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  The Spiked Heel

  Ed McBain writing as Richard Marsten

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The companies called “Julien Kahn, Inc.,” and “Titanic Shoe Corporation of America” were invented by the author and do not in fact exist. There are real fashion shoe houses mentioned in this novel, but they are included as part of the background, and no similarity is intended or implied between their workings, external or internal, and the business procedures of the fictitious firms. “Plastics, Inc.,” is likewise a fictitious name for an invented company. The characters and incidents, too, are part of the fictional pattern—and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual happenings is purely coincidental.

  This book is for George and Corinne

  “And the protector of the people is like him; having a mob entirely at his disposal, he is not restrained from shedding the blood of kinsmen; by the favorite method of false accusation he brings them into court and murders them, making the life of man to disappear, and with unholy tongue and lips tasting the blood of his fellow-citizens; some he kills and others he banishes, at the same time hinting at the abolition of debts and partition of lands: and after this, what will be his destiny? Must he not either perish at the hands of his enemies, or from being a man become a wolf—that is, a tyrant?”

  Plato’s Republic

  1

  Even the factory wore a jubilant face.

  It squatted on the Jersey flatlands like a grinning gargoyle, its. windows reflecting the early morning sunlight like rows and rows of bright shining smiling teeth. He pulled the car around the wide white sweep of concrete and then through the cyclone fence into the parking lot. He could smell New Jersey, but the smell wasn’t an obnoxious one this morning. No, nothing could be obnoxious this morning. The smell was a dash of cologne and a sprinkle of Shalimar, and the sun was shining and the factory was smiling and puffing at its chimneys like a fat burgher with a pipe, and all was right with the world.

  He drove through the lot leisurely, picking a good spot, and then locking up. He automatically looked for Aaron’s old Dodge, and when he found it he derived a peculiar satisfaction from knowing Aaron was already in. He walked through the lot quickly, unable to keep the unconscious spring out of his step, unable to keep the smile off his face.

  High up on the roof of the factory, like the overgrown face of an envelope sprawling between two chimneys, the company sign looked down at him, a huge white rectangle with black script lettering on it:

  JULIEN KAHN

  Fashion Shoes

  Good morning, Julien Kahn, he thought.

  And good-by, George Kurz. Good-by, you old son of a bitch.

  Now, now, he chided himself, we shouldn’t be gleeful over another man’s misfortune, but oh am I delighted that rotten bastard is finally getting the ax, I’m tickled pink, I’m so damn happy I could bust.

  The smile expanded on his face. He felt the sudden nip of the February air, threw a hasty salute at the sign above the building, and then went through the wide glass doors and past the information booth and Bill, the watchman, walking directly to the elevator banks. He pushed the UP button and then pulled back the sleeve of his coat, glancing at his watch. Eight-forty-five. Early this morning, early for the beheading. Any volunteers to hold the basket? And forty thousand men were killed in the mad rush to the scaffold.

  He began humming to himself, standing in the corridor where the real factory began, an abrupt changeover from the marble-floored entrance lobby with its plaque to old Julien Kahn and its glass cases of shoes. Occasionally, he glanced up at the floor indicator needle, and it wasn’t until the needle reached 3 that he realized he was humming “The Funeral March.” He burst out laughing and then looked over his shoulder, managing to suppress his glee before the car doors opened.

  “Morning, Max,” he said cheerfully.

  “Morning, Griff,” the elevator man answered. He was a short squat man who wore his dungarees with all the authority of a brigadier general. His shoulders were wide and muscular and the face above the shoulders was beaming and round.

  “Nine, Griff?”

  “Nine, Max.”

  Max pulled the doors shut and set the car in motion. The men were silent for a moment, listening to the whir of the car’s mechanism, hearing beneath that the steady thrum-thrum of the factory.

  “G.K. gets canned today,” Max said happily.

  “He does,” Griff answered, “he does that.” He was always amazed by the efficiency of the intrafactory spy system, a system which apprised every employee of everything that was happening or about to happen even when it was top-level stuff.

