The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  “So what the hell am I supposed to do?” Posnansky whined.

  “Get a letter off and tell the customer we’re working up an estimate on the rhinestones. He knows we’re running a factory here, Ed. Hell, he knows we have to make the goddam shoes for him.”

  “Can’t you give me a price on it?” Posnansky pleaded.

  “When?”

  “Well, this morning was what I had in mind.”

  “Kurz is leaving this morning,” Griff said. “We’re going to be busy here.”

  “That’s just my beef, Griff. Now, look, man, just between us, there’s a lot of anxiety here at Chrysler. We don’t know Titanic from a hole in the wall, and the place is crawling with goddam rebels from Georgia. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I think Kahn selling out was the best thing that ever happened to this company, but I’m not forgetting that a lot of the big boys are going, and I don’t want my ass in the sling next, do you follow me?”

  “So?” Griff said.

  “So? So? Oh, come on, Griff, you’re kidding me. Do you know how many people have been tossed into the street since Titanic took over?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Griff said, smiling.

  “You’ve got an idea, huh? Well, I’m right here where I can see it all. Kurz is the first man to go on your end, but they’re dropping like flies here at Chrysler. President, vice-presidents, even—did you know David Kahn got the ax?”

  “We heard,” Griff said, still smiling.

  “Executive Chairman of the Board!” Posnansky almost shouted.

  “The Kahns deserve everything they get,” Griff said.

  “All right, I’ll grant you that. But what about Mercer? He wasn’t a Kahn, was he? Damn it, they’ve put him on the road with a territory, would you believe it? From sales consultant, they’ve dumped him on the road selling shoes. Now tell me—”

  “Mercer was a crook,” Griff said.

  “Was our fashion coordinator a crook? All right, Adele was a Kahn. But our publicity director? What about the copy chief? I’m telling you, Titanic Shoe is tightening the screws, Griff. I wouldn’t laugh it off so lightly, if I were you.”

  “All right, all right,” Griff said.

  “So that’s why I’m raising a fuss over a stupid thing like the goddam price on a black suede pump with a glitter crescent. I need that price, Griff, and I’d like it this morning. I don’t want anybody coming down on my ass.”

  “You worry too much,” Griff said.

  “Damn right, I worry,” Posnansky said fervently. “I’ve got three hungry mouths to feed. If David Kahn can get fired, anybody can.”

  “I say three cheers for Titanic Shoe,” Griff said.

  “Sure. Until they make a grab for your job.”

  “I’m indispensable,” Griff said.

  “Don’t I know it, you bastard? How about a price on that shoe?”

  “We’ll work on it,” Griff said. “I’ll call you back this afternoon.”

  “Fine. When this afternoon?”

  “Some time this afternoon, Ed, I’m busy. Go sell shoes.”

  “Okay, so long, Griff. And thanks.”

  He hung up and looked at the list of callers again, smiling. Kurz still hadn’t come in, and he began to wonder if he’d ever come in. Was the skunk going to deny them the pleasure of watching his execution? He shrugged, consulted the list again, and then called Fazio in the IBM Room.

  Fazio was a highly excitable man, and he was apparently at the end of his rope when he picked up the phone.

  “Griff?” he said. “Griff, where the hell have you been? Jesus, boy, you shouldn’t—”

  “What is it, Frank?” Griff asked.

  “We’re trying to get these commissions straight, Griff. Murphy was taken off the Illinois-Ohio territory on the eighth of … let me see, when the hell …?”

  “January,” Griff supplied.

  “Yeah. I want to know if he still has any credits coming from Illinois-Ohio or if—”

  “It takes us six weeks to straighten out commissions on a transfer, Frank, you know that.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “The last of his orders was shipped and billed last week. He’s clean now.”

  “Well, okay, that’s all I wanted to know. But what about returns? Hasn’t he had—”

  “I sent down a tally on that the other day, Frank. One of your girls probably has it sitting under her manicure kit.”

  “Oh.” Fazio paused. “Oh, well, thanks, Griff. I hate to bother you like this, but Chrysler has been putting a lot of pressure on me. I got a hunch … well, never mind.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m just not sure I like what Titanic Shoe is doing, Griff.”

