The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  Each office but Griff’s.

  At the beginning of the day, he thought there’d been some error. The carpet layers had started with Credit, right next door to him, and he thought they’d mistakenly skipped Cost at the end of the corridor. As the day wore on, he began to think they’d passed him accidentally and then forgotten about him in the rush of getting the new desks into each of the offices. By quitting time, when the carpet layers and maintenance men had covered every other office on the floor, he began to get a little miffed. He stopped one of the maintenance men in the hallway and asked what the story was.

  “Gee, Griff,” the man said, “don’t get sore at me. I’m only doing what I was told.”

  “Told? What do you mean?”

  “We were told to skip Cost, that’s all.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “It wasn’t told to me, Griff. It was told to Frank. He’s in charge of the job.”

  “Where is he?” Griff asked.

  The maintenance man looked around. He shrugged. “Probably knocked off already.”

  “Was there any reason given? For skipping Cost?”

  “I think they’re gonna paint your office first, or something. That’s the way I got it, anyway.”

  “When are they going to paint?”

  The maintenance man shrugged. “Griff, you got me.” He smiled suddenly. “I wouldn’t worry about it, I was you. You’ll probably wind up with the best-looking office on the floor.”

  “Yeah,” Griff said.

  On Wednesday morning, the first line of infantry appeared on the horizon. Manelli called and asked to see Griff. Griff went down to his office, and Manelli cleared his throat and spread a batch of cost cards on his desk.

  “These cards,” he said.

  “Um?”

  “Few things, Griff. Here, take this pattern L 678. That’s the Scudderhoo last, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got piping and stripping listed as one and four-ninths yards, and you’ve indicated ‘see list’ for the cost. But you haven’t indicated the cost any place on the card. And as far as I can see, the cost of piping and stripping was never included in the total cost of the shoe.”

  “May I see the card?” Griff asked.

  Manelli handed him the card, and Griff studied it for a moment.

  “Oh,” he said, “I can explain that. We don’t have any piping or stripping on this pattern.”

  “Then why is it listed at all?”

  “I thought we’d look ahead a little. Davidoff figured out the approximate yardage we’d need to pipe or strip it. So if we get a request for a variation on the pattern, I can just check my cost card and I’ll know it calls for one and four-ninths yards. Then I’ll look at my list and add the current cost of piping and stripping to the shoe. Simple.”

  “How do you know there’ll be one and four-ninths yards?”

  “Davidoff worked it out for me,” Griff said. “I just told you—”

  “I see. Well, check it again with Davidoff, and then look up the cost and insert it somewhere on the card. And then change your figures accordingly.”

  “But piping and stripping is not a usual cost on this shoe. Don’t you see …?”

  “I see, Griff, but if you’ve taken it this far, I want it taken all the way. Figure out an alternate set of figures for the shoe if it did have piping and stripping.”

  Griff sighed. “All right,” he said reluctantly.

  “Now this one,” Manelli said, picking up another card. “Pattern A 361.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve got your heel height listed as a 27 on the 103 last. Well, that’s all right. But you estimate cost of the heel covering at .070. That seems low to me.”

  “Well,” Griff said, “I got the amount of leather needed from Morris, and then I figured the cost. Joe, all my costs are based on material surveys which come from Morris. He works them out on—”

  “Well, check this with him again. It seems low.”

  “If you say so,” Griff said impatiently.

  “Same for these three. Matter of fact, everything on these three cards seems low to me. Either Davidoff is underestimating the amount of material we need, or you’re undercosting it. In any case, you’d better check.”

  “All right,” Griff said, keeping his anger down.

  “And on this one, the labor is figured at 2.036. That, I’m sure, is far too high.”

  “Sal Valdero works out the labor estimates. He knows just what each piece job will—”

  “Then check it with Sal, will you?”

  “If this is a question of survey and labor, why not check it directly with Morris and Sal yourself?” Griff asked. “After all …”

  Manelli smiled. “Well now, you’re head of the Cost Department, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” Griff said dully.

