12:10 PM.
Inside the hall of the New York Gold Exchange, the air felt as if it had been ignited.
As the price of gold began to dip bit by bit, everyone, whether going long or short, began to grow feverish.
There was a divergence; the bears, who had been in despair, felt a glimmer of hope and hurriedly joined the fray.
The ticker tape machine, which had been lagging moments ago, suddenly began spewing out paper tape frantically, as if it had taken a laxative.
Amidst the intense hedging between the longs and the shorts, a piece of news finally arrived.
"The Department of the Treasury has announced the sale of eight million dollars in gold!"
This shout didn't come from a broker, but from a correspondent stationed at the exchange by the Western Union Telegraph Company.
He waved the telegram in his hand—it was half an hour late, but it was lethal.
In that instant, time stood still.
Inside the exchange, Spel, who had just been frantically shouting "Buying at 160," froze with his hand still in the air.
He looked at the correspondent in disbelief, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
Hadn't the Boss said it was certain the government wouldn't sell gold to suppress the market?
"Impossible! Fake! That's a rumor!"
Spel snapped out of it and roared in a hoarse voice.
Whether the news was true or not, at this moment, it absolutely couldn't be true, or else he was finished.
He had personally mortgaged his luxury mansion to get in on this.
"Don't believe him! How could the government interfere with the market? Buy! Who has stock? I'll take it all!"
But this time, no one paid him any attention.
Because panic is a more primal instinct than greed.
When the words "Department of the Treasury" and "sale" were linked together, everyone realized that the god named Jay Gould had been abandoned by the true God—the government.
And so, a panic-driven stampede began.
"Sell! 155 dollars!"
Someone took the lead and shouted.
It was like a dam bursting; after the first stone fell, a catastrophic flood followed immediately.
"Sell! 150! No matter how much, sell it all!"
"I'll take 145 dollars! Take the order! Someone take the order!"
The price wasn't just falling; it was jumping off a building.
Gold warehouse receipts that were worth a fortune minutes ago had now become like red-hot coals.
With every passing second, the value of that piece of paper shrunk by hundreds of dollars.
Spel was pushed and shoved by the crowd until he was stumbling.
The small-time brokers who had been begging him to sell just a moment ago were now all looking ferocious, grabbing his collar and demanding he honor his verbal buy orders.
"You just said you were buying! You shouted 160 dollars! Pay up!"
"I... I don't have the money..."
Spel collapsed, sitting down hard on the cigarette-butt-strewn floor with a blank expression.
"Gould didn't give me the money... the check is empty..."
"What? Beat him to death! Swindler!"
The angry mob lost all reason.
Someone swung a fist, someone raised a wooden chair... In the second-floor box.
That fat man, Jim Fisk, was currently slumped over the railing, the fat on his face trembling violently.
"It's over... it's all over..."
He watched the scene spiraling out of control below, his green eyes filled with terror.
"Jay! Jay!"
Fisk turned to call his partner, who had been remote-controlling everything from behind the scenes, only to find that Gould's messenger had long since vanished.
"Damn it! That shorty ran away."
Fisk realized he had become the target.
If those speculators downstairs, who had lost everything, couldn't catch Gould, they would definitely take their anger out on the fat man standing at the forefront.
"Lock the door! Quick, lock the door!"
Fisk screamed at his bodyguards.
"Don't let anyone up! If they burst in, I'm a dead man!"
...Out on the streets.
The chaos spread from the exchange to the rest of Wall Street.
An angry mob gathered on Broad Street.
People held ropes, shouting to hang Gould and Fisk.
Long lines formed at the entrance of the Tenth National Bank. This was the bank that had loaned money to Gould and served as the source of funds for this short squeeze battle.
Depositors had caught wind of the news and were frantically trying to withdraw their savings.
"The bank has no money! There's no use crowding around here!"
A teller ran out from inside, his face covered in blood. He had been hit by an inkwell thrown by an angry depositor.
"Gould borrowed all the reserves to buy gold! The bank vault is empty!"
This sentence completely ignited the powder keg. Every depositor felt like they were falling apart; fury rushed to their heads, and they began smashing things.
Meanwhile, two blocks away at the Argyle Empire Bank Building.
Felix stood by the window; the cigar in his hand had burned out, but he hadn't thrown it away.
"It's already 135 dollars per ounce, Boss."
Hayes's voice carried an extreme excitement, even sounding a bit strained.
