The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  NAKED FLESH, the ads read. NAKED FLESH, and the ads were carried in all the fashion magazines, and all the national distribution newspapers, and all the local newspapers.

  NAKED FLESH, and the name traveled like wildfire. NAKED FLESH, and the housewives, and the debutantes, and the social butterflies, and the hat-check girls, and the chorus girls, and the waitresses, and the dowagers who should have known better, and the dowagers who did know better, and college girls, and highschool girls, and matrons, and mothers, and women all over the country saw the printed word, and the printed word was law, and they wanted NAKED FLESH!

  They wanted NAKED FLESH, and they went to their local shoe store and asked for the shoe, and they were promised delivery within a few days, a week at most, and they waited patiently, because NAKED FLESH was something to wait for.

  In the factory …

  “He’s shifted the Naked bitch to the 1440s last!” Zibinsky shouted at Griff.

  “The 1440s? But—”

  “He’s stamping 1284 into the shoe as the last number! But he’s building half the pairage on the 1440. Griff, that almost amounts to fraud! Dames’ll be going into the shop thinking that shoe was made on the 1284 last when it wasn’t! Griff, that shoe’s gonna give us trouble. Griff, that goddam shoe ain’t gonna fit right! Somebody’s got to stop him!”

  Alec Karojilian said, “I told him we had to keep those shoes on the lasts for at least seven, eight days. Griff, if this sole is going to stay glued to the upper, the shoe has to stay on for at least seven, eight days. I told him this. Jesus, Griff, do you remember when Santoro worked for us? He was a real quality-minded bastard, and he wouldn’t allow a shoe to leave a last for a minimum of fourteen days! I told McQuade.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He says he has to free those lasts. He has to meet delivery dates. He says women are screaming for the shoes. Zibinsky tells me he’s building it on the 1440, in addition to the 1284, but he still ain’t got enough lasts. So he’s rushing the stuff through the factory.”

  “How many days?” Griff asked wearily.

  “Four days, Griff. He doesn’t want that shoe on the last more than four days. Okay, we’ll pull them. I don’t give a damn. But when the shoe falls apart on a woman’s foot, what happens then?”

  “Hello, Griff?” Stiegman asked into the telephone.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s this latest nonsense?”

  “What are you talking about, Dave?”

  “This memo from McQuade.”

  “What memo?”

  “About air freight.”

  “I don’t know anything about it, Dave.”

  “He wants me to ship all orders of Naked Flesh via air freight. He says Julien Kahn will absorb the, additional freight charge. Now what the hell kind of a note is that?”

  “We’ll pay the extra freight? Doesn’t he realize how much that’ll cost?”

  “How do I know? He wants those shoes in the shops. But tell me something, Griff. Who absorbs that charge? Factory or Sales? This shoe is priced low as it is. He’s overadvertised it, and he’s given a bigger discount, and now he’s slapping this extra freight charge onto it. Who absorbs it?”

  “That shoe had better be a tremendous smash,” Griff said. “It had better be the biggest damn seller this company ever—”

  “And what about our other orders? Has he got that goddamned factory cutting nothing but Naked Flesh? I’m already beginning to get screams from the retailers. Griff, I’ve got a whole line to worry about. This son of a bitch is in love with Naked Flesh, but Julien Kahn has two hundred and ninety-nine other shoes in the line. What happens if Naked Flesh flops? What the Christ is going to happen then?”

  Griff saw the trouble, as they all saw the trouble.

  He saw the trouble, and he wondered exactly what he owed Julien Kahn, exactly what he owed Titanic.

  And because Cost had become an integral part of his thinking over the years, he automatically thought now in terms of Cost. Item by item, he tallied the additional cost burden McQuade had heaped onto Naked Flesh, and then he put that alongside the selling price of the shoe. He was certain that unless McQuade’s baby produced an unprecedented landslide sale, it would most certainly put the company into the bottom of a deep hole. And even then, McQuade was sacrificing quality for speed, and quality had always been the trademark of Julien Kahn.

  There was time to stop him. There was time to advise the salesmen against taking orders which could not possibly be met. There was time to revise the price of the shoe on future orders, so that the increased cost of material and labor could be absorbed. There was time to remember the rest of the line, time to concentrate on selling every shoe the firm made, time to get all those eggs out of that single basket, time to do an honest job and do it well.

