by Ed McBain
In six weeks, the amount of time it took to run a shoe through the factory, a lot of changes in cost could occur. Other than increases or decreases in the actual material or labor costs, there were many other things to watch for. As the factory became more familiar with a shoe, they learned how to cut corners on it, how to save material here, how to cut out a full operation there. Conversely, problems sometimes cropped up which were not foreseen in the making and costing of the sample shoe. It was a difficult fence to straddle. Underpricing could ruin the company, and overpricing could have the same effect if the competition were offering the same product at a more reasonable price.
Costing and pricing were intimately linked, and Griff took neither of the jobs lightly. He knew how variable both were in the fashion shoe industry. He did his job well, and his job was to keep both the business and the customer happy.
There were orders for some six thousand pairs of shoes waiting to be priced on that Monday morning, and he worked at them rapidly and fastidiously. At nine-thirty, Aaron called in to say he’d gone directly into the factory and probably would not be up to the office all day. Jefferson McQuade had still not come into the Cost Department.
From one of the men working close to Manelli’s office, Griff learned that McQuade had been with the new comptroller since the beginning of the day and was, in fact, still there bending Joe’s ear. Griff was pleased with the news. As much as he had liked McQuade, they had still not reached the easy-friendship stage. There was a lot of pricing to do, and company manners would have held up the job, and Griff didn’t particularly feel like answering a lot of questions this morning. He immersed himself completely in the task, hardly speaking to Marge all morning, thoroughly absorbed with what he was doing.
At eleven-fifteen, the memo came from Manelli’s office.
It came in the interoffice envelope, the envelope with its printed face stating: “Office Communications Service. Do not seal or discard this until last line is used. Print clearly. Always state Department.” There were two names typed onto the lined face of the envelope.
Ray Griffin, Cost
Pat O’Herlihy, Production.
Griff took the envelope from the messenger boy, lifted the flap, and pulled out the memo. The memo read:
EFFECTIVE MARCH 1. PRICING OF ORIGINAL ORDERS AND WORK TICKETS SHALL FROM THIS DATE ON BE CODED. THE FOLLOWING CODE WORDS “GRAY AND WHITE” SHALL BE USED IN CODING NUMERALS AS PER EXAMPLE:
EXAMPLE PRICE: $19.75
EXAMPLE CODED: GEIW
SIGNED:
J. MANELLI, COMPTROLLER
Griff automatically copied down the code words, and then signed the envelope alongside his name, putting the memo back into it, and handing the envelope to the messenger. When the boy was gone, he studied the code words again, and a frown crossed his forehead. He had priced orders for some three thousand pairs of shoes since 9:00 A.M. Those orders were stacked neatly on his desk now, waiting for delivery to the Production Department, where they would be transferred to work tickets. But if this memo were to be taken seriously.…
My God, was he supposed to go over all those orders and substitute a batch of letters, erasing and whistling gaily as he went?
“What’s the matter?” Marge asked.
“Oh, this damn memo,” he said. He looked at the code words again. “I’m going to have to see Manelli.” He shook his head, shoved his chair back, and started for the door. “I’ll be down the hall if anyone wants me.”
“All right,” Marge said, going back to her report.
Griff headed down the corridor, thinking about the memo, and the more he thought about it, the more stupid it seemed. After all, what was this, an international spy ring? He could understand the coding of materials and colors, yes, because it was certainly a hell of a lot simpler to write “43” than it was to write “blue faille.” But what was the purpose of memorizing a bunch of letters, gray and white indeed—and besides they’d spelled gray wrong, hadn’t they? Shouldn’t it be an e?—to substitute for numbers? Who in the factory gave a damn about the pricing of a shoe, anyway, other than Cost, Production, and IBM? Hell, were the factory workers going to leak information to De Liso or I. Miller? Were they going to skulk up to Andrew Geller’s and whisper, “Andy boy, I got a hot tip for you, boy. You know this Julien Kahn glitter cloth job with the seal strip over the vamp? Fourteen ninety-five, Andy. Mark it down.” Now, that was plain nonsense. No, he’d have to talk to Joe about this. He’d have to set it straight now before the memo had a chance to foul things up.
He pushed open the door to Manelli’s office and walked directly to the secretary’s desk. He was surprised to see a new girl behind the desk, expecting to find Mr. Kurz’s beloved and trusted secretary, Mamie Lord. He realized then that Mamie’s head had probably joined G.K.’s in the sacrificial basket and that Joe Manelli had undoubtedly brought in one of his own favorites from Accounting. The girl wore her dark hair long, framing an oval face. He stood before her desk, and he could smell the subtly insinuating scent of her perfume. The girl was busy typing, and she did not look up.
“My name is Griffin,” he said pleasantly. “I’d like to see Mr. Manelli, please.”
The girl looked up from her machine.
He was startled to see that she was really exceptionally pretty. Her eyes were very wide and very brown, and she turned them up toward his face slowly, until they held his own eyes. And the moment they did, he read a dark knowledge in those eyes and on that face, a resigned sadness he had never seen on the face of a young woman before. No, he was suddenly shaken to realize, he had seen it once before. He had seen it on the face and in the eyes of a prostitute in France. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze to the small brown beauty spot huddled in the hollow of her throat like a fugitive misplaced period. He concentrated his attention there.
