you still doing here? It's a huge irony—"

"Yes, sir! Actually, the office has already included it in the syndicate's collection bill—"

Keane stopped talking and walked to the mahogany desk that had been with him for 15 years. Apart from a brass lamp and a set of dip quill pens and inkwells, there was nothing else on it.

All documents, ledgers, and telegram drafts have been destroyed and transferred in the past three days.

He reached out and touched the table, his fingertips finding a thin scratch. It was a mark left from when he angrily threw a paper cutter during the Wall Street turmoil of 1879. That day, he shorted gold and made $190 million in one fell swoop.

"Help me change," Keane suddenly said.

The old butler quickly stepped forward, unfolded his thin woolen overcoat, and gently draped it over his shoulders.

As the two walked out of the office, footsteps could already be heard on the stairs.

Three men in dark suits walked in, their faces expressionless. The one in the lead was a middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, who was holding a list in his hand.

They ignored Keane and went straight into the room to begin their work.

"A set of mahogany desks, estimated at $800."

"Two Persian carpets, estimated at $350."

"A brass globe, well, let's say $100 —"

The voice echoed in the room in a flat, monotone tone, with a slight Chicago accent.

Keane stood there, like a statue, watching as the "assets" he had accumulated over his 22-year career were labeled, valued, and recorded one by one.

With each number the three men called out, the color drained from his face.

As they walked into the next office, a while later—someone suddenly shouted, "What are these? Four big boxes? My God—they're full of money and securities!"

James Keane and the old butler exchanged a quick glance—they both suddenly realized something and turned to walk towards the next office.

The two walked to the next office and saw the First National Bank's liquidators huddled in a small cubicle, staring at four boxes at their feet.

Two of the boxes were opened, revealing cash and stacks of government bonds inside.

These are the $600,000 in cash and securities that Monk Rothstein brought to the scene when he asked James Keane to deal with the "betting bank crisis."

After Monk Rothstein's death, Keane thought the money should be put aside until things calmed down before taking it out—but he forgot about it.

Now it seems that not only had he forgotten—but almost all of his men had also forgotten that afternoon when Monklostan hurriedly brought four boxes—

Otherwise, they wouldn't have left such a valuable asset of 600,000 yuan in a small cubicle next to the office.

"These belong to my master! We just forgot to take them!" The butler suddenly stood in front of the three people, subtly protecting the four boxes—

The three members of the syndicate liquidation team exchanged glances and stepped aside. The man with the gold-rimmed glasses said somewhat awkwardly, "Don't worry, we're just here for an appraisal; we absolutely will not take advantage of the situation to appropriate your assets—"

"Monk Rostan—" Keane suddenly remembered that fierce face. Back then, Rostan's betting house was pulled...

Threatened by Livingston, Moncrostein only found himself when he was driven to desperation.

But it didn't work!

That time, he hadn't stopped Livingston from going long on American sugar stock. Rostanbond's betting company was completely wiped out, and he himself died in a hail of bullets.

Unexpectedly, today it was my turn to taste this bitterness—coincidentally, I also fell to Livingston's gun.

After the three members of the syndicate liquidation team left the office, the old butler lowered his voice and said to Keane, "Sir, you may keep your office here—"

"—No," Keane stared at the four boxes, thought for a few seconds, and said firmly, "I don't want the office anymore. I'll move to another place and start over—I'm still an elder of the Wutong Society, but I have to do some things for Morgan—I've fallen twice before, and today is the third time—and I will get up for the third time!"

As he spoke, Keane slung his trench coat off his shoulder and tossed it casually onto a dusty hanger. He then squeezed into a small cubicle and began to carefully clean out the assets in the four "treasure chests."

At almost the same time, Mr. Potter was in his four-story apartment in Midtown.

The firewood crackled in the fireplace, casting a warm, orange-red glow into the room.

"So—" Mr. Potter took a sip of his amber whiskey, leaned back in his leather high-backed chair, and squinted at the person sitting opposite him.

Larry, in his face, asked, "Did you drive the Duke of Wall Street into bankruptcy?"

Larry nodded, holding a glass of wine in his hand, but didn't drink much.

"I really didn't expect it to be him—this is so bizarre," Larry said, his face showing no excitement, only confusion. "Now I know it was the mastermind James Keane who was behind this—I'm so confused, what...what did I ever do to him?"

Mr. Potter smiled without saying a word.

Larry continued, "I find it very baffling—Mr. Keane used to be my idol, how did he suddenly become my biggest rival? And he went bankrupt—besides, didn't he have tens of millions of dollars in assets? How could he go bankrupt?"

"You certainly wouldn't guess—" Mr. Potter chuckled softly, swirling the whiskey in his glass, "because you have absolutely no idea what you've touched in his possession."

"You know what?" Larry asked, frowning.

Mr. Porter shrugged slightly. "I don't know either—but I do know that his actions—such as turning grain ships around and forcing the Chicago Mercantile Exchange to temporarily change its rules—were not done by his own power, but with the help of the St. John's Guild."