  There was still time to stop what could turn out to be the biggest fiasco in the history of the firm.

  And the only people who could stop it were the people at Titanic Shoe—in Georgia.

  He considered the situation gravely, remembering that they had okayed McQuade’s earlier idea, even in the face of contrary supporting evidence. He knew what it meant to buck the chain of command. And there was, too, the remote possibility that, despite the outsized cost load, despite the inferior material and workmanship, Naked Flesh would earn its keep and actually sell the rest of the line besides. If Griff bucked McQuade, if Griff protested to Titanic and then Naked Flesh hit the jackpot …

  He considered the situation gravely.

  And then he called Danny Quinn.

  Danny recognized his voice instantly. “Hi, Griff, what’s up?”

  Griff gave it to him fast. “I’m driving down to Titanic Shoe in Georgia,” he said. “I’m starting now, and I’m going to drive until I get there, and I may need someone to spell me at the wheel. How about it?”

  “Are you kicking McQuade out?” Danny asked.

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Pick me up,” Danny said. “I’ll be ready when you come by.”

  They arrived in Georgia before the close of the business day on a hot Friday. Griff told his story to the men of Titanic, and the men of Titanic listened. And then they told Griff they would seriously consider all that he had said. They seemed particularly surprised about the figures he mentioned, figures which allegedly proved that a cost-plus operation was ill-conceived and unfeasible. Apparently, they had never received any such figures from McQuade. They’d received only a memo saying he’d got new information which only reaffirmed his decision to disband Cost.

  “We would appreciate it,” they told Griff, “if you’d send those figures to us on Monday morning, when you’re back in New York. We shall carefully survey all that you’ve told us.”

  On Monday morning, the letter from Halver House—a big retail outfit, in San Francisco—arrived at the Chrysler Building. Dave Stiegman read it, whistled in surprise, and then sent it over to Jefferson McQuade.

  19

  Julien Kahn, Inc.

  Chrysler Building

  New York, New York

  Gentlemen:

  The success of “Naked Flesh” is phenomenal!

  It’s a beautiful shoe, and a well-built shoe, and your ad campaign on it has been brilliant. Customers are flocking into our shop, buying “Naked Flesh,” and generally purchasing other shoes in your line while they are in the store.

  In shot, please accept our congratulations for an excellently conceived and executed maneuver which has briskly stimulated business.

  And to back up our flowery praise, we’re sending on an authorization for the largest reorder we’ve ever made on a single pump, in our usual breakdown of sizes.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel Halver

  for Halver House

  The letter was photographed and copies run off for salesmen and retailers. McQuade had a copy made and encased in lucite and he hung it in the new marble entranceway to the factory, so that anyone entering or leaving the factory couldn’
t fail to see it. It seemed as if McQuade’s fantastic gamble had paid off. Naked Flesh was a big success. It seemed as if the worries of Julien Kahn, Inc., were over. It seemed as if prosperity was just around the corner.

  The woman said, “But I’ve always worn 6½AA in your shoes. I don’t understand it.”

  The salesman looked at her dubiously. “Well,” he said, “this is a 6½AA.”

  “It doesn’t fit,” she said simply. “I’ve wanted this Naked Flesh ever since I saw the ads, too.”

  The salesman smiled. “We’ll try 7A, how’s that? Maybe that’ll turn the trick.”

  “A 7½B?” the blonde asked. “That’s ridiculous. I wear a 7B. Let me see that shoe.”

  “This is the one you asked for, madam,” the salesman said. “Naked Flesh.”

  “I want to see the last number inside the shoe,” the blonde told him. She took the shoe from his hand and studied the numbers stamped on the inside. “That’s funny,” she said. “It’s the 1284 last. But your shoes always fit me so well. This one pinches.” She handed the shoe back to him. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to let it go. It’s such a pretty shoe, too.”

  The fat lady with the blue hair said, “I took a size larger against my better judgment. It still doesn’t fit. It keeps slipping off my foot when I walk. What’s wrong with this shoe, anyway?”

  The chic brunette with the poodle cut said, “I didn’t notice the grain on this shoe until I got home. Why, look at it! It’s disgusting! Am I supposed to pay thirty-seven fifty for that? I’m sorry, but I want my money back!”