  Max shook his head in mock sorrow. “I bleed for him.”

  “All over the rug,” Griff said, smiling.

  “But,” Max said, returning the smile, “those are the breaks. Some got it, and some ain’t got it.” Max paused philosophically. “Yep, I really bleed for G.K., all right. I really bleed for the poor bugger. Now he’ll have nothing to do but sit back and spend what he’s been stealing from the company for the past twenty years.”

  “Requiescat,” Griff said.

  “Huh?” Max said, and then as an afterthought, “Nine.” He threw open the doors, and Griff thanked him and stepped out of the car. He waved at the closing doors and then walked to the time clock.

  5741.

  He reached for the card automatically, inserted it into the IN slot, and heard the familiar clicking whir as the card was punched. He looked at the stamped time. Eight fifty-one. He put the card back in the rack, and then walked left down the corridor, passing the huge Payroll Department and then Credit. He doubled back and peeked into the open door, wondering if Danny was in yet. Magruder was sitting at his desk with a container of coffee in front of him. He looked up and waved and then went back to reading his morning newspaper. Griff went down the hallway, toward the partitioning at the end of the wing. A sign over the doorway at the end of the hall read COST. To the right of the doorway, one over the other, two small placards announced the names of the office’s inhabitants:

  R. GRIFFIN

  A. REIS

  He walked through the doorway and directly to Aaron’s desk.

  “Good morn-ing, Mr. Reis,” he said pompously.

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Griffin,” Aaron replied, using his phony big-business voice. He was a thin man with curling black hair and wide, soulful brown eyes. His nose and mouth seemed to be constantly on the alert for alien smells and tastes, giving him the appearance of a perpetually sniffing cocker spaniel.

  “You’re early today, A.R.,” Griff said, expanding his voice in imitation of a tycoon, taking off his coat at the same time.

  “Well, R.G.,” Aaron said big-businessly, “I didn’t want to miss the gala festivities.”

  “Did you come prepared?”

  “How so, R.G.?”

  “Rice, confetti, things to throw?”

  Aaron snapped his fingers in disappointment. “Damn,” he said. “Only thing I brought to throw was an old monkey wrench. Now, do you suppose the son of a bitch will mind a monkey wrench at the back of his bald dome?”

  “Now, now, A.R.,” Griff warned, “you mustn’t speak disrespectfully of the departing comptroller. Remember, my young friend,” and here he looped one thumb through an imaginary suspender, spreading his legs wide and assuming an oldtimer-to-newcomer pose, “that the likes of George Kurz are the foundation, the very foundation stone, of Julien Kahn, Fashion Shoes. Remember, my young friend, that without this bulwark of intelligence and imagination …”

 
“Horse manure,” Aaron said.

  “Without,” Griff persisted, “this bulwark of intelligence and imagination, the entire industry, the en-tire industry may well fall into a state of total collapse, unguided by …”

  “You want some coffee?” Aaron asked.

  “Boy,” Griff said, seemingly hurt, “you interrupted me.”

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Wait until Marge comes in,” Griff said. He walked to the window where the company inventory calendar hung just over his desk. Beside the calendar, someone from Production had put up a sign reading HANG THE COST! LET SALES WORK IT OUT. The office wags had scribbled their usual comments all over the sign. Hang David Kahn. Hang wallpaper. Heng the Hengeman. And scrawled across the face of the sign, Oh hell, hang it all. He glanced briefly at the sign, and then whirled rapidly, stabbing an index finger at Aaron.

  “Hey, man!” he said, “are you happy? Are you happy as hell?”

  “I’m delirious,” Aaron said.

  “Let’s go split a magnum of champagne.”

  “Let’s go split a few cups of coffee.”

  “All right,” Griff said enthusiastically. “As soon as Marge gets here.”

