Crazy Hints

"Good heavens, how exactly did you become Director of the Bureau of Investigation?!"

The sudden reprimand made Hoover's heart skip a beat. He hurriedly opened his mouth. "Mr. Feilan, wh... what is it?"

"In October 1929, Chase Bank president Albert Wiggin borrowed eight million dollars from his own bank."

"Then, through several private investment firms under his name—Sherman Company, Pander Company, and that Chase Harris Company or whatever—it shorted the stock of his own bank."

"Forty-two thousand shares. He made four million in total."

"Something this huge, and you, the dignified Director of the Bureau of Investigation, knew absolutely nothing about it?"

Hoover froze completely.

He truly did not know much about the rules of the stock market.

But a bank president borrowing money from his own bank, shorting his own bank's stock, and then making four million dollars—if news like that got out, given the current state of the United States, anyone would know it would be explosive.

"And Richard Whitney—during the 1929 stock market crash, he publicly bought stocks 'heroically' in an attempt to prop up the market. You've heard of that, haven't you?"

Hoover nodded.

Everyone in the United States knew about it.

Back then, in the exchange trading hall, before a crowd of panicked traders, Whitney had proclaimed, "I believe in the United States stock market. I will enter the market with my life savings to save it."

The newspapers had reported it endlessly, molding him into the "hero who saved Wall Street."

"But what about behind the scenes?"

A trace of mockery colored Feilan's voice. "His personal investments—Cuban Sugar, Pine Oil, and all sorts of other speculative ventures—were utter failures. He was drowning in debt."

"To cover those losses, he misappropriated client funds and even stole money from the New York charitable fund to plug the hole. And you, Director of the Bureau of Investigation, knew nothing about that either?"

Hoover felt his legs go weak.

Richard Whitney.

He was far more than merely a hero who had saved the market. He was also chairman of the New York Stock Exchange, the most glamorous face on Wall Street.

If the president was the symbol of this country, then Whitney was the symbol Wall Street displayed upon its stage.

His every move would be magnified by newspapers, admired by the public, and treated as gospel by politicians.

Yet such a titan—

Had actually misappropriated client funds and stolen from a charitable fund?

If it was true...

Hoover did not dare think any further.

"And also..."

Feilan did not stop.

He named several more people.

Several more powerful figures who could command wind and rain on Wall Street, along with equally damning scandals that could shake the entire financial world to its foundations.

One after another, clear and detailed, every account vivid and convincing.

Hoover's scalp prickled as he listened.

During his years as Director of the Bureau of Investigation, it was not as though he had never heard of Wall Street's shady dealings.

But he had never imagined they ran this deep, this dark, this horrifying.

Then suddenly, it was as if something struck his mind.

He abruptly lifted his head and looked at Feilan.

On the surface, Feilan's words had been rebuking him for occupying a position without doing his duty, cursing him for incompetence.

But that tone...

There had been no real anger in it.

What there had been more of was implication.

That was right—it was an implication!

Since the new president had taken office, what had Roosevelt been doing?

At the inauguration, mocking the capitalists.

In the Fireside Chat, bypassing the media to speak directly to the public.

The Emergency Banking Act, reopening the banks and bringing deposits back in.

Those negotiations with Wall Street, that clause allowing the government onto the boards of directors—which one had not been aimed at those titans?

And now, Feilan Roosevelt had personally come to this shabby office of his and, right before him, laid out one piece of dirt after another—dirt enough to blow Wall Street sky-high.

This was not a scolding.

It was plainly an assignment.

The White House needed this evidence. It needed someone to dig up this dirt, organize it, and deliver it into their hands.

And that person was Edgar Hoover.

Having figured that out, Hoover steadied himself. "Mr. Feilan... actually, the Bureau of Investigation has already conducted some inquiries into what you mentioned. It's just that the evidence isn't sufficient yet, so we haven't submitted it to you for the time being."

"Then how long until there are 'results'?"

Hoover thought for a moment. "Within a month."

Feilan did not react.

"Twenty days. Twenty days should be enough."

Feilan still wore the same expression.

Sweat beaded on Hoover's forehead. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and said, "Ten days. There will definitely be investigative results within ten days!"

At last, a smile appeared on Feilan's face.

It was a faint smile, but Hoover understood it. It meant satisfaction.

"Director Hoover, then I'll wait for your good news."

Feilan rose to his feet.

Hoover hurriedly stood as well, intending to see him out.

Feilan waved a hand. "No need to see me out, Director Hoover. You have a great deal to do now, so don't waste any time."

Hoover could only remain where he was and watch him walk toward the door.

The door closed softly behind Feilan.

The office suddenly fell silent.

Hoover sat back down, leaned against his chair, and let out a long breath.

Then he picked up the telephone on his desk. "Have Clyde come to my office."

A few minutes later, the door was pushed open.

A man in his thirties walked in.

Clyde Tolson, Deputy Director of the Bureau of Investigation.

He was tall and stern-faced, wearing the same white shirt as Hoover, his tie knotted with impeccable precision.

"What is it, Edgar?"

Hoover looked at him, his voice somewhat hoarse. "Clyde, Feilan Roosevelt came just now."

Clyde's eyes widened slightly. "Feilan Roosevelt? The young man everyone in Washington's upper circles has been talking about lately? The president's nephew?"

Hoover nodded.

"What did he come for?"

Hoover was silent for several seconds, then told Clyde everything that had just happened, from beginning to end.

After listening, Clyde's expression became exceedingly grave as well. "Wiggin... Whitney... these men are all capital predators of Wall Street."

Hoover gave a bitter smile. "You know as well as I do that the people on Wall Street are not easy to provoke. If we investigate as Feilan instructed, and they discover it... things won't end well."

Tolson was silent for a while before speaking. "Edgar, but if we do not act according to the White House's wishes, our fate will probably be even worse."

Hoover said nothing.

He knew Tolson was right.

No matter how formidable Wall Street's people were, no matter how far their reach extended, their hands were ultimately invisible.

They could suppress you, retaliate against you, and use every possible means to leave you unable to take a single step.

But the White House was different.

The White House's hands were tangible.

Forget a small Bureau of Investigation like theirs—even the entire Department of Justice could be dealt with whenever the White House wished.

"Edgar, we have no choice. We must choose the White House's side!"