The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  “So?”

  “So who knows d’fectory like nobody’s business, I esk myself. Who stotted in d’Shipping Room end worked opp his way, I esk myself. Who’s d’ideal men for dis partic’lar slop detell?”

  “Who indeed?” Griff said sourly.

  “Raymond Griffin, dot’s who,” Hengman said. “So I’m sanding him opp t’ you.”

  “Thanks a million,” Griff said.

  “He nids, also, office spess. So I’m thinking maybe you end Erron you could maybe mekk room for him in your office while he stays here, okay, Griffie?”

  “How long will he be staying?” Griff asked.

  “Do I know? Does anybuddy tell me notting? I’m gung cull Chrysler soon as I get off d’phone with you. Den I’ll see what dis whole ting is abott, you follow me, Griffie?”

  “I follow you,” Griff said. “What’s his name?”

  “Who? Oh, this Gudgia guy. McQued.”

  “Who?”

  “McQued. Jafferson McQued.”

  “Jefferson McQuade?”

  “Sure, dot’s what I said. Be nize to him, Griffie. Dis is Gudgia end Titenic we’re dealing with, you follow?”

  “I follow.”

  “I think maybe he snoops ahround ah little end then goes back don South, let’s hope so.”

  “When’s he coming up?” Griff asked.

  “I’ll sand him right ahway. Be nize, Griffie.”

  “I’ll be nize,” Griff said.

  “Good boy. You’re ah good boy, Griffie.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll cull Chrysler. So lung.”

  “So long,” Griff said, hanging up. He stared at the phone disconsolately, and then shrugged. He had grown used to these tour requests from Hengman. Whenever a class of squealing high-school fashion students came to the factory to “see how a fashion shoe was made,” the guiding job was passed on to Griff. True, he probably did know the entire factory operation better than any man working for Julien Kahn. In his slow rise to head of the Cost Department, he had worked on almost every floor of the building learning the business from top to bottom as the Kahns tried to find him a niche suited to his talents. He had even worked in the Sales Offices for a while, making him unique in that he understood the selling end as well as the problems of production. The job that had taught him most about the operation had been that of tracer. He’d worked directly for Hengman, checking the production-schedule control board against the actual production of the shoes. He’d rushed from floor to floor, pushing priority shoes through the factory, finding out why a particular lot had not yet left Lasting, or why another lot was still in the drying machines, learning each step of the process as he went along. If Raymond Griffin knew nothing else, he damn well knew how a shoe was made.

  But squiring a batch of shapely virginal high-school girls through the building (amid whistling and catcalls from the men working the machines) was a little different from showing around a Georgian representative of Titanic Shoe Corporation of America. He realized abruptly that he knew very little about Titanic, and he suddenly wondered why they were sending up a man, and so fast on the heels of G.K.’s department. He knew the Georgians had infested the Chrysler Building suite, but somehow he had not expected them to bother with the factory. He realized this was faulty reasoning, because he knew the heart of any company was the manufacturing end, but he had deluded himself up to now, and he felt a strange sort of panic while awaiting the Georgian.

  He wrangled with his thoughts and decided he was making a mountain out of a molehill. This would probably be, as Hengman had suggested, a short inspection tour, after which Jefferson McQuade would sneak back down to the land of the Dixie Cup.

  He calmed himself, and then his panic instantly returned when he heard footsteps down the hallway. He began straightening his desk, and Marge glanced at him curiously, and he wished Aaron were in the office, where the hell was Aaron, and then Benny Pollack walked in.

  “Oh,” he said, sighing, “hello, Benny.”

  “Hello, handsome,” Benny answered. Benny was foreman of the Lasting Department, a job which required infinite patience and skill. He came into the office wearing his shop apron now, smelling of the compo cement which smothered the atmosphere in his end of the building. Benny, even though his last name was Pollack, was called Benny Compo by everyone in the factory.

  “So what’s on your mind?” Griff asked, glancing at the door.

  “Nothing. I stopped next door to pick up my pay envelope, and I thought I’d drop in to say hello. What’s the matter, you antisocial?”