  The woman in the brown woolen jacket was absolutely furious.

  The woman in the brown woolen jacket demanded to see the manager of the store, and when the manager appeared she opened the Julien Kahn shoe box and pulled out a pair of Naked Flesh.

  “The sole fell off!” she shouted. “Thirty-seven fifty, and the sole fell off! What kind of a shoe is this? What kind of crooks are you people? I don’t even believe this is a Julien Kahn shoe! Look!” She turned it over. “It doesn’t even have the two dots that Kahn always puts on its soles! I want my money back!”

  The manager calmed her down, but not before a half-dozen women in the shop had heard her complaint. He returned her money, and the shoe jockeys regarded the pair of Naked Flesh sourly. A returned pair of shoes meant a lost commission, and Naked Flesh was being returned with alarming swiftness.

  Slowly the letters began reaching the Chrysler Building and then the New Jersey factory. Something was wrong with the shoe, the letters said. The fit was bad, and the skin was bad, and there had been complaints about the shoe’s falling apart. It was a shame, the letters said, because the campaign on this shoe had been a tremendous one, but what could the retailer do when shoes were being returned to the shops? What could the shoe jockeys do when women refused to buy a shoe that did not fit the way they expected a Julien Kahn shoe to fit?

  Cancel our orders, the letters said.

  We are returning our last shipment, the letters said.

  Please credit the refund toward our order of Glockamorra, the letters said.

  Cancel!

  Return!

  Refund!

  “It’s gung ruin us!” Hengman shouted. “Dey turnin’ det shoe beck like flies! An’ my whole demn fect’ry is fouled up because uv it. When I’m gung to meet deliveries on my udder shoes?”

  “There’s a man waiting outside to see you, Mr. Hengman,” his secretary told him.

  “Who? What d’hell does he want?”

  “He says he’s got a truckful of five thousand lasts outside. He wants to know where you want them.”

  “Holy Moses!” Hengman shouted, slapping his forehead.

  The man from Titanic was called Harley Ford.

  He was six feet two inches tall, and his shoulders were broad, and his eyes were a startling blue, and his hair was a deep black. A thick Southern drawl clung to his voice. He stood by the windows in Manelli’s office, and he spoke quietly, but there was firm conviction in his voice. Griff, sitting in a chair near Manelli’s desk, listened attentively.

  “I must say,” Ford said, “that we didn’t rightly look upon Mistuh Griffin’s arrival in Georgia with favor. Nor did I partic’ly enjoy the prospect of a trip to New Juhsey, as chawmin’ as this fair state may be.” Ford smiled. Griff smiled with him. Manelli looked nervous.

  “As it’s turned out,” Ford said, “we may still be able to save somethin’ from this mess.”

  “You realize, of course—” Manelli started.

  “I realize, of course,” Ford interrupted, “that you were mo’ or less actin’ on the orders of Mistuh McQuade, suh, but I also realize that you are the alleged comptroller of this fact’ry op’ration, an’ I’m afraid I don’t look too kindly upon the actions you have condoned.”

  “I was only—”

  “We’re goin’ to lose a heap o’ money on that Naked Flesh shoe,” Ford said. “That’s all right, because now we know where we made our mistakes. Titanic’s a good comp’ny, a damn good comp’ny. And Titanic is for the workers, and anyone who isn’t damn well doesn’t belong with Titanic. Anybody who’d plow ahead th’way Mistuh McQuade did, against the advice of wiser, mo’ experienced men, anyone who’d deliberately withhold pert’nent information regarding Cost an’ Price, is a man we don’t want around. We’ve already given Mistuh McQuade his walkin’ papers. I’m here t’tell you, Mistuh Manell-ih, that I expect to see some changes made and made pretty damn soon.”

  “Certainly,” Manelli said, coughing.

  “But tha’s all I’m goin’ t’tell you, Mistuh Manell-ih. From now on, you the comptroller.”

  “Yes, sir,” Manelli said.

  “Once we clean up this Naked Flesh mess, you’re on yo’ own. And once your record shows you not the man for this job, then you can go to work for some other shoe firm, Mistuh Manell-ih, now is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Manelli said.