  “They haven’t bothered us yet. What are you worrying about?”

  “I’m not worrying. It’s just … well, the hell with it. Thanks again.”

  “Any time, Frank.”

  He hung up and shook his head. He could not understand why Fazio was worried. True, there had been a lot of firings since Titanic Shoe had taken over almost two months ago. But, aside from the closing down of the Boston factory and the suspension today of Kurz here in New Jersey, the axings had been confined to the Chrysler Building. The firings had all been in the higher echelon, and the firings had cleared out only the old regime, and that regime had been as corrupt and decaying as a rotten pomegranate. He had watched the decadence spread, had watched it grow in the eleven years he’d been with the firm until it finally overpowered the entire operation. He had often wondered, during that time, what old Julien Kahn would have thought. In his own mind, he carried a supreme respect for the clubfooted German bootmaker who’d founded the firm, a respect in inverse proportion to the contempt he held for Kahn’s descendants.

  He had never met the old man, and the old man had been in his grave for a hell of a long time now, but Griff could never look up at the JULIEN KAHN, Fashion Shoes sign without feeling this ungrudging admiration for the man who’d established the organization. Nor could he completely minimize the contributions old Kahn’s three sons—well, really two sons if you discounted Peter Putter—had made to the firm in its early expansion stage. Old Kahn had been a lucky man in that all of his sons, with the exception of Peter, loved the shoe business as much as he did. They’d all started learning it from the bottom, all endowed with the knowledge that the empire would someday be theirs, and all shrewdly businesslike enough to realize you had to know a business in order to run it.

  When old Julien Kahn died, his three sons took over. Manny Kahn went in as president of the firm. Isaac Kahn took over as president of the retail chain and general strong-arm man in the bunch. He knew how to sell shoes, and he also knew how to deal with lockouts and other union trouble. The boys made a formidable pair. Peter, whom everyone at the factory took to calling Peter Putter, puttered around here and there, fussing and fidgeting, turning off lights in offices, complaining that too much electricity was being used, or too many staples in the shipping room, a bumbler who contributed nothing but his presence to the firm. Even the Kahn brothers treated him with the disrespect he had rightfully earned.

  The business grew. Manny bought the larger New Jersey plant, and then the plant in Boston, and then the brothers opened their Kahnette division in Utica, putting out a slightly less expensive line than Julien Kahn, Fashion Shoes, did. The name of Julien Kahn was slowly but indelibly stamped on the fashion world. It became a name that automatically came to mind whenever anyone mentioned a good shoe. The company took its place among the other leaders in the industry. Julien Kahn was murmured in the same reverent breath with Delman’s, Andrew Geller, I Miller, Palter De Liso. Julien Kahn, Inc., was a vibratingly alive, alert, progressive business run by levelheaded shrewd men who also happened to love the industry.

  And then, as will happen, sons begat sons. And daughters.

  The wife of Mandel Kahn presented him with a pair of bouncing baby boys, twins who were weaned on the best milk, raised by the b
est governesses, tutored by the best private tutors, sent to the best prep schools, the best Ivy League colleges, and then absorbed into the Kahn empire. David Kahn stepped into the firm as executive chairman of the Board. Donald Kahn came in as general manager of the Boston Division. Nor were the other sons of Julien Kahn lacking in the progenitive spirit.

  Isaac Kahn bred and raised a handsome boy called Theodore. Theodore achieved manhood and prepared to take on the sacred robes of a priest in the Kahn dynasty. He had good intentions, the boy. He decided to learn the business from the bottom up, the way old Julien Kahn had done, the way his father and his uncles had done. He spent a grand total of six months in the newly acquired New Jersey factory, and perhaps he learned how to conserve staples and electricity from his Uncle Peter. At the end of six months, his pathetic apprenticeship came to an abrupt halt. He fled to Boston, where he was installed as comptroller of that factory.