  “I hate to be a bother, Griff,” Manelli said, “but these things have to be checked and, well, what’re you gonna do, eh?” He shrugged genially. “Meantime, let me see the other cards you’re working on, won’t you?”

  “If I ever get around to them,” Griff said sourly.

  On Thursday morning, at nine twenty-five, the blitzkrieg started.

  “It’s Dave Stiegman, Griff,” Marge said. “On four.”

  Griff lifted the phone. “Hello, Dave,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Griff. You? Listen, on this lucite heel thing.”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “I’m going to need Aaron here at Chrysler for the next few days, so—”

  “What for?” Griff asked.

  Stiegman chuckled. “Well, you know. Busy, busy.”

  Griff didn’t know. His brow furrowed.

  “So,” Stiegman went on, “I wanted you to know we’re having a sales meeting next week. Tuesday, in fact.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. We’re trying to rush these shoes into the line, and we want to get our men on the road with samples right away, follow?”

  “Then we are putting in samples on it?”

  “Oh, yes, definitely. Working them up right now, matter of fact. That’s why I’m calling. I should have the samples by Tuesday, and I’d like cost and recommended price from you at the same time.”

  “By Tuesday?” Griff asked. “Well, I don’t know, Ed. I haven’t even seen a sketch of the shoe yet.”

  “We sent one over to the factory, should be in the Pattern Room now. Why don’t you call down for it?”

  “What material are we using on it?”

  “Black suede,” Stiegman said. “Griff, I’ve got to hurry. There’s about a million things to—”

  “Hold it a minute, will you? What kind of a shoe is it? Is it a new shoe, or a jump-off on an old base?”

  “Call the Pattern Room, Griff. It’s number L039. Okay?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Griff, I don’t like to press you, believe me, but we’ve got to get a price. Work up an estimate, huh, boy? And while you’re at it, make a list of the established prices for the whole line and ditto a few dozen copies for the men, will you?”

  “Well, that part’s simple enough, we’ve already worked out … but this other, Dave. A new shoe, and no—”

  “Pattern L039. Call down for it. Griff, I’m as busy as a hound dog chasing flies. By Tuesday, huh? So long.”

  Griff hung up and stared at the phone disconsolately. He looked over to Marge’s desk, disappointed because she had left the office, wanting to discuss this with her. He paced the empty office for several moments, and then turned abruptly when she walked in. She looked over her shoulder secretly, rushed to him, and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi. Where’d you disappear …?”

  “Manelli sent for me. They’ve got new samples on Naked Flesh, and he wants me to go down to the try-on room and model a few of them. Apparently McQuade thinks this is going to be a really big shoe.”

  “I keep forge
tting you’re a model,” Griff said, smiling. The smile dropped abruptly. “Hey, what am I gonna do for a typist?”

  “Oh, I won’t be gone long, darling.”

  “I know. But these rehashes Manelli wanted are ready, and I need someone to type them up.”

  “Get a floating typist, Griff.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to. Are you leaving right away?”

  “Manelli said to get down there as soon as possible.” She glanced toward the door and kissed him soundly and then, pulling away weakly, she rolled her eyes and said, “Ohhhhhhh, Mr. Griffin!”

  “Hurry back,” he said.

  As soon as she left, he called Stan Zibinsky in the Pattern Room.

  “Hello, Griff,” Zibinsky said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Dave Stiegman tells me Chrysler sent over a sketch on this new lucite heel job.”

  “Lucite heel?” Zibinsky said. He paused. “Oh, yep, yep, that one. What about it?”

  “Can I have the sketch?”

  “Love to give it to you, Griff, but we only got one copy. I’m having some more run off by Production. Soon as we get a couple, I’ll send one up to you. Okay?”

  “Well, I’ve got to cost this thing and … how about the paper patterns?”

  “Yeah, we made those already. Lemme see now, where the hell did I put that envelope?” Griff heard the rustle of papers. “Somewhere around here,” Zibinsky said.

