“Well, I bet on football games. I bet on prize fights…but mostly on elections.”
“Elections,” Halley cut in. His upper lip twitched in a sneer. “And how big are these election bets?”
“Oh, in 1936 I think I won around $10,000 or $12,000. In the last presidential election, I picked up around $1,500 by taking odds of seven to one that President Truman would be reelected…. I haven’t lost an election bet since 1921.”
The three men on the dais were clearly amazed by the pride of the last statement.
Finally, Kefauver said. “Your income tax returns, Captain, indicate considerable yearly profits from gambling.”
Yet another shrug. “I never denied doing a little honest gambling on the side.”
Halley leaned forward. “What would you say is your net worth today?”
“Oh…I would say if I sold everything, half a million dollars, something in that neighborhood.”
“Half a million dollars,” Kefauver said, staring at the witness, as if having trouble bringing the chubby, well- dressed cop into focus. “Working as a law enforcement officer on a ten-thousand-dollar-a-year salary—half a million dollars.”
Tubbo seemed neither embarrassed nor defensive—just matter of fact, as he replied, “Mostly it was done through investments—in stocks, bonds, from market tips that friends give me.”
“Friends. Could you give us an example of these friends?”
The big man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, searching the ceiling for facts. “Well, let me see…. I believe I got my first important stock tip from George Brennan—I was his chauffeur, and a kind of bodyguard, oh, twenty-five, thirty years ago.”
That was Boss Brennan, who had then controlled the Democratic machine in Chicago.
Halley’s shrill voice sliced the air like a scalpel. “Captain Gilbert, getting back to your net worth—can you understand how difficult it is to comprehend how a public servant like yourself got hold of all that money?”
Gilbert then explained, in some detail, how he was trying to invest for his son, how he was worried that on a public servant’s salary he couldn’t provide well enough for his family…and how he had “pyramided” his holdings to $100,000 in the bull market, losing all but $15,000 in the crash of ’29. But he had rebuilt—speculating in grain, diversifying by purchasing shares of Pepsi Cola, Union Pacific, and AT&T.
Halley seemed spellbound by this recitation of financial legerdemain, but finally blurted: “Captain Gilbert, may I ask a question?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“When do you find time to take care of your law enforcement duties?”
“Why, every day—sometimes twenty-four hours when we are working cases.”
“To me, you have quite an active financial business that would have to be watched very closely.”
Shrug. “The telephone is all that does it. The broker I’m dealing with will call me up.”
Halley’s expression might be seen at a car wreck—a bad one, involving fatalities. “You don’t think this interferes with your law enforcement duties?”
“No.”
“It hasn’t cut in on your time and energy?”
“Not whatsoever, no, sir.”
Halley’s eyes behind his round lenses were huge. “You’ve been able to amass this fortune in just your spare time—a hobby, so to speak.”
“That is right.”
“But you also find time for betting.”
“That’s the telephone.”
“That’s the telephone, too?”
“All I do is pick up the phone and make the bet. Doesn’t take five minutes.”
“When you’re betting on sporting events, Captain, where do you place your bets?”
“With a handbook at 215 North LaSalle.”
“Is this legal betting?”
“Well…no sir, it is not. Not in the strictest sense, not legal, no.”
“In your job, as the chief investigator for the State’s Attorney, would one of your duties be to raid handbooks— bookie joints, like the one you frequent?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever done so?”
“Certainly!”
“When was the last time?”
“…1939, I believe.”
