Rod followed his father along a strip of thick carpet laid over a
floor tiled in precise geometric patterns, looking about him at the
dukes and duchesses of the counting room administering their high
estate of correspondence and ledgers. Delicately fingered
typewriters and computing machines woke faint, staccato tappings in
that lofty room. He passed a row of ground-glass partitioned
cubicles, each gilt-lettered with the name of some petty satrap of
higher degree than those without such privacy. There was a decorous
stir, an air of activity, persons moving about from desk to desk,
discreet consultation. If, as an institution, it was moribund, coma
had not set in. Or perhaps the stir and bustle was but the
accentuated flutter of a financial heart struggling to force
impoverished blood through a body approaching dissolution. He smiled
at the fancy.
The directors' room, specially fitted up for deliberate and august
discussion, opened off a mezzanine floor overlooking the main body of
the offices. Norquay senior led the way. They left their hats and
coats in a cloak room. Without ceremony, Mr. Norquay pushed open a
door and entered.
They were a few minutes early, but they were not first. Grove sat at
one end of a huge oval table, a massive creation of mahogany
surrounded by a dozen equally massive chairs. He was flanked by his
father-in-law and Arthur Deane.
The capacity for imagining a man in relation to his circumstances and
surroundings was one which neither war, wounds, nor the passage of
time had atrophied in Rod. This had given him a mental picture of
his brother as a haggard man facing ruin with some degree of
trepidation. He saw at once that this was a misconception. He
perceived the well-remembered features. A cigar outthrust from one
corner of Grove's mouth. There were faint, pouchy discolorations
under his eyes. He was older, and he showed his age. Otherwise he
had changed less than Rod expected. He had simply become a
thicker-bodied edition of his earlier self. Rod marked the familiar
malicious flicker in his eyes upon recognition, and wondered with an
inner sardonic amusement how Grove would take this invasion of his
holy of holies by a younger brother whose parting act had been to
inflict the severest bodily punishment Grove had ever suffered in his
life.
But Grove merely nodded with a casual "how d'do, pater," and a
careless "Hello, Rod," and motioned them to chairs. Thereafter he
sat quiescent. Only the too-frequent puffing at his cigar, an
occasional aimless movement of the hand resting on the table,
heralded a strain. Beside him John Wall sat with hands clasped over
his rotund paunch, impassive as a Chinaman. Deane pencilled
interminable figures on a pad.
At intervals other men came in. A hushed atmosphere seemed the most
outstanding quality of the high-ceilinged, beautifully paneled room.
Voices sank to discreet murmurings there.
A moon-faced clock against the north wall struck a soft, silvery
chime. Grove straightened up.
"Meeting'll come to order," he slurred the words. "This, as you
know, is a special meeting called to consider a difficult position.
I have a report and some figures for which I desire your attention."
He paused a moment to glance about the ring of faces,--faces with
bushy eyebrows and heavy jowls and many lines about the eyes, faces
ruddy, saturnine, bearded, mustached. Hard and watchful faces
converted by long practice into serviceable masks to hide feeling.
Save Rod and his brother, not one was under fifty. Wary old birds,
Rod thought, hard--hard as nails.
They represented collectively a sum in excess of ten millions.
Grove looked finally at Rod, then at his father. The tip of his
tongue flicked across his full lips.
"This is a directors' meeting," he said. "It is slightly irregular
for outsiders to be present. I--"
"If you can think of nothing more irregular than that, you may
proceed," Norquay senior broke in. "I desire my son to be present."
John P. Wall rumbled deep in his broad chest.
"'S all right. 'S all in the family, Grove. Go ahead."
Grove began to read from a cluster of typed sheets. Ponderous
phrases, heavy with the special terminology, the many-syllabled terms
in which commerce and finance wraps its meaning when it seeks formal
expression. Phrasing as difficult to the uninitiate as 'The Critique
of Pure Reason' is to the average freshman. Fundings, refundings,
liquid assets, unrealizable commitments, debit and credit balances,
mingled with references to the European situation, the New York
situation, exchange, debentures, interminable strings of figures. It
created a hopeless confusion in Rod's mind. There was so much
language and so many figures. It was not a living, colorful language
such as he cared for, such as could move him by its subtlety or
vigor. He gave over trying to follow Grove through the maze and
watched the faces of these men of affairs. Evidently it was clear
enough to them. He observed slight liftings of eyebrows,
communicative glances, fixed unwavering attention, comprehending
nods. But their faces remained Sphinxlike.