"The Wutong Club? I know a little about it—but only from the gossip on Wall Street. But I always feel that the Wutong Club they talk about is too much—exaggerated."

Mr. Potter put down his glass, got up, and went to the fireplace to stir the firewood. Sparks rose and reflected in his deep eyes.

"Larry, what do you think the Sycamores are? A shady secret fraternity? Or a club of old Wall Street boys?"

"Isn't that right?" Larry said, frowning. "They manipulate the market, engage in insider trading, or maybe political donations or something—"

"Yes! But not entirely—" Mr. Potter turned his head, his eyes gleaming. "I can put it another way. You know Gould ruined Daniel Drew and caused the railroad stock crash, right? After 1873, who took over the $120 million in bad debts that British investors had invested in American railroads?"

Larry stared blankly at Mr. Potter; the name and the time suddenly put him on alert.

"During the Baring Crisis of 1890, who persuaded the Bank of England not to withdraw all of London's gold from the New York market?" Mr. Porter continued, each word like a hammer blow to Larry's heart. "Going further back, after the collapse of Jay Gould and his friend Fisker's gold hoarding scheme in 1869, who stabilized international investors' confidence in U.S. Treasury bonds?"

Larry's breathing quickened slightly as these questions pointed to a dimension he had never considered before.

"It's the Sycamore Society," Mr. Porter answered for him, his voice very calm, "or more precisely, the group that the Sycamore Society represents—the first self-conscious community of American domestic financial capital."

"—You mean, the Wutong Society isn't just a trade association on Wall Street? And it actually did some things?"

Mr. Porter chuckled and shook his head, exclaiming, "Hey!! Mr. Livingston, you used the $500 you borrowed to raise $20,000 in capital at a betting company in St. Louis, and then used that money to launch an unprecedented short squeeze—ultimately netting $20 million!!"

You're a fucking genius I've never even heard of—but how can your lack of basic knowledge be so astonishing?!

Larry nodded a little shyly and said with a smile, "Mr. Potter, you said—"

Mr. Porter glanced at him, a hint of helplessness in his voice, and said, "—American independence relied on France, but the capital for industrial development, especially for building railroads, was mostly British. Yet, how many British names can you find on the shareholder lists of major railroad companies today?"

"————!!"

Larry's eyes widened, and he nodded hurriedly, "You're right—ah, I should have thought of that sooner. Americans never mention the French help during the War of Independence, they only emphasize Washington's personal charisma: and where did agricultural countries get the money to build railroads—now that you mention it, it makes sense, the money was actually raised from within Britain."

"The Wutong Group probably started by trying to create a price cartel, at least that's what I've heard," Mr. Porter continued, following Larry's lead. "But it's easy for them to see that brokerage firms and banks, as brokers, can easily inflate a huge bubble—and then burst it! And if you think about it further—"

"Sell the stocks and bonds before you blow them up—" Larry hurriedly interrupted Mr. Potter. It wasn't that he was trying to speak up, but rather that he had instantly thought of what Mr. Potter was talking about—the excitement of unraveling so many mysteries was too intense!

"—After the bubble bursts, take advantage of the panic to acquire the bloodied shares held by major shareholders," and then hoard them?

"Not only that!" Mr. Porter said with a smile. "You just said that they also have insider trading and political donations—they used political maneuvering to push Congress to pass the Railroad Reorganization Act, which implicitly guarantees these bonds with the nation's credit."

Three years later, when the railroad became truly profitable, the value of these bonds had increased tenfold. And the ones who profited from this were not the British, but the American bankers who had initially bought them.

"Damn it!!" Larry blurted out, his mind reeling.

It's easy to imagine that amidst the dramatic fluctuations of the stock market, with countless stocks changing hands—this is a national-level transfer of wealth—and those orchestrating these acquisitions are none other than American bankers and investment banks.

"Then what about the Barings Bank crisis two years ago?" Larry pressed.

"In 1890, Barings Bank nearly went bankrupt due to its Argentine debt, causing panic in the London market," Mr. Porter said slowly. "The Bank of England planned to withdraw liquidity from around the world, with its large investments in the United States being the first to be affected. If nearly $300 million of British capital had been withdrawn from New York in a short period of time, the chain reaction would have dwarfed the tragedy of 1873."

He paused, his gaze deep: "It was a group of elders from the Wutong Society at the time, including J.P. Morgan (Julius Spencer Morgan), the Seligman Group, and a few others you may not have heard of but who wielded even greater influence—who jointly sent a message to London that if the Bank of England insisted on withdrawing its funds, the United States would unilaterally abolish all British companies' franchises in the country and impose punitive tariffs on British goods."

Larry gasped, his mind racing.

"London conceded," Mr. Porter said casually, "because they knew these men meant what they said. And more importantly, these men—represent America. Not those politicians in Washington, but the people who truly control the economic lifeline of this country. Old Morgan was overjoyed to learn that the British had conceded, but unfortunately he died that same month in a carriage accident."

