by Ed McBain
“I’ll say,” McQuade said, lifting his eyebrows in amusement.
“So, we’ve just got to send him another pair of shoes, that’s all,” Manelli said, dismissing the subject and shoving the memo pad to a corner of his desk. “Now then, Griff, suppose you tell Mac what you were—”
“What happened to the pair of shoes we sent him?” McQuade asked curiously.
“Eh? Oh,” Manelli said, “well, that’s hard to say. He got these house slippers instead, you see.”
“That seems very odd, doesn’t it? I mean, I don’t know very much about it, but how could we have possibly shipped him a pair of house slippers?”
Manelli shrugged. “Well, that’s what he says. And he’s a pretty big account, Mac. No sense irritating him.”
“No, of course not,” McQuade said.
Manelli smiled, once more dismissing the subject. “Griff and I were discussing possible ways of increasing production. He’s come up with a good idea, and I thought you’d like to hear it.”
“Certainly,” McQuade said. He walked to an easy chair and plopped himself into it.
“Well, it’s not really my idea,” Griff said. “That is, we’ve done it before, whenever Factory was slow. Sales just gives permission to—”
“Is it possible that someone in the factory,” McQuade said, “substituted those house slippers for our pattern?”
“What?” Manelli asked.
“Someone here in the factory,” McQuade repeated.
“You mean …?” Manelli considered this. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, of course anything’s possible, but …”
“I’m just trying to figure out how a pair of house slippers got shipped to an account, that’s all,” McQuade said, smiling and spreading his hands. “After all, it doesn’t speak very well for our efficiency, does it? Opening a Julien Kahn box and finding a pair of house slippers instead of a fashion shoe. Which shoe was it?”
“Flare,” Manelli said. “The Swisscraft straw number. Seems to be catching on nicely, especially on the Eastern seaboard, God only knows why.”
“The red shoe, isn’t it?” McQuade asked. “Yes, I recall seeing that one in the factory. That’s a nice shoe. What do we get for it, Griff?”
“Twelve dollars,” Griff said automatically.
McQuade tilted his head appreciatively. “That’s a little piece of change, isn’t it?” He nodded and then said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Griff, forgive me.”
“That’s all right,” Griff said. “What we’ve done in the past is cut a lot of stuff we could throw into stock. That brings up our pairage and it also guarantees a margin of safety because we’re cutting tried and true patterns, you see, stuff we will always get calls for. It would keep our cutters busy during the slack, and at the same time—”
“Where’s the first place we get a finished shoe, Joe?” McQuade said suddenly. “Packing, isn’t it?”
“Well, we get a finished shoe in Prepacking, too, more or less. Just needs a little trimming and such, but for all practical purpos—”
“But there are no boxes in Prepacking, are there? What I’m driving at, Joe, if a pair of house slippers were to be substituted for Flare, it would have to be in the Packing Room or the Shipping Room, is that right?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But—”
“Is it conceivable that someone working in either of those two departments stole the shoes?” He said the word “stole” as if it were something loathsome that he had to spit out.
“Well, yes,” Manelli faltered, “it’s conceivable. Certainly, theft is a common occurrence in any large busi—”
“How many people are there in Packing, Joe?” McQuade asked. A glow had come onto his face, focused on his eyes, reflected in the eagerness of his mouth.
“I … I don’t know,” Manelli said. “I can check it for you.”
“Please do. And find out how many people are in the Shipping Room, too. And find out how many people in both departments are women, will you?” He leaned back and looked at Manelli.
“Right now?” Manelli asked, raising his eyebrows.
“If you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. Actually, this is more in Boris’s department than mine, you understand.” He tried a timid smile. “I mean, any trouble in the factory is not really my responsibility. It—”
“Why, Joe,” McQuade said, seemingly surprised, “you’re underestimating yourself. You know very well the comptroller should keep a hand in everything that happens in this building.”