"A large two-million-dollar order just closed its position at 135. That was our short order. From this one trade alone, we made..."
Hayes swallowed hard, his fingers moving rapidly over the abacus.
"Five hundred thousand dollars. Making five hundred thousand in a minute... Holy shit, this feeling is absolutely wonderful."
"Mm-hmm. Keep at it," Felix's voice was calm and steady.
"The price hasn't hit bottom yet, and the panic hasn't fully played out. No need to rush to close positions; there will be more opportunities later."
"But Boss, it looks like someone died down there," Frost said, looking out the window. "Paddy wagons from the Police Station are here, and the National Guard too."
"And? Is that so strange? That is merely the inevitable price."
Felix turned around nonchalantly and poured himself a glass of water.
"After all, when greed blows a bubble too large, a bit of blood is bound to splatter the moment it bursts. Yet, there are always those who never learn their lesson. Who else can be blamed?"
"Hayes, notify all the traders. Set all the remaining short orders at 133. Once the price drops below 133, we'll flip our positions and start buying gold."
"Flip and buy?" Hayes was stunned for a moment.
"Exactly. Buying."
Felix looked at the ticker machine that was still frantically spewing paper.
"When there's blood in the streets, that's the time to buy at the cheapest prices. There's nothing wrong with gold itself; the problem is the price. Once it drops to 130, it becomes a good thing again."
"Besides," a cruel smile curled at the corners of Felix's mouth, "I'm going to make those who think the gold price will drop to zero lose money all over again."
1:30 PM.
The gold price fell to 133 dollars per ounce.
The entire market had gone numb.
Many people sat slumped on the ground, staring blankly at the numbers. Their life savings had vanished into air in just two short hours.
Someone climbed onto the roof across from the exchange.
*Bang!*
A dull thud—the sound of a human body hitting the ground.
The crowd screamed and scattered.
Felix heard the noise from upstairs, but he didn't look down.
He merely glanced at his watch.
"Close the net."
September 25th, Saturday.
After the storm, New York presented a desolate, gray appearance.
Wall Street's streets were littered with waste paper, broken glass, and abandoned hats and umbrellas.
Cleaners were hosing down the ground, and in the murky water, it seemed countless tears flowed.
Yesterday's Black Friday saw at least a hundred brokerage firms declare bankruptcy.
The Tenth National Bank was seized by regulatory authorities.
Countless middle-class families became paupers overnight.
But on the top floor of the Empire Bank Building, the atmosphere was starkly different.
It was quiet, tidy, and orderly.
The huge conference table was piled high with yesterday's transaction documents. Hayes, along with a dozen accountants, was performing the final calculations. The clatter of abacuses sounded like a pleasant melody.
"Boss."
Hayes had two dark circles under his eyes, but his spirits were frighteningly high. He held a summary sheet, his hand trembling slightly.
"It's calculated."
"How much?"
Felix was eating breakfast, a perfectly fried steak on his plate.
"Six point four million dollars."
Hayes took a deep breath and reported the figure.
"After deducting all handling fees, interest, and commissions for those'shell' accounts, the net profit is six point four million."
The room was silent. Even the seasoned accountants stopped what they were doing, looking with awe at the young man seated at the head of the table.
Six million dollars.
In an era where an ordinary worker's daily wage was only two dollars, this was an unimaginable fortune.
It exceeded the annual fiscal revenue of many countries.
Felix cut a piece of beef and slowly chewed it.
"Not bad, a little more than I expected," he commented lightly.
"It seems Gould's madness in the final moments contributed quite a bit to us."
"Not just money, Boss."
Frost walked in, holding a list.
"This is today's bankruptcy list. Many people who were liquidated yesterday are frantically selling off their assets to pay off debts."
"Some things are very cheap. So cheap it's like picking up trash."
Felix put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth.
"That's normal, tell me about it."
"First, real estate." Frost pointed to the list.
"There are six luxury homes listed on Fifth Avenue. This includes the one belonging to Spel (Gould's broker). He mortgaged his house yesterday to compensate clients, but it still wasn't enough. Now the bank is auctioning it."
"Buy it." Felix didn't hesitate.
"Under the name of Federal Real Estate Company. It can be used as executive dormitories later, or given to obedient congressmen."
"And stocks." Hayes added from the side.
"Erie Railroad stock is currently a disaster area. Everyone knows Gould is finished, and Erie Railroad will definitely be used to repay debts. Today's opening price is only 18 dollars."