Grove finished. He leaned back in his chair. For a moment his guard
dropped.
"There it is," he snarled at them.
A short, full-bodied man at the lower end of the table said in a
pained tone:
"There is really nothing in that statement that we don't know, that
we haven't discussed. As a result of mismanagement and unfortunate
circumstances, the Norquay Trust Company is insolvent. The question
is, what are we, the board of directors, going to do about it?"
"Liquidate--liquidate, I say," rumbled a man whom Rod recognized as
the head of a well-known wholesale firm, a well-known man about
town,--a gentleman with a taste for old, very old Scotch whisky, and
a penchant for young, very young women. "Liquidate and be done with
it," he repeated ponderously.
"How are you going to liquidate a two-million-dollar liability with
assets of a million or less?" Arthur Deane inquired in his cold,
precise voice.
An old man across the table, with horn-rimmed glasses low on the
bridge of his nose, leaned forward.
"Is it as bad as that?" he inquired indifferently. "I wasn't sure."
"A careful analysis of the statement shows about that," Deane
answered.
"We've got to get out from under, that's all," Bartley Richston broke
into speech for the first time. He was quite unmoved, matter of
fact. "No use blinking facts. As a going concern the Norquay Trust
is on its last legs. How long," he demanded of Grove, "can you carry
on as you are? Suppose it got about that you're shaky and all these
four per cent, depositors demand their money? How long would you
last?"
"About half a day," Grove answered sullenly. "We can't stand a run.
Damn it, you know that, Richston. I've told you a dozen times in the
last month."
"Then a receivership is the only solution. A receivership and a
winding-up."
Grove sprang to his feet.
"By the Lord," he cried in a passion, and his fist struck the table
with a thud, "you shan't sink me like that. I tell you this thing
can be pulled through. You've all made a fat thing out of it.
You've got to back me up now. No use saying you can't. I know what
your cash balances are in bank--every one of you. I know what
Victory bonds you hold. This slump won't last. You've got to come
through."
"Be sensible, Norquay," Arthur Deane put in. "No use throwing good
money after bad. The war's over. The reaction's set in. The day of
the quick turn and the long profit is past. It is unfortunate--but
other concerns have gone bankrupt. It is not exceptional."
Burrows, the short, stout man at the lower end of the table, grunted
audibly.
"I make a motion," he said, "that our solicitors be authorized to
appear in court and ask for a winding-up order."
"Second the motion," Richston snapped.
"You shan't," Grove declared hoarsely. Tiny sweat-beads began to
stand out on his forehead. "What's got into the lot of you? You're
running to cover like a lot of whipped dogs. All the thing needs is
fifty or sixty thousand from each of us to carry on until the assets
that we hold recover value. What if the war is over? Timber and
mining and pulp and transportation go on. This isn't a corner
grocery to be closed up as soon as business slacks off."
"You are wrong," Richston informed him. "This business does not
differ essentially from the corner grocery--except in scope. It was
undertaken to make money. It no longer does so. Considering the
state its affairs have arrived it, it can never be made to do so.
Therefore let it be wound up--at once. We waste time in useless
talk. Let us agree on the motion, and act."
"Oh, yes, you're willing," Grove flung at him. "You've had a good
many slices out of the melon. What about our trust accounts? What
about our depositors?"
"Circumstances are too strong for us," Richston replied
imperturbably. "We can see now that accepting deposits was a
mistake. We should never have undertaken private banking. It's
unfortunate, I'll admit. I suppose there'll be a noise in the papers
and all that sort of thing. But it isn't criminal to fail in
business. Be sensible, Norquay. Step out of it as gracefully as
possible. You're not faced with ruin. No more are we. It would be
folly for us to get more deeply involved than we already are. Let it
go. What's the Limited Liability Act for?"
Sagacious nods animated the several heads. Grove towered above them
impotent, his face red with anger, shadowed by a trace of fear, his
look indicating momentary bewilderment at attack from an unexpected
quarter. There lifted a low confusion of voices. Several speaking
at once. Querulous complaining. Rumbles of mismanagement, muttered
disclaimers of responsibility.
Rod's father rose slowly to his feet. His thin, smooth-shaven face
betrayed no particular feeling. Only Rod, who knew the faintest
indication of his every mood, saw that his eyes burned, that there
was a repressed disgust and scorn in them. He rapped on the table
with his knuckles.
