The Spiked Heel

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.