The room remained quiet for a long time, with only the crackling of the firewood.

"So the Wutong Society—" Larry struggled to find the words, "is both the mastermind behind market manipulation and—the financial defense ministry?"

"Your analogy is quite apt—but the US federal government doesn't have a Department of Defense, only a Department of War. So you can also manage the Wutong Association."

"It's called the Financial Warfare Department." Mr. Porter nodded approvingly. "It has no staff, no budget, and no public meeting minutes. But in critical moments, it can mobilize far more resources than the Treasury Department and make more decisive decisions than Congress. Because it doesn't serve the nation, but rather the interests of capital—the overall interests of American domestic capital."

"—Okay! I really didn't know that," Larry admitted.

Mr. Potter sat back down, picked up his glass again, leaned forward slightly, and wore a mocking smile. "Now do you understand? You didn't just defeat James Keane as a person, you defeated a cog in the machine of the Wutong Society. And the methods you used—using public opinion to manipulate public sentiment, using rules to fight against capital, and using physical delivery to kill off futures speculation—in their eyes, you might be more dangerous than that blatant robber Gould."

Larry felt a chill run down his spine. It wasn't fear, but a mix of excitement and trepidation—a kind of clear-headedness.

Mr. Potter glanced at Larry, thinking he was frightened, and smiled, saying calmly, "But don't worry! Jay Gould himself eventually became the Grand Elder of the Sycamore Society, and he was recruited. Those people don't hold grudges; as long as you can bring them greater benefits, they'll consider you a close friend and family member in no time!"

"It's not that I'm afraid of them—but you're right! Maintaining a balance of power without breaking down might be more advantageous for me. Sometimes, it's even possible to become a community of shared interests with them." Larry slowly concluded.

"So I'm letting you take some time to reflect, not just for your own good. Even for the Sycamore Society itself, you need to learn to let them get used to your presence—" Mr. Potter thought for a moment, then got up and took a thin booklet from his bookshelf and handed it to Larry.

Larry took the pamphlet, the title of which was "Interviews with the Master Maker Jay Gould (1890)".

"Turn to page seven," Mr. Potter said.

Larry turned to the page, and the reporter asked Gould, "You've made countless enemies throughout your life. Who is the opponent you regret the most?"

Gould's answer was circled in red: "I never regret fighting anyone. But it took me too long to understand one thing: on Wall Street, what you need to fear is not those who want to beat you, but those who—don't even care if you exist. The former will fight you, the latter will just step over you without even looking down at what they're stepping on."

"Jay Gould—" Larry murmured the name, "I never knew he had this side to him—"

Mr. Porter smiled, holding his wine glass and gazing at Larry. "In this world, in professional fields, such as the physical limits of engines, chemical formulas, or even your trading techniques, these might be kept secret or are talents that no one but yourself can obtain. But on Wall Street—top-level wisdom is always public, it's just that very few people can understand it."

"Wait!!" Larry suddenly interrupted Mr. Potter, because he remembered that Gould originally wanted to blow up a bunch of New York millionaires at the Waldorf Hotel.

"Mr. Porter, if the Bushmanship Association truly protects American capital as you claim, then how could Gould have possibly managed to plant a bomb at a gathering of New York's wealthy?"

Mr. Potter thought for a few seconds, then smiled and said, "First, we don't yet have evidence to prove that Gould and his group really planned that attempted attack; second, it's not entirely incomprehensible. Do you know what the motto of the Wutong Society is?"

"What is it?"

"For greater interests"—that's all they said, but they didn't say it was only for American interests! What if someone offers a higher price?

Right, isn't that right?

Larry thought for a moment, then slowly nodded.

In this sense, the Wutong Society is neither an enemy nor a friend—as the saying goes, there's no such thing as ideology, it's all business.

"So what am I supposed to do now, Mr. Potter?" Larry finally asked.

Mr. Potter smiled and pointed to the pamphlet in his hand. "Didn't Mr. Gould already say—don't deliberately try to deal with anyone, or even care about their existence, just do what you should do. Take it one step at a time, and the more steady the better."

Outside the window, the New York night grew even deeper.

In the study, an old man and a young man sat facing each other, neither of them speaking.

But something has already conveyed a message about the essence of the game, about the definition of victory, about how one should find their unique and indestructible place in this cruel yet beautiful world.

When Larry finally got up to leave, Mr. Potter saw him to the door.

"Oh, by the way," the old man said one last time before he stepped out the door, "next time you come, bring two bottles of your own brewed beer. I heard you've made connections with beer makers in Europe?"

Larry smiled; it was the first truly relaxed smile of the night.

"It's called Heineken. They provide the formula and all the equipment. We'll work together to develop the American market. The new brewery is in Rochester. You'll get the best batch, sir, I guarantee it!"

The door closed behind me.

Larry stood on the steps in front of the brownstone house and took a deep breath of the crisp, cold air of the New York winter night.

He looked up and gazed south—that was the direction of Wall Street.

Then he turned around and walked in the opposite direction.

(End of this volume)