“Yes, yes, of course. What I meant, however, was that Boris Hengman would naturally know more about anything that went on in the factory than …” Manelli shut up, suddenly realizing he was entangling himself in a sticky web of self-denunciation. Reluctantly, he said, “I’ll … I’ll get those figures for you.”
Manelli busied himself on the phone, and McQuade smiled at Griff pleasantly. “You know,” he said, speaking above Manelli’s low rumble, “it’s very important that we discourage dishonesty.”
“Well,” Griff said, shrugging, “theft is actually figured into our budget, you know.”
“It is?” McQuade asked incredulously.
“Yes. You’ll find it listed under Miscellaneous Loss. That’s theft, or shrinkage. We lost a good many pairs through shrinkage, but nothing to really concern ourselves about. Wherever there are people working, there’ll be theft. As a matter of fact,” and here he smiled, “it’s something of a compliment. People don’t want to steal junk. When they stop stealing our product, then it’s time to worry.”
McQuade made a dubious gesture with his head. “I wish I could agree with you, Griff, but I’m afraid I can’t. Every worker in this factory should feel a deep responsibility toward the company. If they steal from the company, they steal from their own pockets. I don’t mind telling you that I agreed wholeheartedly with Joe’s insistence on putting the prices of our shoes in code. It’s not wise to have too well-informed a group of workers, Griff. These men are making—what?—a cent, two cents an operation? They look at the work ticket and they see that we’re selling the shoe for fourteen ninety-five, and that’s a hell of a long way from what they’re getting. They begin to get dissatisfied, and then they begin to ask questions and dispute authority. Like that business in the Cutting Room last week. All right, I know you think I behaved rather harshly and I can’t blame you for the way you feel. But I hope you don’t think I enjoyed what I did? Far from it, Griff. It was a necessary evil. Those men had to be taught to obey!” He noticed the frown on Griff’s forehead. “Well, perhaps obey is too strong a word. Forgive me for using it. They’ve got to understand, though, that we are running a business and not a charity fund, and we’ll do everything in our power to see that they get a fair shake … but not at the expense of ruining the business. The business comes first, Griff. Once they understand that, well, you’ll see the changes.”
Griff said nothing. He nodded noncommittally.
“And don’t think Titanic isn’t taking the worker into consideration. The workers are the strength of any company, Griff. Without the workers, Management can whistle a pretty tune and it’ll get them nowhere. Workers are power. Power. It’s a question of channeling that power so that it will do the most good for … for the company. Titanic started with a well-organized company putting out a damned cheap line of playshoes. They retailed for a dollar and a quarter, so you can imagine what they cost us. But the company was well organized and well handled. It made money, and it began expanding. A few small companies at first, a few companies that put out shoes going for five dollars, let’s say, or six dollars. And then a few men’s-shoe companies, and then a few more, growing all the time, getting stronger and stronger, so that people who used to laugh at the name ‘Titanic’ when it applied to a cracker-box flea-bitten little outfit don’t laugh any more. They don’t laugh because they know we’re strong, and they know we’re getting stronger all the time. Well, see for yourself. We’ve got a toehold in the fashion
shoe industry now, and that’s just the beginning. But what I was starting to say is that we don’t believe in making our workers unhappy. You’ll begin to see some radical changes around here in a very short while, and all before we’ve really started to realize any profit from the merger.”
“What kind of changes?” Griff asked curiously.
“Changes in the factory, and also in the ninth-floor offices. The toilets in the factory are like pigsties, you know that, don’t you? And the lockers are relics of the Civil War. We’ll be getting cleaner, better facilities. And we’ll be putting in better windows, and better lighting, fluorescent lighting, and we’ll be putting in new safety factors and sanitation measures. You won’t recognize this place in six months, I can guarantee you that. And look at your own office! For God’s sake, is that an office for a talented Cost executive? The hell you say! You’ll be getting a good desk, and new filing cabinets, and rugs on the floor. What the hell, Griff, this is where you live, isn’t it? Look at all the time you spend here. If you’re going to be happy, you’ve got to have happy surroundings.”
