The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  “No, it’s not so terrible.”

  “Did I do anything silly? Like putting a lampshade on my head or anything?”

  “No. Unless …” He drew the word out.

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, that dance you did,” he lied.

  “What dance?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “When you took off all your clothes.”

  “Griff, I didn’t!” she said horrified.

  “You were quite a hit.”

  “Griff, no! No, please, I didn’t!” She hesitated uncertainly. In a small voice, she asked, “Did I?”

  “No.”

  She let out her breath. “Now I am sober. Oh, God, you gave me a scare. You’re a stinker.”

  “Where do you want to get out?” the cabbie asked, turning suddenly.

  Marge leaned forward. “Oh, are we here already?” She peered through the windshield. “The third house there, on the left,” she said. The cabbie nodded and edged the cab over toward the curb. They got out, and Griff paid the man, and then they started up the steps of the red brick building.

  “This is the tail end of Greenwich Village,” Marge said. “Those smelly things on your right are factories.”

  “Nice,” Griff said.

  “Yes, very pleasant. I work in a factory all day long, and then I come home and look out my window at other factories. I guess it’s really immature, but I like living in the Village.”

  “Besides, it’s cheap.”

  “No. No, it’s very expensive. The days when an artist could suffer in the Village are dead and gone. All the landlords know the Village is a desirable place now, so you have to pay an arm for a hole in the wall. Well, you’ll see. You know, I’m quite sober now.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I am, too. It’s fun being drunk, but it’s better being me.”

  She began fishing in her purse as they started up the steps. “I’m on the fourth floor, so conserve your breath.”

  “All right.”

  “On your left is the apartment of my landlady. She is probably drunk. She always is.”

  “Um-huh.”

  They climbed steadily. On the third floor, Marge said, “Adjust your oxygen masks.”

  “Roger,” Griff answered.

  They reached the fourth floor and walked to a door at the end of the corridor. Marge inserted her key and twisted it. Griff threw open the door for her. She bowed and made a grand gesture with one arm, like a courier in the presence of Queen Elizabeth.

  “Enter. It isn’t much, but it’s homely.”

  She snapped on a light, and they stepped into the small apartment.

  “The kitchen,” she said. “Ignore the dishes in the sink, please.”

  “They’re ignored.”

  “In there, the combination sitting room, living room, bedroom. The john is right there, if you need it.” She took off her coat and hung it in one of the closets. “Your coat, sir.”

  Griff began taking off his coat. She saw him fumbling with the buttons.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Let me see your hand,” she said.

  “No, it’s all—”

  “Let me see it.” She took his hand, and her eyes widened. “He did hurt you! Oh, that dirty bastard.” She looked at the hand more closely. “Griff, it’s all swollen.”

  “It’ll go down.”

  “Can’t we do something for it? Some hot water? Yes, some hot water and boric acid.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Let me help you with the buttons.” She unbuttoned the coat for him, and then pulled it off his shoulders, hanging it in the closet alongside hers, closing the curtains over the closet opening.

  “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll put up the coffee and begin treatment. I once wanted to be a nurse, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes. Why’d he want to hurt you, Griff?”

  Griff shrugged.

  “Did it … Did it have something to do with me?”

  “No.”

  “It did, didn’t it?”

  “No. He was testing his strength, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “He just felt like testing it. He’s a strong man, McQuade. Strong men have to test their strength every now and then, to make sure it’s not weakening.”

  “Where … where was he taking me?” Marge asked suddenly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think I have an idea.” She bit her lip. “I must’ve made a little fool of myself, Griff.”

  “No, Marge. Honestly, you didn’t. You were high, but that’s all. You had a right to get high.”

  “What a fool,” she said.

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “And you were right about McQuade, weren’t you?”

  Griff didn’t answer. She stared at him for a moment and then went to the stove. “I use instant coffee, is that all right?”

  “Fine.”

  She put up a kettle, and then she filled a second pot with water. She came to the table and sat opposite him. She reached out and touched his swollen hand gently.

  “Poor Griff.”

  “I’ll live,” he said lightly.

  “I know you will,” she said suddenly serious. “You’re a knight in shining armor, aren’t you, Griff? You came to the damsel’s rescue.”

  “Well,” he said, “I hadn’t looked at it that way. Truth is, I wanted to take you home.”

  “You’re a liar,” she said.

  “I’m a clam.”

  Marge laughed. “You’re very sweet. I appreciate what you did, Griff. Not that … well …”

  “What?”

  “Not that I’m anything special. I mean … oh, what the hell, is it so important? Am I any different than any other woman? But just the idea of giving it to McQuade.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Am I embarrassing you?”

  “No.”

  “I am, I can see that. You’re really a very sweet guy, Griff. I know most men don’t like to be called that, but you really are very sweet, Griff. I can’t begin to tell you how sweet I think you are.” She was surprised to find tears springing to her eyes. She bit her lip and turned her head away. “I’d better get some cups,” she said.

  She walked to the cupboard, took down two cups and two saucers, and then came back to the table.

  “I haven’t even got any cake in the house.”

  “I don’t feel like cake, anyway.”