  Griff smiled. Foremen, unlike the workers who were paid right on the factory floor where their envelopes were distributed by a policeman-accompanied young lady, came directly to the cage in Payroll for their weekly salaries. He had grown used to Benny Compo’s visits, but now, expecting the Georgian, he looked at Benny uneasily, and then he glanced again at the open doorway.

  Benny caught the glance. “You expecting someone?” he asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Someone important?”

  “From Georgia,” Griff said, nodding.

  “Titanic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Benny thought this over a moment. “Well, I’ll take off then, huh, Griff? Titanic, huh?”

  “Yop.”

  “Mmm. Well, I’ll see you, Griff.”

  He smiled and waved, backing out of the office and almost colliding with the man who stood in the doorway. Benny mumbled something hastily, and then fled down the corridor. The man in the door frame smiled and then looked into the office inquisitively.

  He was certainly the most impressive-looking man Griff had ever seen. He filled the door frame with his body, making Griff feel short, somehow, even though he knew he stood at an even six feet. The man was at least six-four, magnificently built, wearing an oxford-gray suit that seemed inadequate across the breadth of his shoulders. He was the kind of man Griff automatically pictured in dungarees and T-shirt, hauling in sail on a yacht, laughing at the sun, his muscles rippling with sinuous grace. He had straight blond hair, bleached brighter by the sun at the left-hand part, combed simply to the right with no attempt to conceal its straightness, no bid for a frivolous pompadour or fingermade wave. His face was lean and tanned, with high bronzed cheekbones and a narrow mouth, a straight nose rushing up to meet blond eyebrows and steel-gray eyes. A white button down shirt went with the gray suit, and a silk gold-and-black striped tie was pinned to the shirt with a small gold fleur-de-lis clasp.

  Griff had never given much consideration to his own looks. He knew he was not handsome in the movie-star tradition, and there were mornings—when a thick beard came between him and his mirrored reflection—when he considered himself downright ugly. He knew he had black hair and brown eyes, and he knew that his nose was straight, and he sensed that his mouth was fairly decent as mouths went, with perhaps too thin an upper lip. He weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and he’d have liked to weigh a hundred and ninety or so, but he’d always felt comfortable in his body, and he’d never been really unhappy with his face.

  The man standing in the door frame, though, made him feel suddenly inadequate. The man standing there was a toothpaste ad, and a body-building ad, and a well-dressed man ad. The man standing there looked as if he’d be equally at home with an elephant gun or a martini glass in his hands. He blotted out the door frame, and he blotted out the corridor beyond the door, and he damn near overpowered the office with sheer physical strength.

  “Mr. Griffin?” he asked.

  There was just the faintest trace of a Southern accent in his voice, not a distortion of speech at all, simply a mellowing of tone, a softening of delivery.

  “Yes,” Griff said, rising, wanting suddenly to make himself taller. “I’m—”

  “Jefferson McQuade, sir,” the man said, smiling and stepping into the room. He walked to Griff’s desk, taking the long graceful strides Griff had always associated with baseball players. He extended hi
s hand, taking Griff’s hand in a firm, warm grip. “I’m very happy to know you, sir,” he said.

  “How do you do?” Griff said pleasantly. Marge had looked up inquisitively from her typewriter, and she kept staring at McQuade now, her lips slightly parted, as if Apollo had magically appeared in a burst of sunlight. Griff wondered about the protocol of the situation. Did you introduce a typist to the Titanic representative? He worried his lip for a moment and then said, “Marge, this is Mr. McQuade. From Titanic Shoe in Georgia. Mr. McQuade, Marge Gannon.”

  “How do you do?” Marge said, still overwhelmed by his presence.

  McQuade smiled graciously. “Happy to know you, Miss Gannon,” he said. ‘He made a very slight bow from the waist, which somehow did not look silly on him. He straightened up then and said, “I certainly hope I’m not interrupting any important work. I know what a nuisance visitors are, and I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “No, not at all,” Griff said. He was beginning to feel a little more at ease. McQuade generated an easygoing warmth and politeness which was infectious and thoroughly pleasing.