“What did you say?” she asked. Her voice was unusually deep. He raised his eyes, and was surprised to discover that the disturbing impression was gone. He studied her then, frowning at his snap judgment, wondering how he could have seen anything here other than a sweet, young, pretty girl.
“I’m Ray Griffin,” he said. “I’d like to see Joe.”
“What department are you from, Mr. Griffin?” The girl’s voice had turned brusquely businesslike. If she were at all aware of him as a man, she showed no sign of it now.
Griff smiled, almost relieved. “Cost. Joe knows me, Miss. I want to talk to him about …”
“Mr. Manelli is in conference,” the girl said.
“Oh.” He remembered McQuade. “How long will he be?”
The girl looked up at the wall clock. “He asked me to buzz him at eleven-thirty. He has a luncheon appointment with someone from the Chrysler Building.”
“Well,” Griff said, glancing up at the clock too, “maybe I can catch him on his way out. I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” the girl said.
Griff walked to the easy chair opposite her desk, sitting down and folding his hands. The girl went back to her typing. The white-faced clock on the wall read eleven twenty-two. He listened to the busy clatter of her keys, studying her hands as they worked, glancing up at her face. The girl had a good profile, too, a damned good profile.
“How do you spell gray?” he asked.
The girl looked up. “What? I’m sorry, I …”
“Gray. How do you spell it?”
“Oh, the memo,” she said. She started to smile, but then she thought better of it. “Mr. Manelli spelled it out for me. He wanted it g-r-a-y.”
“But that’s not the way you spell it, is it?”
“No, I think e is the preferred spelling.”
“But Joe wanted an a, huh? Well, you know what the Bible says.” He smiled. “An a for an e.”
The girl stared at him blankly for a moment. She got it then, and said, “Oh.”
“No, e,” Griff said, still smiling. The smile expanded on his face. “Oh, I,” he said, “I’m probably bothering you.”
This time, the girl returned the smile. “I’m really quite busy,” she said apologetically.
“I’ll be quiet,” Griff said. “I promise.”
“He won’t be much longer.”
Griff nodded and then looked among the magazines on the table for something to read. He passed by the several retail shoe journals, and then opened a copy of Vogue, looking for the Julien Kahn advertising spreads.
“Here’s a pretty shoe,” he said.
The girl’s typewriter stopped. She looked up. “What?”
“This shoe.” He turned the magazine so that she could see it. “We call it ‘Flare.’ It’s red Swisscraft straw, a really pretty job. Look at the lines of it, will you?”
“It’s nice,” the girl said.
“A shoe like that makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?” Griff said: “Did you ever see anything so pretty? ‘Flare.’”
“It’s very nice,” the girl agreed, and went back to her typing.
Griff turned the magazine right side up, skimming through it, looking over the lines the competition was offering. He glanced up at the clock once more and said, “You’d better buzz Joe. It’s eleven-thirty.”
“Oh,” the girl said, seemingly flustered. “Thank you.”
She swiveled her chair around and depressed a lever on the intercom.
Joe Manelli’s voice came from the inner office. “Yes?”
“It’s eleven-thirty, Mr. Manelli.”
“Thank you, Miss Knowles.”
“And … Mr. Manelli?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Griffin is waiting to see you.”
“Griff? I’ll be out in a few minutes. Ask him to wait, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” She flicked up the lever and turned to Griff. “He said—”
“I heard.” He sat back to wait, glancing occasionally at the clock, occasionally at Miss Knowles. She seemed to be a good typist, and she sure as hell had a damned fine profile. What the hell had been the matter with him before?
At eleven-thirty-five, the door to Joe’s private office opened, and McQuade stepped through it. Manelli followed after him, and McQuade took his hand and said, “Thanks a million, Joe, I certainly appreciate all the time you’ve given me. And we’ll work that out, okay?”
“Fine, Mac,” Manelli said. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
McQuade nodded and smiled and then turned. He spotted Griff and walked to him quickly.
“Morning, Griff,” he said, extending his hand. “Have a good weekend?”
“So-so,” Griff said, taking his hand. “We’ve got those summaries for you, whenever you want them, Mr. McQuade.”
McQuade smiled. “Let’s make it, ‘Mac,’ shall we?”
“All right,” Griff said.
“I’ll look at those summaries later. Incidentally, I imagine the other departments will begin delivering sometime today. If I don’t get a chance to stop by the office … well, I wonder … would you sort of stack them up on my desk, and I’ll look at them when I get a chance?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I don’t want to hold you up. If you’ve got business with Joe, I know he has a luncheon engagement, so …” He spread his hands wide and smiled. “I’ll go snoop around someplace else.” He winked at Griff, glanced disinterestedly at Miss Knowles, and then left the office.
“Well,” Manelli said, “to what do I owe this honor?”