"Before you prematurely explode this well-laid mine," he enunciated
clearly, "I wish to make a brief statement. My son, whom you evince
a tendency to blame, is a heavy stockholder. I myself hold a limited
interest, but between us we do have control. I do not wish to offer
excuses for Mr. Grove Norquay. He bears his own responsibility. I
am aware, however, that there is other responsibility for the
insolvency of this concern. I have perfunctorily attended but few
directors' meetings. But I have my own sources of information. For
some weeks I have foreseen this move. It is just such an action as
might be expected of a group of men like yourselves. Yourselves"--a
bitter gibing note crept into his voice--"most of you liars, and half
of you thieves."
The masks dropped. Those various elderly, respectable gentlemen
gasped and rose to the attack. Their old voices, some thin and
reedy, some thick with indignation, were leveled at him. They
demanded apologies. They thumped the table. Their voices created a
hubbub.
"I will not be insulted."
"I demand a retraction."
"Anybody who says I'm a thief is a damned liar!" Etc., etc.
Rod sat back, an onlooker at this minor Bedlam. He was an outsider,
and looking in from the outside it made him, figuratively speaking,
just a little bit sick. If this sort of thing was the accompaniment
of big business and finance when it fell on evil days--He felt a mild
sort of disgust with these yammering old men. He perceived that most
of them were intent only on saving their financial hides. That they
were callously indifferent to what happened, so long as it did not
happen to them.
He marked also that Richston manifested no resentment at his father's
personal thrust. Deane muttered to himself. His face was flushed.
Richston only sneered, leaning back in his chair. Of them all John
P. Wall remained unperturbed, his hands folded over his abdomen,
blandly inert. And Norquay senior rested his finger tips on the
table and looked at the sputtering, the gesticulations, the commotion
he had aroused.
They subsided into mutterings. All but Burrows. He rose on his
stodgy legs.
"I shall not remain here to be insulted," he announced with a
ludicrous simulation of dignity.
"Sit down," Norquay senior's voice popped like a whiplash. And
Burrows, after an uncertain glance about him for moral support,
resumed his chair.
"I have not finished," Rod's father continued. "I am not going to
reason with you. I am going to talk to you in the only language such
men as you can understand, and be moved by. It is nothing to you
that a thousand innocent people may be partially or wholly ruined by
your manipulations. But it happens that my name is involved in this
as well as my son and my money. I tell you flatly that if you
proceed to sink this financial galleon which you built and launched
and sailed on profitable voyages, and now propose to scuttle since
there is no more chance for loot--I tell you if you do this, that
three of you sitting at this table face the penitentiary. And, by
God, I'll see that you go there!"
He stopped. A chilly silence, in which Rod could hear the sharp
intake and slow exhalation of breath, seemed to hold them all fast.
"There has been mismanagement. Yes. There have also been illegal
transactions, criminal acts. They were well covered, but I dug them
up. I have had able men looking into the affairs of this corporation
for some time. I repeat, if you throw it into involuntary
liquidation, I will put at least three of you behind the bars."
To Rod it was like having a box seat at a melodrama. Again the masks
failed these men. His father had stung them twice. First with an
insult, then with a threat. They looked furtive; they seemed
apprehensive. They remained silent, glancing sidelong at each other.
All but John P. Wall. He took out a cigar, lit it very deliberately
after biting off the end, while his gaze traveled slowly about the
circle of perturbed faces. His own remained placid.
"What do you propose then, Norquay?" he asked casually.
"That we assess ourselves proportionately to replace the funds which
have been--dissipated. Appoint a new manager. Replace this board of
directors and carry on until such time as this concern can be wound
up with every obligation discharged."
Wall shook his head.
"No," he said calmly. "Far as I'm concerned--not a bean. I'm
through. Let 'er crash."
Sheeplike they followed his lead. They seemed to gather courage.
Their money was their lifeblood. They would not spill it lightly.
Other people's money, perhaps. Not their own.
They gathered voice. They protested that no sensible man would try
to bolster up a tottering business. Why should they risk large sums
when they could avoid risk by merely stepping aside?
"I can't step aside," Norquay senior answered them quietly. "You
wouldn't understand if I told you why. So you refuse, then? Very
well. I have told you what will follow an enforced receivership. I
stand on that."
He kept the same position, fingertips resting on the polished wood,
staring at them with open hostility, frank contempt. He remained
silent after reaching this impasse.