  “Well, now, I’m certainly glad that’s clear,” Ford said. “When I think what could have happened in this fact’ry if Mistuh Griffin hadn’t had the courage to—”

  “Mister Ford, it really wasn’t—”

  “All right, Mistuh Griffin, call it what you will. I say it was courage. Nobody else was willin’ to stand up on his own two feet. If you hadn’ta come down to tip us off, I hate to think what that McQuade might have done to this fact’ry. We’re mighty obliged to you.”

  “Thank you,” Griff said uneasily.

  “I’ll be aroun’ for a few weeks, just seein’ that things are runnin’ smoothly again. I’m not goin’ to interfere with anythin’ that’s going on. I’m simply goin’ t’watch and then I’m goin’ to turn in a report. We got the brains an’ the talent right here to run this plant in tip-top condition. I’m sure you-all don’ need any advice from us Rebels.” Ford smiled. “Unless it’s to put in air-conditionin’. Man, are all the offices as hot as this one?”

  “It’s a little warm in here,” Manelli admitted, smiling feebly.

  “Well, Mistuh Griffin,” Ford said, “I know you’ll be wantin’ to get that Cost Department of yours back into shape, so I won’t keep you any longer.” He shook hands with Griff. “There’s a few more things I’d like to get straight with Mistuh Manell-ih, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  Griff nodded and left the office.

  Idly, he wondered how much longer Manelli would last. He did not suppose it would be very long. Manelli was not the man Titanic wanted for comptroller, even though they were giving him a fair chance at the job, now that McQuade was gone. He headed down the hallway toward the old Cost Department, passing Payroll, and then Credit, recalling Harley Ford’s personal assurance that Danny would be back soon.

  He saw the COST sign over the open doorway at the end of the hall, and he was momentarily surprised until he realized someone had probably replaced the sign, either Marge or Aaron. To the right of the doorway, he saw familiar placards:

  R. GRIFFIN

  A. REIS


  He smiled and went into the dapartment. He saw the new blue carpet and the new desks, and the Welcome Back, Griff sign, and then he saw Marge and Aaron standing near the windows, grinning like two positive idiots. Marge came across the room to him, and he lifted her from the floor and kissed her resoundingly on the mouth, while Aaron stood by, smiling foolishly. It was good to be home again.

  Aaron left at five for a dental appointment, and Marge left at six to have her hair set and her nails done, exacting a promise from Griff to pick her up at eight on the button. Alone, Griff worked in the silence of the office, happy to be getting his department in shape again. He was filled with a tremendous sense of well-being, a certain knowledge that now everything would be all right.

  At seven he glanced at his watch, finished the task he was on, and hastily left the office. The factory was unusually still, the hot lingering days of August having discouraged overtime. He buzzed for the elevator and Bill the watchman came up for him and took him down to the ornate lobby and then let him out of the building. He started for the parking lot, spotting his car at the far end of the field, lonely and forlorn-looking now that all the other cars were gone.

  There was a purple wash in the sky to the west, the first shaded beginnings of dusk. The day’s heat still clung to the air, but there was promise of a cool Septemberlike evening, and a lazy sort of atmosphere hung over the parking lot. He walked through the lot gingerly, hearing the steady cadence of his heels on the concrete. He did not see the man near his automobile until he was almost upon him.

  The man leaned against the front right fender, his arms folded across his chest, the last rays of the dying sun catching his hair in a red-gold web. For a moment Griff didn’t recognize him, and then he realized it was Jefferson McQuade.

  But … but hadn’t he left already? What …?

  “Hello, Griff,” McQuade said softly.

  “Hello,” Griff said grudgingly, annoyed by the sudden panic that fluttered in his stomach. The same sort of panic he’d felt a long time ago when he’d been waiting for the then-unknown visitor from Georgia. The same panic he’d felt when he thought McQuade had seen the note he’d left for Aaron. The panic that had stabbed at him after his telephone conversation with Hengman, when he’d looked up to find McQuade standing there. The same panic, he realized, that had attacked him after the Cutting Room hosing, that had left him weak after the inquisition of the Puerto Rican girl. The fear he’d felt that night of the Guild Week party, when he thought there would be trouble with McQuade. The fear, later of losing his job. Fear.