At first glance, the business world of the 20th century would not seem a propitious breeding ground for eccentricity. Businessmen and -women, in the main, pride themselves on probity, predictability. "Sober" and "well-rounded" are considered compliments. Little wonder, then, that a hectare of executives contains fewer kooks than just about any other sampling of humanity. Compared with poets and philosophers, bankers and industrialists have been relatively late adopters of berets, ferrets and home brewing. Yet, even so, the century has hatched its share of "true originals"--some of whom won fame and fortune, others who left only a gaudy afterglow.
The fetishes of Howard Hughes (1905-76) have entered folklore, to the point that Hughes is remembered less for having been an industrialist-aviator-Hollywood-producer than for having been a saver of urine (his own), a recluse terrified of dust, a man who, with the right audience (Mormon bodyguards), couldn't see Ice Station Zebra often enough. Yet for every celebrity eccentric, a dozen more labored in obscurity. Who remembers Brian Hughes? This 1920s box-manufacturing tycoon liked nothing better than to patrol the sidewalk outside Tiffany in New York City, an envelope tucked beneath his arm. When the moment seemed right, and pedestrian traffic sufficient, Hughes would let loose its contents, sending a spray of jewels (all fake) clattering across the sidewalk. The melee that ensued never ceased to please him. On rainy days, he would exit a restaurant and deliberately leave behind an expensive umbrella. When opened by a misappropriater, the umbrella released a shower of leaflets saying THIS UMBRELLA STOLEN FROM BRIAN G. HUGHES.
For sheer reclusiveness, Hughes (Howard, not Brian G.) had a worthy rival in candymaker Forrest Mars Sr. Virtually every detail of Mars' life--including his birthday--is kept a closely guarded corporate secret within Mars Inc., a secretive company. He has reportedly given but one interview in his entire career and that to a candy-industry trade paper in 1966. Yet even Mars' and Hughes' penchant for anonymity pales before that of Basil Zaharoff (1849-1936), a munitions king aptly called the "Mystery Man of Europe." Zaharoff systematically stole or destroyed all records of his youth and early manhood, making snooping into his past impossible. He employed several doubles and never permitted himself to be photographed until late in life, after he had retired. Why such secrecy? Assassins from many nations hunted him. He had made his fortune by simultaneously selling arms to both sides in a conflict. He grew rich--and hated.
Certain industries have yielded gushers of eccentrics. Oil gave the world two famous penny-pinching billionaires: J. Paul Getty (1892-1976), legendary for forcing guests at his estate to use a pay phone, and H.L. Hunt (1889-74), who every day either brought his lunch to work in a paper sack or, when not feeling quite so flush, cadged his secretary's sandwich. Less well known was oil and cattle baron James ("Silver Dollar Jim") West (1903-57). Wearing a diamond-encrusted Texas Ranger's badge and hunched behind the wheel of one of his 30 automobiles, West loved to race alongside Houston police in pursuit of evildoers, throwing handfuls of silver dollars to startled onlookers as he sped by.