She turned to Beau, who had accompanied her, agitated, wringing his hands frequently.
“I don’t know what this is all about, but I think I’ll go and find out. I’ll phone you.” She left the bank, quite quickly.
After she had departed, Beau went back to his office. He put on his mufHer, his rubbers, his coat and his hat. He went out on the mezzanine and down the stairs. Nobody saw him, nobody who had importance enough to question his going. He pushed through the crowds to the Kyle Parking Garage and waited an endless forty minutes for his car to come down the ramp. He drove east, to the Wickley Heights section and so, circuitously, toward his home.
Traffic was bad and constantly getting worse and it was nervous traffic. He saw fenders banged twice, but the drivers didn’t even get out to argue. They just went on.
He thought three things, mostly:
He wasn’t required in the bank on any Saturday.
Under the Sloan skyscraper were the best air-raid shelters in the center of town, the vaults. If anything did happen, the employees he had left there would be the best off of anyone in the area.
A man’s place, in a crisis, was at home.
His car radio played dance and Christmas music. The regular programs were no longer on the air. Just records, as if somebody in authority had ordered the change.