“I suppose so,” Griff said, toying with the idea of a new desk and rugs on the floor.
“But that’s why we can’t allow anything like theft to go on under our noses. We lost twelve dollars on that pair of shoes, we also lose twelve dollars that could have gone toward a new lighting fixture. I think that’s a reasonable enough attitude, don’t you?”
“If you want to hire policemen,” Griff said. “Stealing, Mac, is something that goes on no matter what you—”
“No, that’s not true. Stealing does not have to be. And it won’t be. Stealing is only profitable when it goes ignored. We’re damn well not going to ignore it, and people who are suddenly without jobs are going to realize it’s not worth the risk. You can’t spread butter on a pair of shoes, Griff, even if you got them for nothing. I’m sure Titanic doesn’t want to see any Miscellaneous Loss charges on its budget. Hell, I’m just a nobody who’s trying to get acquainted with a new phase of our operation, but I’m sure I can safely speak for Titanic on that one score. Theft is definitely out as far as the Titanic big shots are concerned.”
He heard Manelli replace the phone in its cradle, and he turned instantly.
“There are thirteen people in Packing,” Manelli said. “Eight of them are women.”
“Yes?”
“In Shipping, we’ve got ten people. Only two women there.”
“That narrows it down to ten possible suspects, doesn’t it?” McQuade said.
“You mean—” Manelli started. He stopped short and rephrased his question. “Are you going to try to find out who stole those shoes, Mac?”
“Well, of course!” McQuade said. “How the hell else are we going to put a stop to it?”
“Well …” Manelli said uncertainly, glancing at Griff.
“You don’t condone stealing, do you, Joe?”
“No, no, certainly not,” Manelli said, righteously indignant. “But isn’t production a little more important at the moment? We’re trying to work out a scheme whereby we’ll increase our production by perhaps a thousand pairs a month. When you stack that up against the loss of a twelve-dollar shoe, well, Mac, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I think we’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“You’re pardoned, Joe, but we’re not making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ve simply found a molehill, and now we’re trying to dig out the mole. Clear?”
“I see,” Manelli said.
“What other information have you got on the stolen shoes?” McQuade asked.
“If they were stolen,” Griff said.
“Oh, what else?” McQuade said happily. “What have you got, Joe?”
“Size, style number, case—”
“Size?” McQuade almost shouted. “Size! Well, for Christ’s sake, Joe, that narrows it down to almost nothing! We’ve got our crook where the hair is short!”
“It’s a 7A,” Manelli said unhappily. “That’s a belly size. We’ll probably find a lot of those.”
“In ten women? So even if five of them wear a 7A, which is highly unlikely, we’ve still got five to work with, rather than ten. Joe, this is going to be duck soup. Now here’s what I’d like you to do, if you will. Phone the supervisors in both Packing and Shipping. Tell them, oh … tell them Titanic is thinking of giving bonuses … yes, bonuses in the form of shoes to the women in those departments which show the most increase in production during the next month. Ask the supervisors to pass this on to the women in their departments and then to get the shoe size of each woman. This way, you see, the crook will have no reason for lying. Follow?”
“Yes,” Manelli said tiredly.
“Have the supervisors send up a list of the women’s names together with their shoe sizes. We want those immediately, Joe, and please don’t sound anxious on the phone, whatever you do. We don’t want the thief hiding that shoe size for fear of exposure. We want her to think she’s going to get another pair of shoes on the house. And is she going to be mistaken!”
There were three women with a shoe size of 7A in Packing and Shipping. McQuade phoned down for a pair of the Flare pattern, and then he asked the supervisors to send the women up to Manelli’s office. He asked Griff and Manelli to please stay, an invitation Griff received with some discomfort. He had watched McQuade’s preparations with baleful eye, a little leery of what was coming. He knew that the shoe size of every woman in the factory was listed on her permanent employment record—a system which facilitated the acquisition of a model whenever one was needed—but he had not volunteered the information to McQuade, unwilling to become any sort of an accomplice. McQuade seemed very happy now, as if he were ready to embark on the West Junctionville Chowder and Marching Society Picnic. McQuade was the man in charge of pickles, relishes, mustards, and catsups. He was happy as hell, and his happiness bred a contagion which gave the lie to the solemnity of the occasion.