  Peter Kahn contributed two daughters and a son to the clan. Adele, his eldest, attended Cooper Union, where she majored in Design and garnered a straight C average. Armed with knowledge, she went into the firm as fashion coordinator. Freida Kahn attended the University of Miami, where she majored in Tennis, and then came north to marry a wealthy Boston socialite, depriving the firm of her talents. She held a strange, unwarranted contempt for Julien Kahn, and was often heard to refer to him as “The Old Cripple.” Peter died when his only son was eighteen years old and still a senior at Birchwood Prep. Most of Peter’s shares in the firm went to this beloved offspring, Peter, Jr. When Peter, Jr., was graduated from Harvard University, he ran to the Chrysler Building and was promptly crowned sales manager of the firm.

  The sons and one daughter had been handling the business in their own slipshod manner for as long as Griff could remember. Their fathers separately lapsed into death or bored indifference. Isaac Kahn was still alive, and he had occasionally visited the factory before the deal with Titanic, but he was a man of the past, adjusting his memories to fit the new scheme of things. The final deal with Titanic—a transfer of stock, the details of which had never been explained to Griff—was inevitable. If you want to run a business, you have to know it. The grandchildren of old Julien Kahn didn’t know a shoe from a banana peel.

  It was sad in a way, Griff supposed, something like the passing of a royal family, but it was immensely gratifying at the same time. Titanic Shoe was an enormous monster of a company, but it was also an outfit with vigor and force. The business would look up now. There’d be changes, yes, and maybe some people would get hurt when the new broom began sweeping clean, but the business would survive and it wouldn’t be a family business any more (how he hated those words, “family business”). There’d be room for new ideas now, and new—

  He broke off his thoughts abruptly. There was still the call from Mike in the Findings Room, and he wanted to clear that up as soon as possible. He gave the operator the extension number.

  “Hello?”

  “Mike, Griff.”

  “Oh, hi, Griff. How goes it?”

  “So-so. What’s on your mind?”

  “Oh, nothing important. I just wanted to check the price on these buckles we got in. I can’t locate my invoice, and I remember sending a copy to you.”

  “Sure, I’ll have Marge get it for you,” Griff said. “Everything okay down there?”

  “Waiting to get fired,” Mike said brightly.

  “G.K. been around?”

  “Not yet. He won’t be hitting the factory, will he?”

  “He’ll probably shake hands with all the supervisors,” Griff said, “so you’d better get your crying towel ready.”

  “I’ll cry my eyes out,” Mike said.

  “Hold on,” Griff answered, chuckling. “I’ll get Marge.”

  He went to Marge’s desk and rested his hand on her shoulder, waiting for her to finish typing a column of figures. When she was through, she looked up at him.

  “Sir?” she said smartly.

  “Mike’s on the phone. Do you remember that copy of the buckle invoice he sent up? He’s lost his.…”

  “I know where it is,” Marge said.

  “Want to read off the prices to him?”

  “Sure.” She swung out from under the desk and walked over to the filing cabinet. Just then Aaron rushed into the office.

  “Here he comes!” he whispered. “Hey, Marge, you got your poem?”

  “Shhh!” she warned.

  “I was standing at the Coke machine when he got off the elevator. Boy, he looks sad as hell.”

  Griff nodded. “He ought to.”

  He hurried over to his desk, picked up the phone, and whispered. “Hey, Mike, let me call you right back,” and hung up.

  They fell into a sudden silence. The entire wing of that floor seemed to go silent all at once. They heard the typewriters stop in the fifteen-man Payroll Department and they strained their ears, hoping to catch Kurz’s voice. They heard footsteps in the hallway then, and then Magruder saying something at the door to the Credit Department, and Kurz’s answer, muffled and unclear. Footsteps again, coming closer to their own department, and then George Kurz came to the doorway, a self-conscious smile on his round face.

  He was a small balding man who tried ineffectively to cover his baldness by combing long strands of thin white hair over his florid scalp. His scalp and face were perpetually red, as if he’d just come from delivering a harangue someplace, a supposition which was not at all unlikely. He seemed to have lost a good deal of his bluster now, though. His face was still red, of course, but the inner fire behind it seemed to have gone out. George Kurz was a man who knew his word was no longer law, and the knowledge had spread to his dead eyes and slack mouth.

