The Spiked Heel

“I can’t picture the buyer of a big shop going crooked over a pair of shoes, especially when he does such a volume with us. We do thousands of dollars of business with this man each year, Ed. Even if he has fouled up someplace, we ought to send him another pair of shoes.”

“So send them to him. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is how do we account for the pair that supposedly went to him already?”

“That’s Factory’s problem.”

“Shall I call Manelli?”

“Go ahead,” Posnansky said. “Call Manelli if you want to. I really don’t see what the hell all the noise is about. A lousy pair of twelve-dollar shoes, and you act as if—”

“How’s your ulcer this morning, Ed?” Stiegman asked, reaching for the phone.

“Screw you, amigo,” Posnansky said, unsmiling.

Griff was in Manelli’s office when the call from Stiegman came.

Manelli flicked the ash from his cigar, excused himself, clicked on the intercom, and said, “Yes?”

“Mr. Stiegman from the Chrysler Building, sir,” Cara said. “On seven.”

“Thank you,” Manelli said. He clicked off, excused himself again, and then picked up the phone. “Manelli speaking,” he said. “Oh, hello, Dave, how goes every little thing, eh?… Oh, so-so, you know how it is, new job, new responsibilities.” He listened for a moment and then began chuckling. “Yes, yes, I guess so. So what’s on your mind, Dave? To what do I owe the honor of this… how’s that?” He paused and listened. “Oh, I see. Well, that sounds very unlikely. Oh, it’s possible, of course, but it sounds… Yes, I understand… Naturally, I’ll have another pair shipped, but… No invoice, of course… Yes, well, let me get the number of that shoe, Dave… just a second.”

He reached for a memo pad and pencil, and then he said, “All right, go ahead. Flare, yes… Yes, I’ve got that… And the style number?… Um-huh… case number… yes, I’ve got it… 7A… All right, I’ll take care of it… Certainly, no trouble at all. Give my regards home, eh, Dave?… Oh yes, thank you… she’s fine, thanks… nice talking to you.” He hung up and stared sourly at the memo pad.

“What is it?” Griff asked.

“Oh, some stupid bastard in Philly says we shipped him a pair of house—” The intercom on his desk buzzed. He flicked it on angrily and said, “Yes?”

“Mr. McQuade is waiting to see you, Mr. Manelli.”

“Send him right in,” Manelli said.

Griff said, “I’d better run along, Joe. If you two have—”

“No, no, quite all right, stay where you are. I want you to expand on what you were telling me, anyway, and it might not be a bad idea for Mac to hear it, eh? Stay put, Griff, stay put.”

The door opened, and McQuade stepped into the office, ducking his head slightly as he did.

“Joe,” he said politely, “and Griff! This is a surprise. How are you, boy?”

Griff had not seen much of McQuade since the fire hose episode last Wednesday. That had been a week ago, and he had more or less put it out of his mind. Seeing McQuade reminded him of it again, and the picture of McQuade with the hose in his hands became a very vivid thing. He smiled somewhat stiffly, and took McQuade’s proffered hand.

“Fine, Mac,” he said. “And you?”

“Busy as a son of a, but enjoying myself nonetheless. I didn’t break in on anything, did I?”

“No, no,” Manelli assured him, “I was just telling Griff about this—” Manelli stopped short, as if he were debating the advisability of discussing what had just happened with McQuade.

“What is it, Joe?” McQuade asked, smiling.

“Oh, nothing important.” He seemed to be searching for some unimportant thing he could substitute for the phone call from Stiegman. A cleverer man might have come up with something instantly, but Manelli was not a very clever man, so he reluctantly told the truth. “One of our accounts in Philadelphia complained we sent him a pair of house slippers. Silly damn thing.”

“I’ll say,” McQuade said, lifting his eyebrows in amusement.

“So, we’ve just got to send him another pair of shoes, that’s all,” Manelli said, dismissing the subject and shoving the memo pad to a corner of his desk. “Now then, Griff, suppose you tell Mac what you were—”

“What happened to the pair of shoes we sent him?” McQuade asked curiously.

“Eh? Oh,” Manelli said, “well, that’s hard to say. He got these house slippers instead, you see.”

“That seems very odd, doesn’t it? I mean, I don’t know very much about it, but how could we have possibly shipped him a pair of house slippers?”

Manelli shrugged. “Well, that’s what he says. And he’s a pretty big account, Mac. No sense irritating him.”

“No, of course not,” McQuade said.

Manelli smiled, once more dismissing the subject. “Griff and I were discussing possible ways of increasing production. He’s come up with a good idea, and I thought you’d like to hear it.”

“Certainly,” McQuade said. He walked to an easy chair and plopped himself into it.

“Well, it’s not really my idea,” Griff said. “That is, we’ve done it before, whenever Factory was slow. Sales just gives permission to—”

“Is it possible that someone in the factory,” McQuade said, “substituted those house slippers for our pattern?”

“What?” Manelli asked.