Read Online Point of No Return by John P. Marquand - Free Book Online

bank, but its vaults were completely modern, shock-proof, dust-proof, and time-proof, the acme of safety, the ultimate citadel of property and possession. Put your family jewels in the vault, leave your heirlooms for a modest sum, your priceless papers and mementos, your bond and stock certificates. The Stuyvesant would guard them, and if, for any reason, you did not wish to descend to the vaults yourself, walking the slightly slippery steel floors to your safe-deposit box, if you found it tiring clipping coupons and filling out all those troublesome federal forms, why not let the custodian service of the Stuyvesant do it for you? Why not leave such fatiguing details of ownership to the oversight of careful, conscientious experts? For a purely nominal sum the Stuyvesant would do it for you. Call today yourself and consult one of our officers.
    Hugh Garrity, an old Second Division veteran of World War I, dressed now in a Confederate-gray uniform, was on duty at the gate, and Mr. William Poultney, who led clients to their boxes and put both clients and boxes into the private alcoves, was seated watchfully, like a Sing Sing warden but also like a kindly hotel clerk, at his desk behind the bars. Hugh Garrity, and Mr. Poultney too, both wore an air of lynxlike alertness, which was to be expected since the bank officers were making this unaccustomed use of the new room.
    â€œGood morning, sir,” Hugh said, and he saluted in that heavy, half-formal way common to all civilian guards. If he had been a dog, Charles thought, he would have slowly wagged his tail. Charles waved his hand to William Poultney and it occurred to him that William Poultney still owed him fifteen dollars, but it was not the time to mention it. Somehow there never did seem to be a suitable occasion for taking up this detail.
    â€œWilliam,” Charles asked, “do you use an electric razor or a safety razor?”
    William Poultney looked startled and passed his hand carefully over his smooth and rather heavy jowls.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t I look shaved?”
    â€œYou look beautiful,” Charles said. “I was just thinking of something else.”
    He was thinking of Roger Blakesley’s electric razor, but Mr. Poultney still looked startled. It was seldom in order to joke in an eccentric way down there in the vaults. Besides, William Poultney had a thorough and conscientious mind and he approached every subject carefully.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, now you bring it up, I have this shaving problem licked,” William said. “The truth of it is, the razor doesn’t matter. It’s the soap. I use a brushless cream. You just rub it on and there it is.”
    â€œWell, well,” Charles said. “But you have to get it off later, don’t you?”
    Hugh Garrity smiled sourly.
    â€œThe whole secret is the lather,” Hugh Garrity said. “Get a good heavy lather and swab it on your face with a big brush—” His face froze suddenly and he stiffened to attention and Charles saw William Poultney square his shoulders and he heard a light, quick step behind him. It was Mr. Anthony Burton, coming down for the conference.
    â€œHello,” Tony Burton said. “What’s the discussion?”
    Tony Burton was smiling, but even so there was a faint atmosphere of constraint. After all, they were on their way to a conference.
    â€œI don’t know how the subject came up,” Charles said. “We were talking about shaving and electric razors.”
    He was relieved to see Tony Burton smile and he remembered what Tony often said about the bank—that everyone in it was part of one big family.
    â€œI wouldn’t have one of those damned electric razors in the house,” Mr. Burton said. “My wife gave me one for Christmas and it blew out half the fuses. Come on, Charles.”
    Charles had a vicious fleeting thought, which he immediately dismissed, that