  “Well, that’s awfully good of you, Mr. Griffin. You lie very graciously.” He smiled again, his lips pulling back over dazzling white teeth. Griff returned the smile, suddenly liking McQuade. “I wouldn’t have troubled you, really, but Hengman tells me that you probably know the factory better than he does, and I certainly appreciate your willingness to make me feel at home. Everyone in Mr. Hengman’s office was very kind to me.”

  “Well …” Griff said, not knowing what else to say, wondering why McQuade played the role of the poor relation. Didn’t he know he was the man from Titanic? Didn’t he know every courtesy would most naturally be extended to him?

  “I rather imagine,” McQuade said, as if he were reading Griff’s mind, “that there’s been a good deal of anticipation here since the merger. We prefer to think of it as a merger, Mr. Griffin, a consolidation, rather than a … an invasion, so to speak.” He smiled, as if talking about this were painful and embarrassing. “Titanic Shoe is … well … something like a bridegroom, and this merger with Julien Kahn is a little like taking home a bride, do you see?”

  “Yes,” Griff said, smiling.

  “So,” McQuade said, spreading his tanned hands, “to make a long story longer, there really should be no anxiety here in the factory. We all work for Titanic now, you and I, everyone, and I can assure you it’s a wonderful outfit. For the most part, things will go on running here just the way they’ve been running. As a matter of fact, there’s quite a bit we’ll have to learn from you people who are actually running the factory. After all, this is our first venture into the fashion world. Up to now, we’ve done mostly men’s shoes and casuals. We’ve done our job well, but this is a totally new experience for us.” He paused, smiling. “End of commercial.”

  “Well,” Griff said, “I’m sure you’ll find it—”

  “In other words,” McQuade interrupted gently, “I’ll try to get underfoot as little as possible. Mr. Hengman said you might give me office space, and anything you can dig up will suit me fine. One of these desks, perhaps.” He looked around the office, and then pointed. “Is that one occupied?”

  “Oh, that’s Aaron’s,” Griff said.

  “Aaron?”

  “Aaron Reis, my assistant. He’s out of the office right now.”

  “I see,” McQuade said. “Well, any desk will do.” He smiled genially. “I see there are only three desks, though. I feel something like an unexpected guest for dinner.”

  “I think we can get one in from another department,” Griff said. “Marge, do you think that could be arranged?”

  “Yes, certainly,” she said. “I’ll do that right now.”

  “Well, there’s no great rush,” McQuade said.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Marge answered. She swung her legs out from under the desk and then started to say, “Oh da—” cutting herself off before she finished the phrase, but not cutting off the quick motion of her hand which pulled her skirt back over her knees. She studied the sleek smoothness of her nylons, and then smiled up at Griff. “Just lucky,” she said. “Thought sure I had a run.”

  McQuade glanced at her legs cursorily, and then turned away in seeming disinterest, as if good legs were flashed at him all the time. “You might try some scotch tape on the kneehole of the desk,” he suggested pleasantly. “Around the edges. It covers splinters.”

  “Why, thank you,” Marge said, smiling at him. She left her skirt up over her knees for a moment, and then shoved it down and stood up, trotting past McQuade and out of the office, her high heels clicking. Griff noticed the exaggerated swing of her backside, and he was momentarily surprised. He had not, before this, attributed any particular amount of sexuality to Marge. He knew, of course, that she was a woman, and he knew about her legs, but he and Aaron—like a pair of Roman senators with the Venus de Milo in their garden—had more or less grown accustomed to the splendor. On the other hand, he had never seen Marge wiggle her bottom with such determination, and he mentally stacked up his own attributes against those of Jefferson McQuade, forced finally to admit that Marge hadn’t had any real incentive for buttock jiggling before this. He lessened the shock of comparison by telling himself that Marge was a smart girl who knew how to butter a slice of bread. McQuade was a most nutritious slice, no denying it, but he was also a representative of Titanic Shoe. Titanic was now boss. If there was the slightest possibility of someone being able to put in a good word for Marge’s gams, Marge wasn’t going to let that possibility pass by without having exhibited her ankle and calf and knee, and perhaps a little bit of her shapely thigh.