When the three women were seated outside, he asked Cara to send the first one in. Griff and Manelli sat on the couch to the right of Manelli’s desk. McQuade sat behind the desk, the picnic smile on his face until the door opened.
The instant it did, something happened to McQuade. It was as if he suddenly dropped a mask, or perhaps put one on. His entire physical appearance changed. He had been sitting in the chair idly before that door opened, his long legs stretched out under Manelli’s desk, the preoccupied happy smile on his face. The moment the knob began to turn, he pulled in his feet and sat upright in Manelli’s padded chair. His shoulders snapped to attention, his head jerked erect, his blond brows pulled down over his eyes at the same instant his mouth pulled taut into a tight line. A pair of hoods seemed to descend over his gray eyes, giving them a curiously opaque appearance. He looked rather frightening, even a bit maniacal, and Griff felt an involuntary shiver move up his spine.
The woman stood just inside the doorway. She was close to fifty, Griff surmised, a small blond woman with a gold tooth in the front of her mouth. She was obviously frightened, but she tried a timid smile which turned pasty on her mouth. She did not move from the doorway.
“Come in,” McQuade snapped.
The woman moved into the room. If she had been a man, she’d undoubtedly have come to attention at the sound of McQuade’s voice. Being a woman, she fussed nervously with her hands and shifted from one foot to the other.
“What is your name?” McQuade asked stiffly.
“Martha Goldstein,” the woman said.
“Where do you work?”
“In Shipping, sir.”
McQuade reached into the bottom drawer of Manelli’s desk, pulling out a red shoe which he swiftly placed on the top of the desk.
“Did you ever see this shoe before?”
Martha Goldstein started at the shoe. She began nodding before she spoke. “I think so, sir.”
“Yes or no?” McQuade said, his voice rising.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you take a pair of
these shoes home from the factory?”
The woman’s eyes widened. She stared at McQuade in disbelief, her lip trembling a little. Griff felt an overwhelming embarrassment for the woman. She was old enough to be McQuade’s mother, and he was putting her through …
“Yes or no?” McQuade shouted. “Tell the truth!”
“No, sir. No, sir, I never—”
“You realize the penalty for lying?”
“Sir? Sir, I never—”
“Did you or did you not take a pair of these shoes home with you?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. I swear it, sir. I never stole anything in my life. I been with Julien Kahn for sixteen years, and you can ask Mr. Hengman if I ever touched anything that didn’t belong to me. I’m a good worker, sir, and I’ve never given anybody no trouble. I wouldn’t touch anything that didn’t belong to me, sir, you can ask Mr. Hengman, he’ll tell you, just call Mr. Hengman and ask him, that’s all you have to—”
“You may go,” McQuade said. “Griff, see that she doesn’t talk to the other women outside. That’ll be all, thank you.”
Griff rose hesitantly, not wanting to be a part of McQuade’s inquisition, not wanting the woman to think he was in any way associated with the bludgeoning she’d just received. He led her to the door and opened it for her, and then walked out past Cara, feeling this deep shame inside him, and wanting to say something to the woman, something to squelch his own shame, and something to let her know he was not in any way connected with this. He could think of nothing. He led the woman out, and on his way back, he heard McQuade say, “Bring in the next woman, Griff, if you please.”
He avoided the eyes of the Puerto Rican girl sitting on the edge of the easy chair nearest Manelli’s door.
“Will you come in, please?” he said softly.
The girl rose. She was a young girl, and her face was white with fear. She went into the office, and Griff closed the door behind her and then went to sit beside Manelli. He was seized with a desire to run away from all this, but at the same time he was morbidly curious, as if McQuade held a sinister magnetism for him from which he could not pull away. He glanced up at the desk and saw that McQuade had removed the shoe.