  “Even if you did, you’d say you didn’t. Griff …”

  “No, really. I don’t feel like cake.”

  “All right.”

  “Really.”

  She smiled, a sudden tenderness blossoming inside her. “All right,” she said. She took a jar of coffee from the shelf and spooned a teaspoonful into each cup. “Do you take sugar?”

  “Yes. One and a half.”

  “I like to put it all in beforehand. Once I even bought that powdered cream stuff and put the coffee, the sugar, and the cream in all beforehand. Then when you put the water in, it’s something like magic. That’s silly, isn’t it?”

  “No, Marge, I don’t think so.”

  She spooned sugar into his cup and then her own. She went back to the stove and put her finger into the open pot of water.

  “How hot can you stand it, Griff?”

  “Pretty hot.”

  “This is very hot. I’ll get some boric acid.” She laughed abruptly. “I just thought of something funny.”

  “What?”

  “Spooning boric acid into the coffee cups and coffee into your pot of water. It’s not really funny, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. Maybe I’m still drunk.” She brought the pot of water to the table and set it down before him. The steam rose, clouding his face for a moment. “You look all misty, like April.”

  “That looks hot as hell,” he said.

  “Wait until you put your hand into it
.” She went into the bathroom and returned with a tin of boric acid. “How many spoonsful?”

  “Two, three, I don’t know.”

  “Three,” she said, measuring the boric acid into the pot. “And one for the pot.”

  “What we really need is a basin.”

  “I haven’t got a basin. Won’t your hand fit?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Well, go ahead.”

  “Give me time.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I feel like a man on a diving board.”

  “Come on, Griff. Faint heart … well, that doesn’t apply here.”

  He looked up at her curiously for a moment, and her eyes met his, and she felt a strange warmth suffusing her body. “I’ll get the coffee water,” she said. She turned her back and he suddenly yelled, “Ouch!” She whirled abruptly. His hand was in the pot of steaming water.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Hot.”

  “Yes, but otherwise.”

  “There’s no otherwise. It only feels hot. Jesus, does it feel hot!”

  “It’ll fix you up,” she said.

  “Then why are my fingers melting off?”

  Marge laughed and then brought the kettle to the table, filling the cups. “Milk,” she said, going to the refrigerator. Griff sat at the table with a pained expression on his face, his hand dangling in the pot of water. “I should put this in a creamer,” she said, “but I haven’t got a creamer. Besides, it’s sacrilege to put milk in a creamer.”

  “That’s right. Milk should go in a milker.”

  “You’re bright,” she said.

  “Yes, I know. I don’t take milk, anyway.”

  “Now he tells me. I don’t either.”

  “I learned to drink it black in the Army. Where’d you learn?”

  “I don’t know, I just learned. I think it was from a boy I used to go with. Yes, he always took his black. He made me feel like an awful sissy, so I started.”

  “He was probably from my company,” Griff said.

  “No, he was in the Navy.”

  “Oh.”

  “I forgot his name.” A twinkle came into her eye. “Hornblower, or something like that.”

  “Oh, yes, fine fellow.”

  “You’re much nicer when you’re not a clam. Drink your coffee.”

  He reached for the cup with his left hand. “Funny how you get used to things,” he said. “It feels strange as hell holding a cup in my left hand.”

  The aroma of coffee spread around the kitchen. They sat sipping, Griff with one hand in the pot of water, Marge with her legs crossed. The streets outside were silent and deserted. Out on the river, they could hear the hoarse moan of a tug.

  “That bastard,” she said suddenly.

  “Wh—oh, McQuade.”

  “Yes. He shouldn’t have hurt you.” She paused and looked at his face. “Does it bother you, my talking about it? I’m sorry, but I seem to be a clumsy idiot tonight. Does it make you feel … weak?”

  “Weak?” His eyes opened in surprise. “McQuade? No, Marge, no, not by a long shot. What happened tonight makes me feel strong, so goddam strong.”

  She rose swiftly, putting her cup down on the table and moving behind his chair. She did not know why she suddenly wanted to kiss him, but she knew that she wanted to. She leaned over and brushed her lips across his cheek, suddenly wanting to hold him very close, but she moved back, a little embarrassed by what she’d done.

  “I … I’m sorry,” she said.

  She stepped back from his chair. He was looking at her curiously, his hand dangling foolishly in the water, the coffee cup in his other hand.

  “It’s …” She moved away from him and sat down, not wanting to see his face. “It’s tonight. It’s just a very crazy night. But I … I wanted to kiss you, Griff. I’m sorry …” She shook her head. “My God, I’m behaving as if I’ve, seduced you or something. Griff, what is it? Am I losing my mind?”

  He smiled suddenly. “No.”

  “But … but just the idea of McQuade hurting you like that … it … made me want to … to kiss you.” She shook her head again. She looked across the table at him, and again she felt this overwhelming desire to hold him close, to press his head to her breasts. She watched him, and she saw the cloud spread over his face as his smile vanished. His brows pulled together, and his eyes were suddenly murky and unfathomable.

  “I … I didn’t mean to complicate things, Griff. I’m truly sorry.”

