The Spiked Heel

“Someone here in the factory,” McQuade repeated.

“You mean…?” Manelli considered this. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, of course anything’s possible, but…”

“I’m just trying to figure out how a pair of house slippers got shipped to an account, that’s all,” McQuade said, smiling and spreading his hands. “After all, it doesn’t speak very well for our efficiency, does it? Opening a Julien Kahn box and finding a pair of house slippers instead of a fashion shoe. Which shoe was it?”

“Flare,” Manelli said. “The Swisscraft straw number. Seems to be catching on nicely, especially on the Eastern seaboard, God only knows why.”

“The red shoe, isn’t it?” McQuade asked. “Yes, I recall seeing that one in the factory. That’s a nice shoe. What do we get for it, Griff?”

“Twelve dollars,” Griff said automatically.

McQuade tilted his head appreciatively. “That’s a little piece of change, isn’t it?” He nodded and then said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Griff, forgive me.”

“That’s all right,” Griff said. “What we’ve done in the past is cut a lot of stuff we could throw into stock. That brings up our pairage and it also guarantees a margin of safety because we’re cutting tried and true patterns, you see, stuff we will always get calls for. It would keep our cutters busy during the slack, and at the same time—”

“Where’s the first place we get a finished shoe, Joe?” McQuade said suddenly. “Packing, isn’t it?”

“Well, we get a finished shoe in Prepacking, too, more or less. Just needs a little trimming and such, but for all practical purpos—”

“But there are no boxes in Prepacking, are there? What I’m driving at, Joe, if a pair of house slippers were to be substituted for Flare, it would have to be in the Packing Room or the Shipping Room, is that right?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But—”

“Is it conceivable that someone working in either of those two departments stole the shoes?” He said the word “stole” as if it were something loathsome that he had to spit out.

“Well, yes,” Manelli faltered, “it’s conceivable. Certainly, theft is a common occurrence in any large busi—”

“How many people are there in Packing, Joe?” McQuade asked. A glow had come onto his face, focused on his eyes, reflected in the eagerness of his mouth.

“I… I don’t know,” Manelli said. “I can check it for you.”

“Please do. And find out how many people are in the Shipping Room, too. And find out how many people in both departments are women, will you?” He leaned back and looked at Manelli.

“Right now?” Manelli asked, raising his eyebrows.

“If you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. Actually, this is more in Boris’s department than mine, you understand.” He tried a timid smile. “I mean, any trouble in the factory is not really my responsibility. It—”

“Why, Joe,” McQuade said, seemingly surprised, “you’re underestimating yourself. You know very well the comptroller should keep a hand in everything that happens in this building.”

“Yes, yes, of course. What I meant, however, was that Boris Hengman would naturally know more about anything that went on in the factory than…” Manelli shut up, suddenly realizing he was entangling himself in a sticky web of self-denunciation. Reluctantly, he said, “I’ll… I’ll get those figures for you.”

Manelli busied himself on the phone, and McQuade smiled at Griff pleasantly. “You know,” he said, speaking above Manelli’s low rumble, “it’s very important that we discourage dishonesty.”

“Well,” Griff said, shrugging, “theft is actually figured into our budget, you know.”

“It is?” McQuade asked incredulously.

“Yes. You’ll find it listed under Miscellaneous Loss. That’s theft, or shrinkage. We lost a good many pairs through shrinkage, but nothing to really concern ourselves about. Wherever there are people working, there’ll be theft. As a matter of fact,” and here he smiled, “it’s something of a compliment. People don’t want to steal junk. When they stop stealing our product, then it’s time to worry.”