  “That’s L039, right?” Griff said.

  “Yeah, that’s what it said. L039.”

  “What kind of a shoe …?”

  “Griff, I’m pretty busy. You want to stop down for these paper patterns, or what?”

  “All right, I’ll be down for them.”

  “Good. ’Bye-bye, sweetheart.”

  Griff hung up, sighed, and then called Personnel to ask for someone from the typing pool. The girl they promised him arrived at his office less than five minutes later. He was a little more than slightly dismayed when he noticed that she was chewing gum, but he shrugged his doubts aside and handed her the penciled notes he’d made, notes which showed that Manelli’s criticisms had been unfounded.

  “How many carbons?” the girl asked efficiently.

  “One,” he said, “and please make it neat, will you? These are going to the comptroller’s off—” The phone rang, and he cut himself off.

  It was Manelli. He wanted to see Griff at once.

  Griff sighed heavily and went down the hallway, and Manelli greeted him with his customary executioner’s smile.

  “Griff,” he said, “I’ve been trying to make heads or tails out of these cost cards you’ve been submitting, but I’m afraid the job is a little too complicated for me.”

  Griff smiled happily. “I’ve got those figures you wanted,” he said, “and they show the original estimates to be correct.”

  “I see. Well, that’s fine. But here’s what I had in mind. It’s a little difficult to get the full picture by seeing only a sampling of these cards as you send them through, do you know?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “What I’d like is all the cost cards for the past year.”

  “The past year!” Griff said, astonished.

  “Yes. Now, it would be positively senseless for me to go through each and every one of those cards, don’t you agree?”

  “I imagine it would take you a good month,” Griff said.

  “Well, surely not that long. But I’ve got other things to do, eh? So, here’s what I want, Griff. I want you to go through all your cost cards for the past year, and for each pattern I want three things.”

  “Three things?”

  “Yessir. I want your estimated cost without factory profit, and I want your estimated cost with factory profit, and I want our selling price on the shoe.”

  “Joe, that’s impossible,” Griff said. “I’ve got to price this lucite—”

  Manelli glanced at the note on his desk. “Oh yes, one other thing. For each pattern I want to list the total pairage sold.”

  “Total …?”

  “Yes. By account.”

  “By account! Joe, for Christ’s sake, it would take me two weeks to work this out. I’m right now in the middle of—”

  Manelli began laughing. “Two weeks? Two weeks, Griff? Nonsense, nonsense. Can you have it for me by …” He paused and raised his eyes. “Tuesday?”

  Griff stared at him levelly, and Manelli turned his head away.

  “Tuesday?” Griff answered blankly.

  “Yes.”

  “What is this, Joe?”

  “What is what?”

  “This Tuesday business. First Stiegman steals Aaron and then he asks for—”

  Manelli spread his hands wide. “A simple request from your comptroller,” he said. “You can handle it, I’m sure. I’m busy, Griff.”

  Griff turned his back and walked out of the office. Everything had suddenly fallen into place. The initial approval-of-cost-cards request, the slight from Posnansky at Chrysler, the skipping of Cost in the redecoration of the ninth-floor offices, the petty horse manure about undercosting of materials and overcosting of labor, the theft of Aaron, Stiegman’s rush demand for prices on the lucite heel pattern, and now this fantastic project Manelli had cooked up.

  Or had Manelli cooked it up?

  The name began to shape in his mind even before he was fully conscious of its being there. He began to nod his head, his lips pressed grimly together.

  McQuade.

  Of course, McQuade.

  But what in holy hell was he trying to do? If he wasn’t going to let the Guild Week incident pass, why didn’t he simply fire Griff and get it over with? Why all the … pressure?

  Pressure. Why, certainly. Pressure was being applied, but pressure for what reason? Was he trying to run Griff into the ground with impossible requests? Or was he trying to get Griff so sore that he’d …

  Quit?