  “Well, if you want to take a look at the factory,” he said, “why don’t we get started right now?”

  “If you’ve nothing important—” McQuade began.

  “No, nothing at all,” Griff lied, thinking of the orders covering six thousand pairs of shoes on his desk, orders waiting for pricing, unable to go into production until he priced them. “I just want to leave a note for Aaron, though, so he won’t think I’ve absconded with the company’s funds.”

  McQuade smiled. “Surely.”

  Griff took a memo slip from his desk. The memo carried an inscription which the stationery buyer undoubtedly felt would humorously spur on the staff to greater productive efforts. It read: ALWAYS SAY KAHN. NEVER SAY KAHN’T. Beneath the inscription, he scrawled: “A man from Titanic is here. Showing him factory now. En garde! Griff.”

  He put the note under the inkwell on Aaron’s desk, and then said, “All right, let’s go.”

  “Fine,” McQuade said. “I really appreciate this.”

  They walked to the elevators, and after Griff had pressed the DOWN button he said, “Two elevators here, passenger and freight. We use both in the morning when the factory people are all arriving, and at night when they go home, to handle the rush.”

  “I see,” McQuade said.

  “Otherwise, the freight elevator handles the racks that are constantly moving from floor to floor. We’re on the ninth floor now, and all our offices are up here, except Mr. Hengman’s. His is down on the fourth floor, as you know.”

  “Yes,” McQuade said.

  “The actual factory begins on the eighth floor, and that’s where our operation begins, too, working its way down to the ground floor and the shipping platform. Well, you’ll see as we work our way through.”

  “Slow elevator,” McQuade said, almost to himself.

  “What?”

  “The elevator,” McQuade said. “Does it generally take so long for …?”

  “Oh,” Griff said. “Oh, no, not usually.” He stabbed impatiently at the DOWN button. “No, this is very unusual. There must be a holdup on one of the floors.”

  “I see,” McQuade said, and then he smiled disarmingly.

  “I’ll show you the Cutting Room first, because that’s where the shoe is started. Understand, of course, that these are not actually ‘rooms’ in the
generally accepted sense of the word. That is, there are no walls enclosing any one operation—except for the Leather Room and the Repair Department.”

  “Yes,” McQuade said thoughtfully. “I’ve … ah … been in factories before.” He grinned boyishly. “Titanic owns quite a few of them.”

  “Oh. Well, I didn’t know how much you knew about … here’s the elevator now.”

  The doors opened, and they stepped inside.

  “Eight, Max,” he said, and Max nodded and looked at McQuade quickly, and then closed the doors just as quickly.

  “No uniforms?” McQuade asked.

  “Sir?”

  “Uniforms. On the elevator operators,” McQuade said, his eyes looking surprised.

  “Oh, no,” Griff answered. “The elevators are all run by the Maintenance Department, Mr. McQuade. We … well, this is a factory. I mean … did you mean uniforms? Gold braid and such?”

  “I suppose it is a somewhat stereotyped idea,” McQuade said, smiling at his own foolishness.

  “Well,” Griff said, liking McQuade more and more, “There’s really no need for such pomp here, you know. The Sales Offices are a different thing.”

  “Yes,” McQuade said, nodding.

  Max threw open the doors and said, “Eight, Mr. Griffin,” and Griff looked at him peculiarly, but Max did not crack a smile. McQuade stepped out onto the floor, and Griff followed.

  There was suddenly activity everywhere around them. There had been a quiet buzz in the elevator, the pulse beat of the factory, but that buzz became a rush of sound as they stepped onto the floor. Stretching across the floor as far as they could see were sewing machines, and behind each machine was a girl working quickly and busily. The sounds on the floor mingled, the hum of machinery and the hum of voices, the hum of activity and rush. Racks on wheels, looking like mobilized bookcases, stood alongside each machine, stood near the elevators, stood haphazardly scattered across the floor,’ forming barriers at some spots, impassible dead ends, long narrow corridors elsewhere. Each rack carried stacks and stacks of cut leather and fabric, rubber-banded together and tagged with white or pink slips.