Manelli was a tall thin man with a shock of black hair and tired brown eyes. The eyes were distorted behind a pair of tortoise-rim glasses which were very close to being bifocals. Manelli had been an accountant all his life. He had been head accountant of the firm prior to his recent promotion, and his weak eyes could be blamed on the columns and columns of figures he had studied and restudied during his career. Yes, the weak eyes were a direct reflection of the erstwhile profession of Joseph Manelli, Accountant. His weak mouth was another thing again. His weak mouth was a direct reflection of the personality hiding beneath the pale white skin of Joseph Manelli, Man.
“I just received a memo,” Griff said.
“Oh? Which memo was that, Griff?”
“This code business. This ‘gray and white.’”
“Oh, yes, yes. Got that one already, did you?” He glanced up at the clock. “We’ll have to make this short, Griff. I’ve an appointment at twelve, and I don’t want to—”
“It won’t take a minute, Joe,” Griff said. He paused and considered what he was about to say, remembering that the accountant he had known for such a long time was at present the comptroller of Julien Kahn, Inc. “With all due respect, I don’t think this memo is a practical one.”
“You don’t, eh? Why not, Griff?”
“Well, there’s no real reason for trying to conceal our prices, Joe. This new scheme will only result in a loss of time. Actually, it’ll throw three smoothly functioning departments into a state of mass confusion.”
“Three departments?” Manelli asked.
“Well, yes. The IBM Room makes out the invoices, and they’d—”
“IBM, oh yes, yes.” Manelli blinked. “Well, Griff …”
“Look, Joe, you know we have to work fast in Cost. This code business will only mean unnecessary work, and it’ll mean a slow-down in production for the next week or so, until everyone concerned gets familiar enough with it to make it a working thing. And, even then, Joe, if you’ll excuse my saying so, it’ll be senseless.”
“Well,” Manelli said, “Titanic has been using it with success, Griff, and I thought I’d give it a whirl.”
“Yes, but Kahn isn’t Titanic. You can’t compare a fashion shoe to a casual.”
“Ah,” Manelli said, “but Kahn is Titanic, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Griff said, shaking his head impatiently, “but that’s not what I meant. I meant where it concerns making a shoe. Titanic—”
“Griff,” Manelli interrupted, “I’m here to learn. I won’t dispute the fact that you know a hell of a lot more about our operation than I’ll ever know, and don’t think I won’t be counting on your experience heavily in the weeks and months to come. But really, and admit this, Griff, I know you’re big enough to admit it, don’t you feel this request is really a very simple one? I mean, and tell me the truth, Griff couldn’t your department and Production and IBM get used to this new system in a matter of days? Now, really, is ‘gray and white’ so difficult to learn? G is one, and r is two, and a is three, and so on, and so on. Now, is that really so difficult to learn, is it really? Come, now, Griff, are you going to oppose one of my first official acts as comptroller?”
“That’s not the point,” Griff said, beginning to lose his patience. “Joe, look, there’s … there’s just no sense to it, even after we’ve memorized the stu … the thing. Who are we protecting the prices from? Who the hell would want—”
“People,” Manelli said, smiling.
“People? What people? Who gives a damn what we price our shoes at? Are you thinking of the competition? Joe, you know as well as I do that’s not a valid argument. All De Liso has to do is shop at any retail outlet. He takes our retail price, deducts forty-four per cent and he’s got our invoice price. So what are we trying to hide?”
“Ah, but does De Liso know that?” Manelli asked.
“Does De Liso know what?”
“That there’s a forty-four per cent markup on our shoes?”
“Well, he damn well ought to,” Griff said. “He’s been in business for a long time now.”
Manelli shrugged. “If he does know it,” he said, avoiding Griff’s penetrating stare, “there’s not much we can do about it, is there? But if he doesn’t … ah, that’s a horse of a diferent color. If he doesn’t know, we’re not going to hand him the information on a silver platter, not by a long shot. He’s going to have to work for it. Now isn’t that sensible, Griff? Tell me the truth, is that not sensible?”
Griff was astonished. “No,” he said, “it’s not sensible. To
tell you the honest truth, Joe, it’s plain stupid!”
Manelli raised his eyebrows in shocked aloofness.
“Don’t you see, Joe? There just isn’t any secret to guard. The price of a shoe isn’t something—”
“We had to use a instead of e, if you were wondering about the spelling,” Manelli said, “so that no two letters would be repeated. A really remarkable set of words, you know.”
“Joe,” Griff said, sighing, “please don’t give me the brush-off. I’m asking you to toss this idea out. It’s only going to—”
“Say, I’d better hurry if I want to—”
“… foul up production, and if we want to keep hitting twenty-six hundred pairs a day, we can’t afford to fool around with a lot of—”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Griff. I want to raise our pairage. I want to show Chrysler something like twenty-eight hundred, maybe three thousand a day by the end of this month. Think we can do it?”
“Why ask me? Boris gives the cutting orders,” Griff said angrily.
“Ah, yes, but it’s common knowledge you ran interference for G.K. with Chrysler whenever he got into a tight one. I want you to help me, too. Can we hit twenty-eight?”
“It depends on Chrysler,” Griff said. “I suppose so.”