Felix's eyes lit up.
This was his true goal.
"Erie Railroad..."
Felix stood up and walked to the map.
That railroad connected New York and the Great Lakes, it was Cornelius Vanderbilt's New York Central Railroad's biggest competitor, and the throat of the passage from the Midwest to the eastern seaboard.
In recent years, Felix had always wanted to acquire it to connect his Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company and Pennsylvania Railroad Company with the East.
But Jay Gould and Jim Fisk clung to it like two vicious dogs guarding their food.
His previous plan was only to acquire 20% of the shares.
But now, the vicious dogs' legs were broken.
"How many shares do they still have?" Felix asked.
"Gould and Fisk probably hold about 40% of the shares. But most of these stocks are mortgaged to various banks and trust companies in exchange for capital to speculate on gold," Hayes replied.
"Now that the gold price has collapsed, banks are pressing them to replenish their margin. If they can't, the banks will force liquidation."
"Is that so."
Felix turned around, his eyes burning bright.
"It seems I need to be a good Samaritan."
"Hayes, contact the banks holding those mortgaged shares. Tell them that Patriot Investment Company is willing to take over this batch of 'non-performing assets'."
"As for the price..." Felix extended a finger.
"Fifty percent of the market price. If they don't sell, tell them that tomorrow we will crash Erie's stock price to 10 dollars. By then, they won't even have scraps left."
"The banks will agree." Hayes smiled.
"Today's bankers are very cautious; as long as they see cash, they'd even sell their own mothers."
"Oh, and what about Gould and them?" Felix asked, "Where are they now?"
"They seem to be hiding in the Grand Opera House," Frost replied.
"Hundreds of people who want to kill him are surrounding the outside, and I heard he even hired a team of thugs to guard the entrance. Not even the police can get in."
"Still not giving up," Felix sneered.
"He must still have one last bit of leverage in his hands, those core shares that haven't been mortgaged yet."
"That's his last life raft."
Felix walked to the coat rack and picked up his jacket.
"Are the articles from Fowler (News Media Company Manager) ready?"
"Ready, Boss." Frost nodded.
"The Daily Truth special edition. The headline is 'Exposed: How Gould Embezzled Erie Railroad Public Funds to Speculate on Gold – Testimony from an Inside Accountant'."
"Although that accountant was impersonated by our person, the data is all true."
"Send it out."
Felix put on his hat and adjusted his tie.
"When this newspaper reaches the Grand Opera House, Gould will understand that he is no longer playing chess with people, but gambling with God for his life."
"Prepare the car, I'm going to the Grand Opera House this afternoon to watch a play."
"What kind of play?"
"To see how a drowning dog begs for mercy."
...At noon.
The special edition was distributed throughout the city.
Anger was reignited. If yesterday people hated Gould because they lost money, today, upon learning that he had embezzled public funds from a listed company (which was the shareholders' money) to gamble, that hatred turned into murderous intent.
Outside the Grand Opera House, people began throwing Molotov cocktails.
"Burn him!"
"Give us back our money!"
Meanwhile, in an office on the second floor, the former "King of Wall Street," Jay Gould, was cowering behind the curtains, trembling as he watched the crowd below.
His partner, Jim Fisk, was crying nearby, stuffing ham into his mouth as he wept, as if only food could alleviate his fear.
"Jay, we're finished," Fisk mumbled indistinctly.
"Banks are demanding repayment, and court summonses are flying in like snowflakes. Just now, the police chief said that if we don't surrender before sunset, he'll launch an assault."
Gould didn't speak.
He clutched The Daily Truth tightly in his hand.
His eyes were fixed on a small line of text at the bottom of the newspaper:
"The Argyle Family Foundation announced that it will fund the establishment of the 'Gold Storm Victim Assistance Fund' to help families bankrupted in the disaster..."
"Argyle..."
Gould gnashed his teeth as he uttered the name.
He finally saw the whole picture.
From that night's "I'm also bullish," to the current "victim assistance."
Felix not only took his money but also his reputation.
And now, Felix was waiting outside to take his lifeline—the Erie Railroad.
"Stop crying!"
Gould suddenly turned and kicked Fisk.
"We're not dead yet."
"Help me contact Argyle, I want to see him."
"Now?" Fisk was stunned, "He'll kill us."
"No."
Gould forced a smile that was uglier than a cry.
"Legitimate businessmen don't kill; they only make deals."
"As long as I still have something he wants, I can survive."