Point of No Return (11 page)

Charles began on the first account. It was the Burrell School for Negroes in Tennessee, founded by the late Charles Burrell, the moneys for which were administered by Mr. Burrell's old bank, the Stuyvesant, in conjunction with Mr. Burrell's old law firm, Burrell, Jessup and Cockburn. Charles would have to meet with Mr. Cockburn the first of the week and the meetings were never agreeable. The trouble with institutional accounts of late had been that all institutions were screaming for more income, although they continued demanding a margin of absolute safety. Mr. Cockburn always wanted to lower the bond holdings and to increase the higher-yielding preferred list. That million-dollar fund had been beautifully invested. Even in the depression, income had held up well, and now the market was considerably above the book value.

Charles was in the middle of the security list when he realized that Miss Marble was waiting by his desk.

“It's twenty minutes to three,” Miss Marble said. “Mr. Selig is coming in at a quarter of—the one who wants to open an account. I thought you'd like to see the credit department memorandum.”

“Selig?” Charles repeated, and his mind darted swiftly away from the investments of the Burrell School.

“The matter that Mr. Burton asked you to take up,” Miss Marble said. An anticipatory quiver in her voice showed that Miss Marble was interested. He had been asked yesterday to do that job and now he understood why Tony Burton was not yet back from lunch. He always seemed to be the one who was picked for unpleasant interviews.

“Thanks,” he said, and he took the memorandum. “Does Joe know I'm to see him? You'd better check again with Joe.”

His eyes traveled over the memorandum. He had learned to read office memoranda quickly and to pick the salient details out of the dull verbiage.

“Burt J. Selig,” he read, “is part owner of the Teddy Club and the La Casita night club, owns real estate at … and also in Miami, was indicted for income-tax fraud but indictment was quashed …”

There was no use going any further because everything had been decided. It seemed to Charles that there was no reason for a personal interview and that the matter might have been settled as well by letter, except that Tony Burton had disapproved of anything as permanent as a letter. Charles's desk had just been cleared except for a pile of Moody reports when he saw Joe moving from the door accompanied by a thin, dark man who wore a bluish-purple overcoat and a lightweight gray felt hat. Except for the shimmering sheen of the overcoat and the violently brilliant polish of his shoes, Mr. Selig was quietly dressed. His tie was dark, like his suit; his face was tanned, probably by the Miami sun, into a smooth meerschaum color. When he took off his hat, as he did when he approached the desk, Charles saw that his forehead was high and that his close-cropped dark hair was receding from his temples. His eyebrows, which might have been trimmed, formed a straight, almost Grecian line. His eyes were gray, his jaw was heavy, but there was nothing heavy about his step.

“This is our Mr. Gray,” Joe said. “He will take care of you.”

Mr. Selig held out a carefully manicured hand.

“I'm happy to meet Mr. Gray,” he said. “My name's Selig, Burt Selig.”

“Yes, I know,” Charles said. “Mr. Burton asked me to see you and I have all the details. Won't you sit down, Mr. Selig?”

He wondered for an instant where Malcolm Bryant would have placed Mr. Selig in his social scale, for Mr. Selig must have moved fast from group to group in combinations more complicated than any in Clyde or New Guinea. His voice had undertones of lost accents. His face had a look of things written on it that had been partially erased and of preparation for new writing. It was a face of a type that Charles did not know, but it was as marked and distinctive as a soldier's or a doctor's—positive, alert and confident.

“A nice little place you have here,” Mr. Selig said. “Very nice.”

“It's just a small bank,” Charles answered.

“Yes,” Mr. Selig said. “That's what draws me to it, Mr. Gray, particularly for Mrs. Selig. I know some lovely people banking here, some of my best friends. My friend Alf Fieldstone banks here. Do you know Alf?”

“Yes,” Charles said, “I've met him.”

“A very nice fellow, Alf,” Mr. Selig said. “He likes La Casita. Have you been to La Casita, Mr. Gray?”

“I tried once,” Charles answered, “but there was a long line waiting.”

“Well, any time,” Mr. Selig said, and smiled.

“Thanks,” Charles said.

“Well,” Mr. Selig said, “I suppose you've looked me over. I hope I've passed through the line-up by now.”