"We are no more anxious for a receivership and a public outcry over a
whopping failure than you are," Bartley Richston declared. "But
neither are we to be stampeded into sinking more money. It would be
lunacy. Most of us see clearly that to go ahead simply means a
bigger smash later on. This is no matter for sentiment. We are
practical men and we see no sound reason for making tremendous
sacrifices. As an alternative I would suggest--since you seem to
think, contrary to our judgment, that the Norquay Trust can be
resuscitated--that you take it over, lock, stock and barrel,
yourself. You can have my interest. I'm satisfied my shares aren't
worth the paper they're printed on. Then you can use your own
resources to bolster it up, and if you succeed any profit or glory
will be your own."
"Very well," Norquay senior agreed, very gently and--to Rod--quite
unexpectedly. "I will accept your shares, and your resignations. In
the usual manner you will elect in your places such men as I name.
Not to-morrow, nor next week, but now--at once. It is quarter to
eleven. There are clerks and telephones. I shall be back at a
quarter to twelve.
"Remember," he concluded harshly, "I am a wealthy man and not given
to idle threats. If any of you at any time now or in the future
takes a step by word or deed to precipitate a crisis which I am
trying to avoid--then I step aside. The funds I propose to use in
clearing up this mess of your making I shall then devote to seeing
that such of you as I can reach shall get your just deserts for
certain disbursements in connection with this trust company."
He turned his back on them. Rod followed him out to the cloak-room.
They put on their coats in silence, walked out to the street where a
closed motor car waited at the curb.
"The Western Club," Mr. Norquay told the chauffeur.
"I need a drink badly," he said to Rod, "to take the taste out of my
mouth. Well, we're committed to a devil of an undertaking, Rod.
You'll have to begin ripping the heart out our timber as soon as
there's a break in the weather. It is our only salvation. I have
turned everything else into cash the last few weeks against this
emergency. I never believed we should ever get into so tight a
corner. We've got a fighting chance. That's all."
"I wonder," Rod's mind envisaged certain passages in his
great-great-grandfather's journal, "if it's as tight a corner as the
Chilcotins had us in once or twice? There have been tight corners in
the past, pater. Do you suppose we have lost our capacity for hard
fighting? Gone soft? Eh?"
His father glanced at him. "God forbid," he said quietly, and
relapsed into silence.
"It is my fault," he sighed, "I should have fathomed Grove long ago.
Blind, blind! He's eaten up with vanity. Fancies himself a Napoleon
on the field of affairs. They've played shrewdly on that. I can see
it now. He doesn't realize yet what they've done to him, nor how.
He's been bewildered for weeks--and still confident that if he could
get enough money he could carry it off. A fool and his money! Power
in weak hands. They made a tool of him, a common tool. And we've
got to pay through the nose. There's no choice--unless we get down
to their level and run to cover like jackals."
"If you have proof of criminal acts, why don't you club them with
that; _make_ them disgorge?" Rod asked.
The older man shook his head.
"Only as a last resort. I'm not really sure I could. Moral
certainty is not legal proof. There are moneys loaned to companies
that are really dummies. It's rather complicated, and they are very
clever. I hardly expected to make them contribute funds. The most I
hoped for was to frighten them away from a receivership, force them
out of the thing quietly. I shrink from a public scandal. They
wouldn't, if they felt personally safe. They could make Grove a
proper scapegoat. No, I've done the best that can be done."
The machine stopped before the club entrance. They went up to
Norquay senior's rooms, and he produced a decanter and glasses and a
siphon of soda.
He drained his glass and set it down. He leaned forward in his
chair, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.
"I have a strange feeling of some crisis at hand," he said gloomily.
"I have taken the ultimate precaution. Their game is stopped, I'm
sure. Still--I have that uneasy feeling. I'm not a fanciful man. I
never took much stock in premonitions. Childish. Nevertheless--I
can depend on you absolutely, Rod? Eh? If anything happens to me
you'll see this thing through? Because there's no one else--you
understand how I feel about it, don't you?"
"Yes, pater," Rod said quietly. "I understand. But nothing's going
to happen to you."
"I'm an old man," his father said. "I can't stand much strain.
What's the time? We'd better be getting back."
Sometime during the luncheon hour the original shareholders and
directors of the Norquay Trust Company completed the last task they
would ever perform in that capacity at that great table. They took
their scowling faces one by one from the room. The final exit was
made by John P. Wall, rotund-bellied, imperturbable, unmoved to the
last.
He paused in the doorway to relight his cigar.
"Well, Norquay senior," he said casually, "I have to admire your
nerve--but your judgment is damn poor. A man may lose his money.
Only a bloomin' idiot gives it away."