Point of No Return by John P. Marquand Page B

school,” Roger said. “One of those ‘if you can’t do, teach’ boys.”
    As far as Charles could tell, everything in Roger’s career had stemmed from his stay at the Harvard Graduate School of Business Administration, where business was the oldest of the arts but the newest of the professions. He had to admit that Roger used his academic background adroitly, extracting the last drop from it. Roger was always saying it was a great place, the Harvard Business School. When you studied under the Case system, you became aware of practicality and theories at the same time. It was a proving ground, the Harvard Business School, and it paid to keep up with it afterwards. If you were to ask Roger, but you did not have to ask him, this proving ground was directly accountable for the record he had made at the Guaranty before he had come to the Stuyvesant. He had been asked to come to the Stuyvesant and before accepting, of course, there had been certain reservations in his mind, but he had never regretted the step after taking it. There were fine fellows at the Stuyvesant, like Tony Burton and Steve Merry, and good boys like Charley Gray, fellows who always stuck together without getting out the old stiletto and inserting it between the shoulder blades.
    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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œSelig?” Charles repeated, and his mind darted swiftly away from the investments of the Burrell School.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œThanks,” 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.
    â€œBurt 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