He paused and smiled, but there was no need to give any answer.

“I'm used to being looked over,” Mr. Selig said, “in my position.”

“Well,” Charles said, “anyone in business always gets looked over.”

“Yes, that's right,” Mr. Selig said. “How long have you been here, Mr. Gray?”

“Quite a while.”

“I suppose it takes time to work up anywhere in a business like this. Nothing can move fast.”

“That's right,” Charles said, “it takes time.”

“I wouldn't want any son of mine working in a bank,” Mr. Selig said. “So little action.”

“It all depends on temperament,” Charles answered.

“Yes,” Mr. Selig said. “Everybody has a different temperament. I ought to know.”

The best way to hurry an interview was to wait, but he was sure that Mr. Selig ought to know.

“Well,” Mr. Selig said, “what's the story? Do you want my account or don't you?”

Many people believed that banking was a matter of dull routine but whatever it might be to the boys in back, up front you could never count on monotony or even on a restful moment. It was necessary, as soon as Mr. Selig asked that question, to change from an investment consultant into a man of the world. It was necessary to remember that he was in a very responsible position, representing in his own person the prestige and dignity of the Stuyvesant and at the same time protecting the inviolate sanctity of its officers. Suddenly, with hardly any time to prepare, he had to change from book values to diplomacy and to draw smoothly on a store of conventional phrases, which were deceitful but which had to stick.

“Our officers have been over that question very carefully,” Charles said, and the smoothness and the consoling tone of his voice reminded him of a hotel clerk saying nicely that there was no room for a certain guest. “We would value your account in a great many ways, Mr. Selig, but we really feel that you will be better off in another bank. You said yourself this is a small bank, and smallness has its difficulties.” Charles smiled at Mr. Selig and felt still more like a hotel clerk. “I hope you'll understand, Mr. Selig, sorry as we are to turn away profitable business.” Charles smiled again. “Mr. Burton asked me to tell you personally that this is a purely business decision.”

Of course he was using Mr. Burton's name unofficially but still it had a soothing sound, even if it did not have the desired effect.

“So the answer is no, is it?” Mr. Selig asked.

“I'm afraid so,” Charles said, “for the time being. We're very sorry.”

Something made Charles sit up straighter and something made him feel that it would be unwise to shift his glance from Mr. Selig, for a film had seemed to drop over Mr. Selig's eyes. It was as though Mr. Selig had tried to suppress an impulse which he had been unable to conceal and for a second Charles had a sense of something close to physical danger.

“So I'm not a nice enough guy to play with you, is that it?” Mr. Selig said.

Charles spoke slowly and very carefully. You had to go on with the act and make no rash statements. You had to be glib and still say nothing.

“There's nothing personal intended,” Charles said. “We often find the needs of some depositors are better filled by other banks.”

“I'm not used to being given the run-around. Why didn't they say that the first time I came in?” Mr. Selig asked. He had not raised his voice but there was a difference in his accent.

“I'm sorry you put it that way,” Charles said. “Mr. Burton was very impressed by your references. We never like to disappoint our friends, Mr. Selig.”

“So you're fronting for the crowd, are you?” Mr. Selig asked.

“If you mean I'm out in front,” Charles said, “I suppose I am. Mr. Burton asked me to attend to the matter, but of course if you're not satisfied—”

“How much do they pay you for doing it?” Mr. Selig asked. “Ten grand a year?”

Mr. Selig was looking at him curiously, in a way that reminded Charles of Malcolm Bryant.

“That hasn't anything to do with your account, has it?” Charles asked—but still, he was fronting for the crowd. He liked the expression “fronting for the crowd.” Mr. Selig was looking at him with a new sort of interest.

“Guys like you fascinate me,” Mr. Selig said. “I don't see why you do it, for that money.”

“I suppose I think I'm underpaid,” Charles said. “It's human nature.”

Mr. Selig lowered his voice.

“How would you like twenty-five grand a year?”

“What for?” Charles asked.

“For what you're doing here,” Mr. Selig said. “Fronting for the crowd.”

It was something, after all it was something. At least it meant that he had not done his job badly.

“Thanks,” Charles said. “I'm afraid I couldn't use it, but I appreciate your asking.”