  They fell into a warm silence, sitting on the edges of their desks, listening to the hum of the factory below them. The factory had been on the job since eight that morning, and there was a certain luxury attached to hearing the sounds of toil and knowing that their own labor had not yet begun. They seemed to sense too, on this morning, a happiness pounding beneath the factory’s effort. They sensed it humming through Prefitting and Lasting, sensed it vibrating ecstatically all the way down to Packing and Shipping. This was the day, the machines sang. This was the day George Kurz got flipped out of his flabby flaccid fanny.

  “I can’t wait,” Aaron said. “I know I’m a morbid bastard, but I can’t wait.”

  “I’m going to applaud,” Griff said. “Kurz is going to stick out his hand for that final tender handclasp, and I’m going to start clapping, I swear to God.”

  He heard the click of high heels in the outside corridor, and he turned his head quickly. Marge Gannon breezed into the office like an assault wave at Anzio, her short blond hair bobbing at the nape of her neck, her green eyes sparkling.

  “Good morning, good morning,” she chanted, and then she stopped dead in her tracks, looked over her shoulder, and whispered, “Has it happened yet?”

  “Not yet,” Aaron said.

  “Good,” she answered. She threw her coat onto her desk and then pulled off her gloves and put them and her purse into the top drawer. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “I wrote a poem for G.K.,” she said. “I wrote it on my own time, and I’m not even charging the firm for it.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Aaron said.

  “Steady, boy,” she answered. She was wearing a woolen suit, the ruffles of a blouse showing at her throat. Her feet were encased in a pair of Julien Kahn’s caramel calf pumps, selling in retail outlets for $22.95, but which she’d picked up from Mauro in Wholesale Adjustment for six dollars and some change because one shoe had a slight damage. She wore the shoes extremely well, for, whereas Marge was a small girl with only an average figure, she had been endowed with splendid legs. It was Marge’s contention that such legs should not be wasted on a typist’s job. Typists were a dime a dozen, but good legs were hard to come by. And good legs in a fashion house should understandably be utilized for the modeling of shoes, or so she reasoned, and so she showed off her legs at every possible opportunity.

  Griff did not entirely disagree with her reasoning. He had tried, on his various sorties to the Chrysler Building Sales Offices, to generate some interest in Marge Gannon and her really, remarkable under-pinnings. But each time he’d mentioned her possibilities, he’d been brushed off with a Sales-to-Factory pat on the back. He had not, in all truth, been sorry. Marge was a damned good typist, and her determination to exhibit her legs, which—let’s face it—were really and truly superb legs, incomparable legs, pinup-girl legs, damned exciting legs when you got right down to them, did a lot toward adding a certain amount of class and distinction to the Cost Department. It also added a lot of loiterers from every other department in the factory, people who allegedly came in to chat, but who really came to admire the crossed legs and exposed knees behind Marge Gannon’s desk, Marge enjoyed the audience. She knew her legs were good, and she knew any prospective employer would adore having them adorn his offices, at possibly twice the salary Julien Kahn was paying her. But she dangled the carrot of self-delusion before her pert Irish nose, and the carrot was stamped MODEL, and the dream was most appealing to her, and dammit! what better place to make a start than at one of the top fashion houses in the country?

  She plumped her shapely bottom down on Aaron’s desk, crossed her legs, jiggled one aristocratically shod foot, and reached into the pocket of her jacket for the poem she’d created. She unfolded the sheet of paper with a good deal of pomp. She cleared her throat.

  “Come on, already,” Aaron said.

  “Don’t get nervous,” Marge answered. “If you’re nervous, watch the pretty legs. They’ll soothe you.”

  “It’s the pretty legs are making me nervous,” Aaron said, smiling.

  “Fresh,” Marge said, and she made an attempt to pull her skirt down over her knees, but the skirt somehow resisted and she shrugged and went on to more important matters.

  “To Our Beloved Comptroller, George Kurz,” she read.

  “Hear, hear,” Aaron said.

  “Now hush,” Marge said. She jiggled her foot once more, cleared her throat again, and began reading the poem.

  “Our affection for you, dear old G.K.,

  Will never erode, rust, or D.K.