  The idea astonished him. Could that be it? But why? Why not simply fire him? No, that couldn’t be, no, he was mistaken. And yet … but why in hell …?

  No, it simply couldn’t be.

  He went back to Cost, his brow knotted. He walked over to Marge’s desk and picked up a sheet the girl from the typing pool had completed.

  On the third line, she had typed, “… piping and stripping on L678 Ava Gardner calf, as per our conversation of …”

  He looked at the line again. Ava Gardner calf?

  “What the hell is Ava Gardner calf?” he asked the girl.

  The girl stopped chewing and typing. She looked up from the machine. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m only typing your notes, sir.”

  He consulted his notes. In a very clear hand, he had written Avocado calf.

  “That’s Avocado,” he said. “That’s a color. Green. Avocado. You’d better retype this.” He paused. “Wait a minute, let me look over the rest of this before you …”

  He picked up the sheet again.

  “This is supposed to be marvel embroidered linen, not marble embroid … and what’s this?”

  The girl looked at the sheet. “Just what was in your notes, sir,” she said loftily. “Center, 2601½.”

  “That’s counter,” he said wearily. “Don’t you know anything at all about shoes?”

  “I’ve only been working here a week, sir,” she admitted.

  “I see.” He made the corrections on the page and said, “Well, retype that sheet, will you? And if there are any other words you’re not sure of, please, ask me.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She resumed chewing and typing.

  Griff went to the phone and called Masters in Personnel.

  “Fred,” he said softly, “this gal you sent me doesn’t know shoes from Shinola. How about sending someone who’s been around a while?”

  “Sorry,” Masters said. “I’m busy as hell, Griff. She’s the only one available.”

  “Haven’t you got …?”

  “The only one, Griff Smile.”

/>   “Sure.” He hung up and stared at the typist, wondering suddenly if Marge’s call to the try-on room wasn’t all a part of the plot to make things tough for him. Ava Gardner calf! He sighed resignedly and went down to the Pattern Room.

  Stan Zibinsky seemed to have forgotten all about L039.

  “L039? What? What do you want, Griff?”

  “This lucite heel shoe,” Griff said patiently. “Pattern number L039. You said you had—”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. Look, do me a favor, sweetheart, will you? The envelope is on the desk there someplace. Help yourself, huh? Dig it out. It’s marked on the envelope. L039. I’m busy, sweetheart.” He showed Griff the desk, and then left him to wade through the muck and mire of what looked like a highly disorganized operation. When Griff finally located the envelope with the numerals “L039” lettered in blue pencil on its face, he was ready to hurl Zibinsky’s desk together with its contents into the nearest blazing fire. Containing his anger, he opened the envelope and looked at the delicate paper patterns for a moment. L039. He was not familiar with the number. The paper patterns in his hand looked like any of a hundred patterns. A new shoe, and it had to be costed by Tuesday, and priced … oh, hell. He put the patterns back into their envelope, and went down to see Morris Davidoff.

  Davidoff kept him waiting outside for ten minutes. When he finally got in to see him, Davidoff was very busy.

  “What is it?” Davidoff said. “Griff, I’m swamped.”

  “Yeah, I see. I want to work up a cost on this lucite heel pattern with you.”

  Davidoff held up his hand in a “stop” signal. “Don’t even take them out of the envelope,” he said.

  “What …?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Told you. Swamped.”

  “Granted. But Chrysler’s having a sales meeting on Tuesday, and they want price sheets on this …”

  “What can I do?” Davidoff said. He was a tall man with a Lincolnesque face and sad eyes. His office was as cluttered with slide rules and measuring devices and charts and graphs as any electrical engineer’s. Davidoff was the man who surveyed a pattern, figuring how much leather went into a certain vamp, how much stripping was needed on a sandal, how much faille was needed to cover a wooden heel. He went about his job with all the secrecy of an alchemist, consulting his charts and his graphs and his slide rules. Griff had grown used to his mysterious methods over the years, but he’d never been able to decipher the mystery completely, even though he worked very closely with Davidoff.