“You guys fascinate me,” Mr. Selig said. “Money everywhere and you don't want money.”

“Maybe we get too used to it,” Charles said. “Maybe we get tired of seeing so much of it around.”

“That's what fascinates me,” Mr. Selig said. “All of it around, and you don't take it. Well, no hard feelings.”

They both stood up and shook hands.

“Oh, no,” Charles said. “Not at all. We're very sorry, Mr. Selig.”

“It takes poise,” Mr. Selig said. “I wouldn't have the poise.”

“I wouldn't call it poise,” Charles said. “I'd call it temperament and timidity. Good-by. We're sorry, Mr. Selig.”

There was no flagging in the bank's activity, but Charles was conscious of a ripple of excitement, of curious glances from the cashiers' cages and the smaller desks. They were all like good little boys and girls who had witnessed one of their number having it out in the school yard with a naughty boy from the street. The adding machines were still clicking and whirring with the typewriters, the cashiers were still thumbing through their currency, but beneath it there was a flurry, a sense of the unusual. Mike Cavanaugh, the bank detective, was moving toward him, not hurriedly but quietly as though he were only making his afternoon rounds, and Roger Blakesley had turned in his swivel chair.

“How was he?” Mike Cavanaugh asked.

“He was a perfect gentleman,” Charles said. “He asked me if I was fronting for the crowd.”

Then Roger Blakesley asked whether Mr. Selig was mad, but Charles had no time to answer. Mike Cavanaugh had stiffened to attention and Charles saw that Mr. Burton had come in, still in his overcoat, just back from lunch.

“Has Selig called?” Tony Burton asked.

“He's just left,” Charles told him.

“Well, I'm glad I missed him,” Tony Burton said. “How did he take it?”

“His feelings were hurt,” Charles said, “but then mine would have been. I wouldn't say he was angry at me personally.”

“There aren't any complications, then?” Tony Burton asked.

“No,” Charles said, “I don't think so.”

“This sort of thing always worries me,” Tony Burton said. He began to move away to the coatroom.

“Oh, Mr. Burton,” Roger Blakesley said, and Mr. Selig and possible complications left Charles's mind. Roger sounded like a model student speaking in one of the classes at the Harvard Business School. He was being careful not to call the president by his first name right in the middle of the bank.

“Yes, Roger,” Tony Burton said, benignly, like a kind teacher.

“Have you got time to see me for a minute?”

“Yes,” Mr. Burton said. “If it's only for a minute.”

Charles had rung for Miss Marble and Miss Marble was bringing back the trust folders. He was careful to show no undue anxiety but such a request of Roger's, at such a time, might have implications. Ordinarily, either he or Roger Blakesley, because of their position, would have risen and walked over to the president's roll-top desk without asking for any sort of appointment. That request of Roger's meant that he wanted to see Tony Burton privately and perhaps about something personal. It might even mean that Roger, like himself, was getting tired of waiting and that Roger was going to step over, as Charles had often dreamed of doing in the last few weeks, and ask right out about the vice-presidency. It was not like Roger, but it was possible—on the grounds that this sort of waiting was bad for general morale.

Mr. Burton had left his coat and was settling down at his desk and Roger Blakesley had risen.

Anxiety and self-inflicted suspense were useless and unprofitable, but there was nothing one could do. Charles was back in his personal world again, his little narrow world, and the trust accounts were facing him. It was time to be going through them, because it was after three o'clock, but something discordant moved him beyond the control of ingrained habit and system. Ordinarily his ability to concentrate enabled him to forget his own problems by plunging into a good page of figures on a balance sheet, but now he could not keep his attention on the trust accounts. His eyes were on a list of common stocks—American Can, American Cyanamid, American Tobacco B, American Telephone and Telegraph. Through wars and rumors of wars, in the midst of panic and depression, out of the maze of taxes and social change, through all the welter of a cracking tradition, American Tobacco B and American Tel and Tel stood, with occasional lapses, like the precepts of early life, like the granite peaks of a half-submerged continent, serene above a swirl of hostile seas. Other securities might go sour, but not Telephone and Tobacco—or not very sour. Still, though he was surrounded by those trusted symbols, his thoughts kept wandering off at tangents.