  We love you–no buts

  We don’t hate your guts,

  But we’re glad you are going A–way, A–way …”

  “Say, that’s …” Aaron started.

  “There’s more,” Marge said.

  “Let her finish,” Griff said, smiling.

  “Your suspension, you poor dear old G.K.,

  Will cause grief from New York west to L.A.

  But tonight we’ll get plastered,

  And drink to the bastard

  Who’s finally going A–way, A–way,

  Who’s finally going A–way!”

  Aaron and Griff burst out laughing simultaneously. Aaron slapped the top of his desk, and Marge basked in the accolade of approval.

  “Read it to him!” Aaron said. “When he comes around, read the damn thing to him. Oh, God, read it to him, Marge.”

  “Should I, Griff?” she asked seriously.

  “Well …”

  “Why not?” Aaron wanted to know. “Do it, Marge, do it.”

  “I,” Griff said slowly, “don’t think so.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Marge said, sliding off the desk. “But, tell the truth, don’t you think I should be writing copy for the Advertising Department?”

  “I thought you wanted to model,” Griff said.

  “I do,” Marge answered.

  She walked to her desk, took a mirror from her purse, and studied her mouth. It was a full mouth, with a pouting lower lip, and it still carried all the lipstick she’d expertly applied before leaving her apartment that morning. Satisfied, she put the mirror back into the bag and closed the desk drawer again.

  “We’re going down for an important conference,” Griff said.

  “Okay,” Marge answered.

  “If there are any calls …”

  “Who’s finally going A–way, A–way,” Marge quoted, and then burst out laughing, throwing her head back, swinging her chair around, and extending her legs as she rocked on her backside. Aaron looked at Griff and Griff looked at Aaron, and then both men looked at the incredible legs once more before leaving the office and heading down for the lunch counter on the ground floor.

  There were three calls waiting to be returned when Griff got back to the office. He got th
e list from Marge, and then left her with a long report, hearing the busy clatter of her typewriter as he got down to business. Posnansky had called from the Chrysler Building, and he decided that call rated top priority. He made himself comfortable in his chair, and then asked the operator for “Chrysler.” The tie line connected him with the Sales Office in a matter of seconds. He asked for Ed Posnansky, and then waited.

  “Hello?” the voice said. It was a gruff masculine voice, a real hairy-chested voice. The voice always surprised Griff, because Posnansky was a short thin man with gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Ed?” he said. “This is Griff.”

  “Oh, hello, Griff. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. You?”

  “Great, great. Listen, this order you sent back from Stapleton’s in Dallas. You didn’t price it.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, why not? How can we—”

  “We haven’t got a price on that shoe yet, Ed.”

  “Why not? We’ve been making that shoe for three years now. Hell, Griff, look at the style number. Thirteen dash seventy forty-two. You know as well as I that—”

  “It’s not the same shoe, Ed. Take a look at your order—”

  “I don’t have to look at the order blank. It’s a black suede pump, and I damn well—”

  “I know the code, Ed, thanks. Now, don’t start shoveling it at me, will you? Take a look at the goddam order blank. If you can read Canotti’s handwriting, you’ll see the account wants a rhinestone crescent on the vamp of that shoe. That means I’ve got to check it with a glitter house after it leaves Prefitting. On an outside job, I can’t possibly estimate what they’re going to charge.”

  “Well, why didn’t you hold it there?” Posnansky asked. “Until you could get me a price on it?”

  “I’d planned on sending the specifications to the glitter house before we cut the shoe. That way you could relay the price to the account before we go ahead. Look, Ed, this is a single-order shoe. The price on those rhinestones may make it prohibitive. In the meantime, I don’t want the order lying on my desk. I don’t want the account buzzing us in a week or so yelling where the hell’s my acknowledgment? Am I getting the shoes, or not? Then Chrysler will get all excited and start looking for somebody to hang, and then they’ll find the order on my desk, waiting for pricing. No, thanks.”