  There had been a time when Kurz had only to shout, “Go to hell!” and fifty office workers would rush out to purchase pitchforks and asbestos hats. George Kurz had been hired as company comptroller when the firm acquired the larger New Jersey plant. The plant had cost a hell of a lot of money, but the bank had been willing to be generous, provided their own man was installed as comptroller. Manny Kahn, then president of the firm, had hired Kurz instantly, and Kurz had fallen into a chair well suited to his tyrannical disposition. He was now a tyrant without a sword.

  He hesitated in the doorway for a moment, looking at the crease in his trousers, and then he stepped into the room.

  “Thought I’d stop by to say good-by,” he said awkwardly.

  “Oh, are you leaving already?” Griff asked, hoping the joy in his voice did not show.

  “Yes, yes, afraid so,” Kurz said.

  “Well, Mr. Kurz, we’re certainly going to miss you,” Aaron said.

  Kurz looked at him uncertainly. “Yes, well, thank you. And believe me, it’s been a pleasure working with you boys, yes it has. A man couldn’t have asked for more splendid cooperation.” Kurz paused and cleared his throat, and Griff got the impression the entire speech had been rehearsed. “But Joe Manelli will do a fine job,” Kurz said. “You knew Joe was being promoted from the Accounting Department, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Griff said. “We’d heard.”

  “Yes, well, he is. You’ll get along splendidly, I’m sure. And, of course, the Titanic Shoe people are just wonderful to work for, wonderful. I think you’ll like them, too.” He paused awkwardly, as if his rehearsed speech had run out before his three minutes were up, and he was wondering what to say next.

  “Have you any plans, Mr. Kurz?” Griff asked. Quite curiously, his joy had suddenly ebbed. As much as he had disliked Kurz, there was something painful about seeing a man lose his job, even when the man was a bastard.

  Kurz laughed nervously. “Oh, I’ll find something.”

  “Well, good luck,” Aaron said.

  “Yes, yes, thank you. I … ah … don’t want to keep you away from your work. I know you boys are always busy, eh? But I just thought I’d stop in to say … ah … good-by.”

  No one said anything. Kurz shook hands with Aaron and then Griff and the
n Marge. He went to the door, and then turned with a worried look which suddenly changed to a pasty-white smile.

  “Ah … take care of those wonderful legs, Marge,” he said weakly, and then he turned and walked off down the corridor. They were silent for several moments after his departure.

  “Well, that’s that,” Griff said at last.

  “Good riddance,” Aaron said.

  “Imagine,” Marge said from the filing cabinet. “Who’d have thought he even noticed my legs.”

  2

  The call from Boris Hengman came at one o’clock that afternoon. Griff said, “I’ll get it, Marge,” picking up the receiver. “Cost,” he said. “Griffin here.”

  “Griffie?” Hengman asked. “Is dot you, boy?”

  “Hello, Boris,” Griff said, smiling at the thick accent which was mimicked all over the factory. The accent, coupled with Hengman’s spasmodic outbursts of temper, had earned him the nickname “The Hengman.” The term was sometimes used affectionately and sometimes not so affectionately. Hengman was the factory supervisor and as such could really play the hangman whenever he wanted to.

  “Griffie, you busy maybe?”

  “Not too,” Griff said. “Can I help you, Boris?”

  “Can he halp me?” Hengman said to himself. “Can he halp me, he esks. Griffie, you know dis Titenic Shoe?”

  “Yes,” Griff said. “What about it?”

  “What abott it, he esks. I got now here in d’ottside office a young men from Titenic. All the way from Gudgia, he comes. He says he’s gung be here for ah while, and he wants I should show him ahround d’fectory. Meshugah.”

  “From Titanic, you say?”

  “Sure, what alse? So my hends are tied, Griffie. I got work here up to my ess, and here comes a snotnose from Gudgia, I’m supposed to drop ever’ting and snep to attention. Dis I ken’t do at d’moment.”