  “No,” he said, “it isn’t that. I’m glad you kissed me. I’m very glad, Marge.” He looked up. “Believe me, Marge, I’m glad.”

  “Well …”

  “But it’s tonight, the way you say. Everything that happened tonight, the whole mixed-up sequence of events. Like … like stumbling through a fog, and suddenly bursting into sunlight. Like that, Marge. And all at once, all of it at once. I made a discovery tonight. No, Marge, come to think of it I made a lot of discoveries, and they aren’t all nice ones, and all of a sudden I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid, Griff? Afraid of what?”

  “When I followed you and McQuade out of the room, I was a little annoyed that I had to. I didn’t like McQuade, and I didn’t like the idea of having to fend him off, or of protecting you, or of … the whole thing, Marge, the whole damned thing. And then, suddenly, I felt all right doing what I was doing. When McQuade said what he said about you, I wanted to hit him in the mouth, but I—”

  “What did he say?”

  “That doesn’t matter, Marge. The important thing is that I wanted to hit him; oh, it was a silly idea because he could probably beat me senseless, but I wanted to hit him, anyway. And then he offered me his hand, and there was something inside me that said don’t take that slimy hand, but there was something else that couldn’t turn away a hand offered in friendship. Something … something like decency. When a man offers his hand, you take it. If you’re decent, you take it.

  “And then … then McQuade turned the handshake into something else, and I realized that he didn’t have a decent shred in his body. And the discovery led to something else, a … a realization of his full power, and of just how loathsome that power is. And I wanted to do something against the power, but I was helpless. All I could do was take the pain he inflicted without crying out, without saying anything, and that somehow left me with some pride; groveling at his feet I still had a measure of pride.

  “But the pride wasn’t enough, Marge. McQuade was the victor, and he’d stamped me right into the ground, and he’d tossed me a girl like a crumb he didn’t want any more, something I didn’t really want, to tell the truth. And then I started to get scared. In the cab I started to get scared. He had stopped himself before he mangled my hand to ribbons, but suppose he hadn’t stopped, suppose he’d gone right on, suppose he’d crushed the hand, and then suppose he’d raped you, or whatever the hell, suppose he’d done all that, what had I done to stop him, what had I done to stop him in the very beginning when he still could have been stopped?

  “And his power frightened me. His power was like a huge thing that couldn’t be touched now, before which we’re all helpless. And in my fright, I got selfish. I began to wonder and worry about my job. I’m sure I’ll be fired, Marge, I’m sure as hell he’ll fire me Monday morning, but something inside me told me the job wasn’t the important thing to worry about. McQuade was. McQuade had to be stopped, but I didn’t know how to stop him, so help me I didn’t know how.”

  “Griff …”

  “And you just now kissed me. In the midst of all my fear and helplessness, you kissed me. Just a peck on the cheek, and all at once it seemed like the most sensible thing in the world for me to have stepped in when McQuade was taking you out of the room. The most sensible thing, and the only thing, and oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, it’s like the kid who sees the freckled girl next door all his life, and suddenly she’s not in pigtails any more, as clichéd as that, Marge, as damned corny as that, but it seemed right somehow, it
was the most natural thing in the world for you to kiss me, but … I, don’t know what I’m saying, Marge. What am I trying to say?” He shook his head helplessly.

  Her eyes were wet. She was sure that everything she felt was shining there in the wetness of her eyes.

  “I don’t know, Griff,” she said. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I know what I want to say, Marge, but it’s impossible and I’d feel stupid saying it, because I know it doesn’t happen this way, and yet I feel as if it has happened, and I know it’s happened because I’m not afraid for myself any more, the hell with the job, let the job go, I’m afraid only for what almost happened to you, afraid of what McQuade might have done next, but not to me, to you, Marge, to you, and that’s how I know, even though it’s stupid, even though my common sense tells me it’s stupid, that’s how I know.”

  She went around the table to him and she cradled his head in her arms, standing behind his chair, and she said very softly, “What do you know, Griff?”

  “That I love you,” he said simply.

  They were silent for a moment, as if the enormity of his statement had left them drained and empty. She cupped his head, and his face looked very strong, and his mouth was very firm, and she brought her own mouth down against it tenderly, savoring his mouth, holding his head gently.

  “I love you, too, Griff,” she said.

  “Marge, you don’t have to—”

  “No, Griff, no. Darling, I love you so much. Griff, honestly, I wouldn’t …” She opened her eyes wide, anxious that he should believe her, anxious to tell him she was not simply returning his words. “Griff, please, you must believe me. I love you. Oh, darling, darling, I love you.”

  He moved his chair back, and she went onto his lap, her hands idly caressing the back of his neck. She kissed his ear, and she smiled, knowing the smile was a foolish-looking one, but unable to keep it off her face. He held her close, and neither spoke, as if speaking would spoil the moment, as if words had not been invented.

  “I feel silly,” he said. “I love you so much, and I sit here with my goddam hand in a pot of water.”

  “Leave it there,” she whispered.

  “Marge …”

  “Griff, I love you.” She kissed his cheeks and his eyes and his mouth. “Griff, darling, do you know I love you?”