CHAPTER XXI
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."